My friend and colleague Eden asks:
Since you are not taking the usual tourist path across the west, are you seeing things you might like to return to someday? Are you paying attention to the daily news, or does the primitive feel and slow pace of the journey make news seem to live in another dimension?
I do think a lot of how different this trip would be if it were by car. The choices one makes are so delimited by the mode of transportation. I keep finding myself on the Oregon Trail and have to begrudgingly admire the fortitude of pioneers who would travel with no sense of what lay ahead. Some of the historical markers are pretty good about identifying relationships of cooperation, conflict and contestation over the land with native peoples once the settlers became to high in number and too greedy. others gloss this over. When I was getting my bike fixed in Twin Falls, I rented a zip car for a few hours because I wanted to see some local sites. One of these was the Minidonka Relocation center, a Japanese internment site in WWII. There was almost nothing there but ruins--but then again much of it was made of burlap tents. I also saw some young guys skydiving off a local bridge, Shoeshone falls, and I tried but could not find El Milagro, a housing project that serves as a migrant camp that is now owned by the Idaho Migrant Council. According to Humberto Fuentes, it used to be notorious when it was owned by local farmers for its mistreatment of migrants (horrific work conditions and pay, locking them up at night, etc.). The new name reflects the triumph of change on behalf of social justice advocates.
The beautiful and often barren and harsh landscape and the profane injustices of the past sometimes with positive changes sometimes mull around in my head and make me dizzy. Though my mind would like it all to be simple, I realize this is history in the making--what WE make of it, not as passive witnesses, but how we create and change the world for the better. Better for who and how? Well, those are the questions that really matter, aren't they?
I do read the news fairly often, but it does all feel a bit surreal. I am paying particualr attention to coverage on Latinas/os and Latina/o issues both locally and nationally. I clip and save because these provide the context for my journey for me. That may seem a bit self-centered, but these external touchstones produce internal maps for me to recall where I was when I heard this or that. Being in so much rural settings has made me really think about the margin and the center of daily life in interesting ways.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
A Quick Stop in Idaho Falls: The things I carry with me
Well, I finally got back on the road and am making good progress. I antiicpate being in Ashton tonight and then into Yellowstone by tomorrow evening. I have a number of road pics but this library won't allow me to upload, so I'll do that when I can.
My friend Sandy asks the following questions:
I have many prompts, many questions. Some are very basic. Like this: I keep wondering what it's like to live day by day with only 50 pounds of "gear," the same gear day after day, and such a mixed assortment of gear. Can you give us a listing of what you're carrying? (e.g. nail clippers, shaving cream??)
I have a tent, a mini-stove and small bottle of fuel, a sack of food (oatmeal, tuna and chicken packets, easy to cook dinners, power bars, carb-fuel packs, 3 bottles of water plus a kamel-bak, 3 changes of clothes, a 4th shirt that's not a biking shirt to wear "out", a pair of zipper pants, a windbreaker, a thermal undershirt, a skull cap to wear under my helmet, a pair of hiking shoes, a hygiene bag that has my chamois towel and washcloth, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, nail clippers, deodorant (I was going to rough it and forgo this, but after a few days, I realized it was a necessity if I expect people to talk to me!). A really good first aid kit that has all kinds of neat stuff I hope I never have to use. Suntan lotion, moisturizer, insect repellent, an ultra-violet water purifier, a water filter and iodine pills, a mini am-fm radio, 3 pairs of riding gloves (one long-fingered which I've needed for the cold nights on the road), vitamins, prescriptions, multiple kinds of over the counter pain pills (Aleve, Motrin, etc.), a journal to write in, a folder full of news articles, a couple of student papers I need to read, a book (New Destinations), a GPS/PDA with wireless keyboard, a bag of AA and AAA batteries and wires for all other gadgets, cell phone, digital voice recorder, 2 mini usbs, a digital camera and mini cam recorder, solar powered batter charger, sleeping pad and sleeping bag, toilet paper, numerous forms of flashlights, headlights, a tool bag with spare parts, tools, tubes, a folding tire, a hunting knife, bear mace, 2 compasses, sunglasses, reading glasses, maps, pens, highlighters, a bandana, camp soap that works for everything (dishes, body, hair, etc.) , a trowel, business cards, postcards about my trip and ones I've picked up along the way, and lots of other small stuff.
And what do you find that you've used the most often thus far--that you can't live without?
Tools, air pump, spare tubes.
What have you had to pick up along the way that you hadn't anticipated needing or simply wanting?
What have you gotten rid of? I dumped a folding chair that my sleeping pad fit into and a replaced a small shovel with an even smaller trowel. I mail things home as soon as I can so I carry as little as possible. My bags feel a bit lighter than when I started, but maybe I'm just stronger.
What have you lost? A pair of sunglasses and a pair of reading glasses.
And what has broken or torn or become unusable? tubes. I'm very unhappy about the pda/gps and wireless keyboard. They are not entire useless, but almost so. I'm going to have to rethink things when I go thru Minnesota. I think I need to bring a pc with wireless capability, but I will have to give up other things to make room.
My friend Sandy asks the following questions:
I have many prompts, many questions. Some are very basic. Like this: I keep wondering what it's like to live day by day with only 50 pounds of "gear," the same gear day after day, and such a mixed assortment of gear. Can you give us a listing of what you're carrying? (e.g. nail clippers, shaving cream??)
I have a tent, a mini-stove and small bottle of fuel, a sack of food (oatmeal, tuna and chicken packets, easy to cook dinners, power bars, carb-fuel packs, 3 bottles of water plus a kamel-bak, 3 changes of clothes, a 4th shirt that's not a biking shirt to wear "out", a pair of zipper pants, a windbreaker, a thermal undershirt, a skull cap to wear under my helmet, a pair of hiking shoes, a hygiene bag that has my chamois towel and washcloth, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, nail clippers, deodorant (I was going to rough it and forgo this, but after a few days, I realized it was a necessity if I expect people to talk to me!). A really good first aid kit that has all kinds of neat stuff I hope I never have to use. Suntan lotion, moisturizer, insect repellent, an ultra-violet water purifier, a water filter and iodine pills, a mini am-fm radio, 3 pairs of riding gloves (one long-fingered which I've needed for the cold nights on the road), vitamins, prescriptions, multiple kinds of over the counter pain pills (Aleve, Motrin, etc.), a journal to write in, a folder full of news articles, a couple of student papers I need to read, a book (New Destinations), a GPS/PDA with wireless keyboard, a bag of AA and AAA batteries and wires for all other gadgets, cell phone, digital voice recorder, 2 mini usbs, a digital camera and mini cam recorder, solar powered batter charger, sleeping pad and sleeping bag, toilet paper, numerous forms of flashlights, headlights, a tool bag with spare parts, tools, tubes, a folding tire, a hunting knife, bear mace, 2 compasses, sunglasses, reading glasses, maps, pens, highlighters, a bandana, camp soap that works for everything (dishes, body, hair, etc.) , a trowel, business cards, postcards about my trip and ones I've picked up along the way, and lots of other small stuff.
And what do you find that you've used the most often thus far--that you can't live without?
Tools, air pump, spare tubes.
What have you had to pick up along the way that you hadn't anticipated needing or simply wanting?
What have you gotten rid of? I dumped a folding chair that my sleeping pad fit into and a replaced a small shovel with an even smaller trowel. I mail things home as soon as I can so I carry as little as possible. My bags feel a bit lighter than when I started, but maybe I'm just stronger.
What have you lost? A pair of sunglasses and a pair of reading glasses.
And what has broken or torn or become unusable? tubes. I'm very unhappy about the pda/gps and wireless keyboard. They are not entire useless, but almost so. I'm going to have to rethink things when I go thru Minnesota. I think I need to bring a pc with wireless capability, but I will have to give up other things to make room.
Monday, July 23, 2007
From Mountain Home, ID
I arrived in Mountain Home on Saturday night. Idahoans have proven friendly so far, for the most part, but the roads are less kind. I've been taking pictures of the various sizes of the road shoulders because riding on the margins make one very aware of the quality and width of the road shoulders. The roads in Idaho remind me of the streets of the Houston barrio I grew up in--rock mixed with asphalt, potholes, and cracks with weeds pushing their way through. The preferred method of repair seems to be asphalt patching over the cracks, which makes for a rough and bumpy ride. Nor are the shoulders kept very clean. Between the trash on the shoulders and what they call goathead thorns on the side of the road, I have had numerous flats. Yesterday morning I left early hoping to get a ahead start on the sum into the mountains to the east. About 20 miles out I had a flat. I had picked up some universal tubes at a Wal-Mart in Mountain Home when I found out the local bike shop was closed, but I learned the hard way that universal was not so all encompassing as the valve stem did not fit through my rim. So I walked about 3/4 of the way back before someone in a U-Haul gave me a ride.
A long day in the sun to end up in the same place.
Saturday night I thought I was in luck because there was a KOA camp here in town--but I encountered my second "Jim Crow" experience on this trip. Once in California I went to a small motel where the sign said vacant and the parking lot was empty. The woman who helped me was "sweet" but said immediately that they were full. I told her it might be a good idea to change her sign--which she did. I went down the road to find another place and when I came back by the motel an hour alter looking for dinner, the vacant sign was on again. At the KOA I entered the office behind one man and a few minutes later two other travellers came in. They were acknowledged and helped by the elderly white guy overseeing the place. One of the travellers apologized to me and indicated that I was there before him--I told him thanks for noticing but that it was the clerk's job to notice that. Because things had come to an abrupt sop, the clerk gave me look of annoyance and asked me what i needed. I said a campsite and he said: "Well, I guess I can give you #7 across the street" as if he was doing me a favor. I asked about the price ($22.00) and after looking at it--a bare site with no shade adjacent to the road, I told him I'd be better off going to the motel down the street.
Experiences like these are downers, but quite frankly, I was prepared for worse and the goodness I've seen from people has outweighed these shameful acts.
I'm feeling very, very tired. I'm looking forward to exiting Idaho in a few short days and spending some time in Yellowstone. I''ll cross the Rockies there, but it will be beautiful and cooler I believe due to the forest.
I'm having that when I get to Yellowstone I can write more emotional reflections of my trip thus far. As expected this part of the trip has been very physically grueling. I'm pleased not to have hurt myself (no pulled muscles or crashes). The heat and poison ivy rashes on my arms and legs are uncomfortable but they seem to be healing. My endurance is building, my breathing has been good, I think I'm slowly losing weight from my mid-section, and my legs are definitely stronger. I've been very frustrated at times, but not yet near a breakdown. No doubt there's a certain amount of loneliness, but I'm thankful for a cell phone and the many, many people along the way who've helped me, engaged me in conversation about my trip, or otherwise acknowledged my presence.
If you have any questions that I could use as blog prompts, please don't hesitate to ask. I'm also grateful for the e-mails, comments, and phone calls I get!
A long day in the sun to end up in the same place.
Saturday night I thought I was in luck because there was a KOA camp here in town--but I encountered my second "Jim Crow" experience on this trip. Once in California I went to a small motel where the sign said vacant and the parking lot was empty. The woman who helped me was "sweet" but said immediately that they were full. I told her it might be a good idea to change her sign--which she did. I went down the road to find another place and when I came back by the motel an hour alter looking for dinner, the vacant sign was on again. At the KOA I entered the office behind one man and a few minutes later two other travellers came in. They were acknowledged and helped by the elderly white guy overseeing the place. One of the travellers apologized to me and indicated that I was there before him--I told him thanks for noticing but that it was the clerk's job to notice that. Because things had come to an abrupt sop, the clerk gave me look of annoyance and asked me what i needed. I said a campsite and he said: "Well, I guess I can give you #7 across the street" as if he was doing me a favor. I asked about the price ($22.00) and after looking at it--a bare site with no shade adjacent to the road, I told him I'd be better off going to the motel down the street.
Experiences like these are downers, but quite frankly, I was prepared for worse and the goodness I've seen from people has outweighed these shameful acts.
I'm feeling very, very tired. I'm looking forward to exiting Idaho in a few short days and spending some time in Yellowstone. I''ll cross the Rockies there, but it will be beautiful and cooler I believe due to the forest.
I'm having that when I get to Yellowstone I can write more emotional reflections of my trip thus far. As expected this part of the trip has been very physically grueling. I'm pleased not to have hurt myself (no pulled muscles or crashes). The heat and poison ivy rashes on my arms and legs are uncomfortable but they seem to be healing. My endurance is building, my breathing has been good, I think I'm slowly losing weight from my mid-section, and my legs are definitely stronger. I've been very frustrated at times, but not yet near a breakdown. No doubt there's a certain amount of loneliness, but I'm thankful for a cell phone and the many, many people along the way who've helped me, engaged me in conversation about my trip, or otherwise acknowledged my presence.
If you have any questions that I could use as blog prompts, please don't hesitate to ask. I'm also grateful for the e-mails, comments, and phone calls I get!
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Partial update: From Bend to Brothers to Burns to Boise
I left Bend, OR on Monday a bit late and arrived in the small town of Brothers about 50 miles up the road about 6:30. I stopped at the only place in town to eat and learned that the next town was 95 miles up the road with nothing much in between. I decided to stay the night at a nearby rest stop and leave early the next morning. I made it to Burns reasonably early the next day (about 4:30) and learned that this is one of the communities that has been surrounded by wildfires in the surrounding desert. At times it has been necessary to close the road I was travelling on (Hwy 20) due to fires all the way up to the road or smoke that reduced visibility. The next morning the hotel clerk told me I could expect delays on the road due to the fires, and this caused concern for me since I would be more susceptible to the smoke inhalation for a longer time on bike. I went to the local pizza parlor where a shuttle bus going east stops and was told they couldn't guarantee me passage on the afternoon bus since it was small and if it arrived with lots of people they may not have room for me or the bike. I decided to wait but was unable to get on and the driver was pretty skeptical about my chances even the next day. I then spent the afternoon trying to find someone I could pay to take me pass the first mountain pass where the fires were. I even went back to the local laundromat where I had seen a business card for Antonio Rodriguez, a dry wall specialist, and called him to see if a more personal plea might help.
No answer.
I tried the local "authentic" Mexican restaurant, but they didn't know anyone who could help me out either.
Once again, I was obliged to stay another night because the day had gotten away from me. I resolved to get up at 5:00 AM the next day so I could get an early start and see what the road held. I rode about 30 miles up the road and stopped at an gas station and "Indian" museum and gift shop (not run by native peoples), and learned that I was very near the main area of the fires though no apparent smoke was causing a problem. I had arranged a meeting with the founder of Idaho's Migrant Council, Humberto Fuentes, for Thursday evening and the delay I'd faced was putting that meeting in jeopardy because he was leaving town the next day. I decided to post a sign offering to pay for a ride when a man approached me about the ride. His spouse and 2 children were inside the store and we chatted about my trip. After some initial reluctance about whether he could fit my stuff or not, we decided the bike could go on his luggage rack. Danny and his family were wonderfully kind people returning home from vacation from somewhere near Portland. In addition to speaking to me about his numerous jobs he's had over the years, his other 7 kids, and his cowboy and hunting exploits, he also spoke to me about his experience working with Mexicans over the years.
My rest-stop lodging in Oregon. A view of the sunset that evening.
Danny, Brenda and 2 of their 9 children (Keisha and Cody) of Rexburg, ID. They gave me a ride from 30 miles outside of Burns, OR to Ontario, OR.
Humberto Fuentes, co-founder of the Idaho Migrant Council and active participation in numerous organizations and community action groups over the last 40 years in Idaho. As a student at Treasure Valley Community College in the 60s, Humberto was linked nationally to Chicana/o movement activities and leaders in Colorado, Texas, California, and elsewhere.
A mural at the Hispanic Cultural Center in Nampa, ID
A no shoulder road between Nampa and Boise
Fernando Mejia, a student at Boise State University and an intern with ICAN, Idaho Community Action Network
No answer.
I tried the local "authentic" Mexican restaurant, but they didn't know anyone who could help me out either.
Once again, I was obliged to stay another night because the day had gotten away from me. I resolved to get up at 5:00 AM the next day so I could get an early start and see what the road held. I rode about 30 miles up the road and stopped at an gas station and "Indian" museum and gift shop (not run by native peoples), and learned that I was very near the main area of the fires though no apparent smoke was causing a problem. I had arranged a meeting with the founder of Idaho's Migrant Council, Humberto Fuentes, for Thursday evening and the delay I'd faced was putting that meeting in jeopardy because he was leaving town the next day. I decided to post a sign offering to pay for a ride when a man approached me about the ride. His spouse and 2 children were inside the store and we chatted about my trip. After some initial reluctance about whether he could fit my stuff or not, we decided the bike could go on his luggage rack. Danny and his family were wonderfully kind people returning home from vacation from somewhere near Portland. In addition to speaking to me about his numerous jobs he's had over the years, his other 7 kids, and his cowboy and hunting exploits, he also spoke to me about his experience working with Mexicans over the years.
In Ontario I regrouped and had lunch at a Mexican restaurant. As I was leaving, Hector Gonzalez, a 9 year old boy whose mother worked there asked a lot of questions about my bike and gear. He took the photo of me below, but declined to have me take his. In Nampa I had a great conversation with Humberto Fuentes. In Boise, the same occurred with Fernando Mejia. I will provide more details on these encounters when I get more time to process and write.
I should say that I've been amazed at the pervasive presence of Latino, primarily Mexican, culture everywhere I go--even the smallest towns between point A and point B seem to have a restaurant, a tiendita, a garage, a Spanish mass--all profound evidence of the strong culture and entrepreneurial spirit that is making our presence felt.
My rest-stop lodging in Oregon. A view of the sunset that evening.
Danny, Brenda and 2 of their 9 children (Keisha and Cody) of Rexburg, ID. They gave me a ride from 30 miles outside of Burns, OR to Ontario, OR.
Humberto Fuentes, co-founder of the Idaho Migrant Council and active participation in numerous organizations and community action groups over the last 40 years in Idaho. As a student at Treasure Valley Community College in the 60s, Humberto was linked nationally to Chicana/o movement activities and leaders in Colorado, Texas, California, and elsewhere.
A mural at the Hispanic Cultural Center in Nampa, ID
A no shoulder road between Nampa and Boise
Fernando Mejia, a student at Boise State University and an intern with ICAN, Idaho Community Action Network
Sunday, July 15, 2007
To Eugene to near Corvallis, from Lebanon to Bend
Wednesday, July 11
Made it in to Eugene. Very sore today, though the good news is that clouds were out today and the weather was a lot cooler. For the last week it seems that every weather report I've seen noted record high temperatures. I've arranged to meet with Guadalupe Quinn, the regional director and one of the co-founders of CAUSA, an immigrant rights organization started in response to the anti-immigrant climate precipitated by California's Proposition 187 in 1994. More on my meeting with her later.
Guadalupe's story is both complex and common. As a young newlywed she and her "American" husband moved to Eugene from Oxnard, CA to start a new life. She was a teacher's aide with a high school diploma. In the early 80s a friend took her to a Quaker meeting on solidarity with Central America--in opposition to U.S. intervention. She went because they needed a translator and she offered her service. Her act of translating proved to be eye-opening and ideologically transformative. She had never seen or heard such criticisms of government policy and abuse of power, nor has she experienced the power of people coming together to make social and political change. From that moment on, her life changed as she became part of this movement and then part of the immigrant rights movement. She acknowledged that she had to re-negotiate her marriage with her husband because no longer would she be the traditional domestic wife and mother that he thought he had married--but their marriage survived this transition. As the sole contact for CAUSA in Eugene, she works out of her house. Her work involves education campaigns, building alliances with progressive organizations, working with the campus MEChA to sponsor events, advocating for the DREAM ACT and much more. She told me they had about 600 people at last year's immigration rally, which they considered highly successful. CAUSA works closely with PICUN to lobby against anti-immigrant legislation, which increases exponentially each year. She spoke with pride about success the community has achieved, like naming one of the new local elementary schools after Cesar Chavez, the growth of the community as evidenced by tienditas, restaurants, and panaderias.
Thursday evening I went to stay with Tamara Belknap, a friend of a friend, who owns a beautiful home in the mountains near Corvalis. Her partner, Robin, cooked a great BBQ and we 3 and her dad (Jim?), had good food and conversation. From Jim, a resident of Cottage Grove, OR i learned about the decline of the logging industry and the transformation of some of the smaller towns. The next day as Tamara was driving me to Lebanon she told me of the racial tension she witnessed as a high school student in what was then (mid 90s) a very majority white town. now, she says, the demographics have shifted dramatically and change is not always easy but an ongoing process.
Sunday, July 15
The beautiful covered bridge below was in Sweet Home, OR. The pics below are mostly from my ride across the Cascades to Bend (I arrived in Bend on Saturday afternoon). This 105 mile stretch took two days--much of it tortuous uphill climbing though the terrain was beautiful. The creek pictured below really saved me because I had assumed there would be running water in the national forest campsites, but I was wrong. The snowcapped mountains pictured below are the 3 sisters, North, South and Middle sister, which can be seen between the town of Sister and Bend. Coming down the mountains I passed a large area that had experienced a wildfire--eerie and sad. I was unable to get pics because I was on a steep downhill grade and couldn't easily stop.
From the local paper I saw that I had just missed a huge 5 day bike competition. One of the local youth with the last name Chavez, was shown on the front page in mock victory salute. The winner of the previous day's stage was a Cuban American named Dominguez, dubbed the Cuban Missile Crisis by the locals for upsetting the local favorite.
Attended Spanish language mass at St. Francis of Assisi community center in NE Bend on Sunday morning (final pics below). I'm not a practicing Catholic but unable to find a geographic concentration of Latinos, I figured this was a sure way to locate the community. The laundromat being another one as I discovered on Saturday evening. The church's central parish in downtown Bend offered a Saturday evening mass in Spanish and then a Sunday noon one at the community center located several miles away from the city's center. Initially I thought maybe this was a secondary location in the boondocks but as I rode out there I realized it was an expanding part of the town. The location was home to a K-8 school and a new church was being planned. Though plain, mostly cinder blocks and wood with a vinyl tile floor, it was quite nice. Equipped with about 500 plastic chairs, there were about 300 attendees present, almost all Latino. It was evident to me, an insider-outsider that this was a close-knit community of folks who knew one another as friends and family in the way they acknowledged one another with hugs, nods and handshakes. This same intimacy came through in the priest's homily when he addressed parishioner's by name as he actively engaged them in in questions and called them by first name (Manuel, Felipe, Victor, Jesus, etc. All men}
The sermon was quite interesting as he entreated them not to be seduced by American values of materialism. That they should measure the quality of their lives by their love of God, their loving actions towards one another, and not by what they owned or what they could buy. "Don't think you can buy your way to happiness or Salvation like Americans. Este religion no vale, " he said. Live your beliefs, don't be hypocrites. Don't be fooled by outward displays of happiness such as big smiles, jokes if you go home to an empty house and an empty heart. (This is a paraphrased translation of his Spanish). It wasn't anti-American or even pro-Mexican but I took it as an a cautionary tale for new immigrants not to assimilate uncritically.
What I also found interesting was the many single men in attendance at church.
After mass parishioners sold ice cream cones and cups of fresh fruit with a slice of lime and cayenne spice sprinkled
In the evening, as I smoked a cigarette outside my motel room, a red-eyed, red-faced, unshaven, tussel-haired man approached me with a "how you doing, amigo?" I said, "Fine, how about you?" He introduced himself as John Cassady and told me that he was kinds just floating around the country. That a bother of his in Florida had told him Bend was a nice place to land. He said he'd just gotten back from Ireland a few days ago. When I asked where he said Dublin and Galway. He said his grandparents had come from Ireland and he was visiting cousins. He told me his wife had died 9 months earlier and before I could say anything he said, "Don't, whatever you do, tell me you're sorry. I hate that shit." So I told him that I, too, was travelling around the country, I told him that I'd always wanted to visit Ireland and he told me that it was a crazy place as he proceeded to recount drunken brawls in the pubs of Galway. He said that as a Yankee he was everyone's friend as they proceeded to show off their hospitality. I told him that in addition to having heard first hand accounts of Ireland from friends and teachers, that most of my knowledge was from writers like Joyce and Yeats, he named a few others. I then told him that he had a great name to be travelling the country since the only other Cassady I knew of was Neal Cassady, one of the Beats. He immediately said, he was my uncle, no, not really, my second cousin." I said, "You're bullshitting me" and he said "Fuck you, I'm serious" at which point he pulled out his Florida license to show me, though I don't know how this proved his point. In any case, we talked for a while. He said he knew a little Spanish having grown up in New York. His first wife had been Dominican. He said he'd been up all night drinking. Every time he heard a crow caw he pointed out that it was death chasing him. He said he wasn't afraid, but that he wasn't sure about making plans for the future. (I have pic of John, will post later.)
John Cassady
Made it in to Eugene. Very sore today, though the good news is that clouds were out today and the weather was a lot cooler. For the last week it seems that every weather report I've seen noted record high temperatures. I've arranged to meet with Guadalupe Quinn, the regional director and one of the co-founders of CAUSA, an immigrant rights organization started in response to the anti-immigrant climate precipitated by California's Proposition 187 in 1994. More on my meeting with her later.
Guadalupe's story is both complex and common. As a young newlywed she and her "American" husband moved to Eugene from Oxnard, CA to start a new life. She was a teacher's aide with a high school diploma. In the early 80s a friend took her to a Quaker meeting on solidarity with Central America--in opposition to U.S. intervention. She went because they needed a translator and she offered her service. Her act of translating proved to be eye-opening and ideologically transformative. She had never seen or heard such criticisms of government policy and abuse of power, nor has she experienced the power of people coming together to make social and political change. From that moment on, her life changed as she became part of this movement and then part of the immigrant rights movement. She acknowledged that she had to re-negotiate her marriage with her husband because no longer would she be the traditional domestic wife and mother that he thought he had married--but their marriage survived this transition. As the sole contact for CAUSA in Eugene, she works out of her house. Her work involves education campaigns, building alliances with progressive organizations, working with the campus MEChA to sponsor events, advocating for the DREAM ACT and much more. She told me they had about 600 people at last year's immigration rally, which they considered highly successful. CAUSA works closely with PICUN to lobby against anti-immigrant legislation, which increases exponentially each year. She spoke with pride about success the community has achieved, like naming one of the new local elementary schools after Cesar Chavez, the growth of the community as evidenced by tienditas, restaurants, and panaderias.
Thursday evening I went to stay with Tamara Belknap, a friend of a friend, who owns a beautiful home in the mountains near Corvalis. Her partner, Robin, cooked a great BBQ and we 3 and her dad (Jim?), had good food and conversation. From Jim, a resident of Cottage Grove, OR i learned about the decline of the logging industry and the transformation of some of the smaller towns. The next day as Tamara was driving me to Lebanon she told me of the racial tension she witnessed as a high school student in what was then (mid 90s) a very majority white town. now, she says, the demographics have shifted dramatically and change is not always easy but an ongoing process.
Sunday, July 15
The beautiful covered bridge below was in Sweet Home, OR. The pics below are mostly from my ride across the Cascades to Bend (I arrived in Bend on Saturday afternoon). This 105 mile stretch took two days--much of it tortuous uphill climbing though the terrain was beautiful. The creek pictured below really saved me because I had assumed there would be running water in the national forest campsites, but I was wrong. The snowcapped mountains pictured below are the 3 sisters, North, South and Middle sister, which can be seen between the town of Sister and Bend. Coming down the mountains I passed a large area that had experienced a wildfire--eerie and sad. I was unable to get pics because I was on a steep downhill grade and couldn't easily stop.
From the local paper I saw that I had just missed a huge 5 day bike competition. One of the local youth with the last name Chavez, was shown on the front page in mock victory salute. The winner of the previous day's stage was a Cuban American named Dominguez, dubbed the Cuban Missile Crisis by the locals for upsetting the local favorite.
Attended Spanish language mass at St. Francis of Assisi community center in NE Bend on Sunday morning (final pics below). I'm not a practicing Catholic but unable to find a geographic concentration of Latinos, I figured this was a sure way to locate the community. The laundromat being another one as I discovered on Saturday evening. The church's central parish in downtown Bend offered a Saturday evening mass in Spanish and then a Sunday noon one at the community center located several miles away from the city's center. Initially I thought maybe this was a secondary location in the boondocks but as I rode out there I realized it was an expanding part of the town. The location was home to a K-8 school and a new church was being planned. Though plain, mostly cinder blocks and wood with a vinyl tile floor, it was quite nice. Equipped with about 500 plastic chairs, there were about 300 attendees present, almost all Latino. It was evident to me, an insider-outsider that this was a close-knit community of folks who knew one another as friends and family in the way they acknowledged one another with hugs, nods and handshakes. This same intimacy came through in the priest's homily when he addressed parishioner's by name as he actively engaged them in in questions and called them by first name (Manuel, Felipe, Victor, Jesus, etc. All men}
The sermon was quite interesting as he entreated them not to be seduced by American values of materialism. That they should measure the quality of their lives by their love of God, their loving actions towards one another, and not by what they owned or what they could buy. "Don't think you can buy your way to happiness or Salvation like Americans. Este religion no vale, " he said. Live your beliefs, don't be hypocrites. Don't be fooled by outward displays of happiness such as big smiles, jokes if you go home to an empty house and an empty heart. (This is a paraphrased translation of his Spanish). It wasn't anti-American or even pro-Mexican but I took it as an a cautionary tale for new immigrants not to assimilate uncritically.
What I also found interesting was the many single men in attendance at church.
After mass parishioners sold ice cream cones and cups of fresh fruit with a slice of lime and cayenne spice sprinkled
In the evening, as I smoked a cigarette outside my motel room, a red-eyed, red-faced, unshaven, tussel-haired man approached me with a "how you doing, amigo?" I said, "Fine, how about you?" He introduced himself as John Cassady and told me that he was kinds just floating around the country. That a bother of his in Florida had told him Bend was a nice place to land. He said he'd just gotten back from Ireland a few days ago. When I asked where he said Dublin and Galway. He said his grandparents had come from Ireland and he was visiting cousins. He told me his wife had died 9 months earlier and before I could say anything he said, "Don't, whatever you do, tell me you're sorry. I hate that shit." So I told him that I, too, was travelling around the country, I told him that I'd always wanted to visit Ireland and he told me that it was a crazy place as he proceeded to recount drunken brawls in the pubs of Galway. He said that as a Yankee he was everyone's friend as they proceeded to show off their hospitality. I told him that in addition to having heard first hand accounts of Ireland from friends and teachers, that most of my knowledge was from writers like Joyce and Yeats, he named a few others. I then told him that he had a great name to be travelling the country since the only other Cassady I knew of was Neal Cassady, one of the Beats. He immediately said, he was my uncle, no, not really, my second cousin." I said, "You're bullshitting me" and he said "Fuck you, I'm serious" at which point he pulled out his Florida license to show me, though I don't know how this proved his point. In any case, we talked for a while. He said he knew a little Spanish having grown up in New York. His first wife had been Dominican. He said he'd been up all night drinking. Every time he heard a crow caw he pointed out that it was death chasing him. He said he wasn't afraid, but that he wasn't sure about making plans for the future. (I have pic of John, will post later.)
John CassadyFrom Medford to Cottage Grove
Days 9 -10
Driving through the small towns of Oregon, I saw evidence of the demographicand cultural changes that are still occurring. Some of the social and economic dynamics have been similar as to what is happening in places like Melrose, MN but they have their own variations as well. Cottage Grove, for instance, was once a logging town that has seen a sea change in that industry since the housing market dropped out in the mid-90s. Now, they are becoming bedroom communities to larger cities like Eugene because the housing is so much more affordable. New immigrants work in the firefighting industry, in the service industry, and they are entrepreneurs as evidenced by the abundance of small restaurants in places like Cottage Grove and Drain. The appearance of these restaurants has caused long-time establishments like the main street cafe in Cottage Grove to adapt its menu so that they now serve Mexican style breakfast. Moreover, something even more complex is going on. I photographed this Virgen de Guadalupe mural outside Dave's convenience store in Cottage grove and went in to speak with the owner about its reception by the local community. It turns out my assumption that it was a Mexican-descent owner was wrong. The Anglo cashiers told me that the owner was a great believer in the Virgin Mary and that he'd had this painting commissioned in her honor because she has helped him straighten out his life. She said that though he's not Mexican he believes in her in all her forms.
Guadalupe Quinn, regional coordinator of CAUSA de Oregon outside of IHOP near downtown Eugene, OR
Arrived in Medford and biked 45 miles to a campground in Treehorn. Feeling good with with 2 days rest. On Tuesday (Day 10) I got an early start and had a long and very productive day shadowing I-5 off and on as I tried to stay on Hwy 99 as much as possible. I'd been told by an Oregonian that I-5 had been built on top of old 99 so it would be a bit unreliable at times as it would go, stop, reappear and so on. Unfortunately for me, what this meant is that several times I was left with no choice but to hop on I-5 for a few exits, a few miles. Travelling the interstate on a bicycle is not what I'm in this for. Without even trying one tends to go faster because your adrenalin is up as the traffic zooms around you. One time in Roseburg when I-5 dead-ended across a bridge that was being reconstructed I had to go back 5 miles to get on the freeway despite the urging from a local who told me to hope the train tracks, a fence and climb up the hill to the hwy. It was tempting because it was right there but going up a hill and crossing a fence illegally didn't appeal to me carrying the bike and 50 pounds of gear. When I came back on the highway across the river the bridge narrowed significantly as the roads tend to do. My best guess is that this reduces the cost of the bridge but it leaves a very narrow lane for anything else not on 4 wheels. About 3/4 of the way across this bridge as I was coming down the other side, I saw a man walking on the right side. By his stiff walk, his straight back, and his arms hanging by his side I could tell it was an elderly man. Rather than yell, "Passing left" at him, I decided it was best just to keep my eye on my rear view mirror and squeeze by him and the traffic hoping that my panniers would hit neither. They didn't, but unforeseen moments like this are what cause fatigue on the cyclists riding the interstate.
Because I was riding through a lot of level ground and my speed was up several miles per hour I thought I might actually make it into Eugene. But twice more this day I took roads that I thought were Hwy 99 that turned into dead ends. Both of these times I did take a shortcut to the Interstate. One time in particular I had come down a long and steep road to the dead end that went into property that was fenced off that had multiple signs indicating not to trespass. The thought of going back up a steep hill to the interstate entrance so discouraged me that I decided to cut through this property to get on the interstate, which would make one less barb-wired fence to get over. In fear that I would be caught I pushed my bike through chest high grass at top speed, crossed a small stream of water, got to the fence between this property and the Interstate and quickly unhooked all my bags from my bike and tossed them over the 5 foot fence, leaned my bike on a pole and used it to hop over the fence, and then reached over and yanked the bike over. I then moved everything to a tree near the highway where I was forced to take a break before putting everything back in order.
As it was, I barely made it to the small town of Cottage Grove that evening, 20 miles outside of Eugene. The extra physical and emotional exertion of these cuts to the Interstate simply wore me out and though I had possible contacts in Cottage Grove it was all I could do to get to the first small motel in town and crawl into bed.
Driving through the small towns of Oregon, I saw evidence of the demographicand cultural changes that are still occurring. Some of the social and economic dynamics have been similar as to what is happening in places like Melrose, MN but they have their own variations as well. Cottage Grove, for instance, was once a logging town that has seen a sea change in that industry since the housing market dropped out in the mid-90s. Now, they are becoming bedroom communities to larger cities like Eugene because the housing is so much more affordable. New immigrants work in the firefighting industry, in the service industry, and they are entrepreneurs as evidenced by the abundance of small restaurants in places like Cottage Grove and Drain. The appearance of these restaurants has caused long-time establishments like the main street cafe in Cottage Grove to adapt its menu so that they now serve Mexican style breakfast. Moreover, something even more complex is going on. I photographed this Virgen de Guadalupe mural outside Dave's convenience store in Cottage grove and went in to speak with the owner about its reception by the local community. It turns out my assumption that it was a Mexican-descent owner was wrong. The Anglo cashiers told me that the owner was a great believer in the Virgin Mary and that he'd had this painting commissioned in her honor because she has helped him straighten out his life. She said that though he's not Mexican he believes in her in all her forms.
Guadalupe Quinn, regional coordinator of CAUSA de Oregon outside of IHOP near downtown Eugene, OR
Day 7: Redding, CA, (aka Hotel California)
I arrived here Friday night with the intention of resting on Saturday. I had a fairly mellow day running some errands, catching up on e-mail, renewing supplies, and visiting bike shops looking for lightweight long sleeve jerseys to protect me from the fierce sun which is slowly but steadily baking any exposed skin into a deep red-brown, leathery color.
The owner of The Bike Shop gave me a wonderful book about riding through Shasta--Trinity National Forest. He seemed to suggest that going straight thru was going to be a pretty difficult ordeal given the steep inclines. After reviewing the book with its color-coded charts of the grades and the mileage, I had to agree. So I reluctantly decided to take a bus to Yreka, which would put me up near the Oregon border.
Sunday morning I got up early to put together the makeshift box I needed to pack the bike. I called the Greyhound bus station all morning to buy a ticket in advance but no one answered. When I didn't get a busy signal a machine answered telling me "The machine is off." After a few moments I'd hear "The machine is now hanging up." With 2.5 hours before my bus was to depart I called a cab to make sure I got there early. 15 minutes I was told. A half hour later I called back and was told they were busy but I should see a cab in about 15 minutes. This went on for almost 2 hours. I wanted to scream at the operator but this was the only cab company in town with a van to carry my big box so I was afraid to get listed as a problem customer. Between the no-show cab and the unanswered phones at the bus station, I felt like I was in a Motel 6 Twilight Zone. At 15 minutes to departure time I cancelled the cab and re-checked into the motel. There wasn't another bus leaving that day so I unpacked the bike and explored Redding.
While in Redding I had the chance to patronize a couple of Mexican food establishments. Below are two pictures of the restaurants. Here's a cultural quiz for you. Consider the names and guess which one was a "Family owned restaurant, which, from what I can tell in the Northwest is code for "authentic" Mexican food. In the Southwest you don't need to state this, but the further into the Northwest I get the more significance one can read into this as a signifier of the ambiance, the quality of the food, and the prices one can expect. One is called The Whole Enchilada. The other Tortilla Flats. Which is the "authentic" one? One is family owned and modest with about 8 small tables, the other is gaudy, pricier, is kept dark during the day, and has neon cheap, plastic lighted cacti on each table
I will say, and I hope to be able to post more extensive comments on this later, that when I first read Steinbeck's Tortilla Flats I was profoundly disappointed in him. I expected more from the author of the Grapes of Wrath. I read it in the early 80s before I was exposed to much Chicano literature and was still searching for our presence in literature, history, etc. I found his depiction insulting and crass--that of an outsider who was trying to invoke sympathy or pity rather than empathy or critical awareness of the relationship between culture, class, and protest. In preparation for this trip I read his 1962 book, Travels with Charley: In Search of America, and my respect for him was renewed. Though William Least Heat-Moon says in Blue Highways: A Journey into America, a book I just finished while on the road, that Travels with Charley isn't one of his best, I found this memoir very insightful and revealing of Steinbeck's own world-view, particularly when he confronts the raw and muted emotions that the emerging civil rights movement is causing in people of the south.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Heading across the Cascades
I'm in Sweetwater, Oregon right now about to head through the Cascade Mountains to Bend, Oregon. I have a few blog entries I've written since my last posting but accessing the internet from a computer that will let me attach files from a portable drive has been much more difficult that I expected. For now I will simply provide a brief outline of my trip this week.
I took a bus to Medord, Oregon from Redding, California on Monday because advice I received from bike enthusiasts in Redding was that going over the 15,000 ft. Shasta mountain with my baggage would be exceedingly difficult. I got to Eugene, Oregon in 2 days and made arrangements to meet with Guadalupe Quinn, the regional coordinator of CAUSA do Oregon, a sttaewide immigrant rights coalition (http://www.causaoregon.org/). The next morning I spoke briefly about my trip on KOPT, an Air America radio station and then met with Guadalupe for a great 2 hour conversation. I can't wait to share her testimonio with you--she was generous in spirit and her admonition of "Take care of yourself m'ijo" when we departed made me feel blessed with a friend.
I've had some very interesting experiences and observations this week that I will post as soon as I can get to a location to upload files and pictures.
I took a bus to Medord, Oregon from Redding, California on Monday because advice I received from bike enthusiasts in Redding was that going over the 15,000 ft. Shasta mountain with my baggage would be exceedingly difficult. I got to Eugene, Oregon in 2 days and made arrangements to meet with Guadalupe Quinn, the regional coordinator of CAUSA do Oregon, a sttaewide immigrant rights coalition (http://www.causaoregon.org/). The next morning I spoke briefly about my trip on KOPT, an Air America radio station and then met with Guadalupe for a great 2 hour conversation. I can't wait to share her testimonio with you--she was generous in spirit and her admonition of "Take care of yourself m'ijo" when we departed made me feel blessed with a friend.
I've had some very interesting experiences and observations this week that I will post as soon as I can get to a location to upload files and pictures.
Thanks for all the supportive messages...
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Every day brings something new, every turn a new view.
It's the 7th day of travel (07/07/07) and I'm feeling lucky to be taking a break in Redding, California. As I think I noted earlier, the first leg of the trip is all about finding my riding rhythym. It hasn't been easy. Day one was all about learning firsthand why you should ride from north to south along the coast with the winds at your back and not in your face. I made it to Half Moon Bay, about 50 miles from my starting point in Santa Cruz and realized that heading all the way into San Francisco would be almost impossible due to headwinds, hills, and construction. I kid you not when I say coming down steep hills where one would normally expect to coast at speeds of 25-30 mph, I was barely going 12. More than once I had to walk the bike up a hill as the winds blustered the oceanside flowers flat. It was otherwise a beautiful day and cyclists were out in full force--but they were all heading south.
Between Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay are numerous beach farms and places that advertise "pick your own" strawberries and cherries. As I looked at the beautiful landscape of these farms with ramshackle boarding for farmworkers I wondered about their quality of life and couldn't help but think how migrant farmworkers remain the bell weather for how Latinos, mostly Mexicans, are treated in this country. To be sure, when migrants are able to settle out and they often do well and their families tend to obtain a better education and become upwardly mobile. my own family history speaks to this. But why is it acceptable and "necessary" for us to allow such horrific double standards of workplace laws regulating safety and wages? Do most Americans even know that migrant farmworkers have a lifespan that's more than 25 years less than others? Do they know that farmworkers earn an average annual salary of around $10,000, that laws allow children in the fields to enter the workforce at a younger age, that minimum wage laws don't apply to most farmworkers, that children often attend six or more schools in a given year as their families follow the crops? Do most Americans even care? Or is it simply better to be willfully ignorant? Talk about inconvenient truths. I, like many others, understand the appeal of enjoying the fruits of one's labor symbolized in the "pick your own" fruits or vegetables cottage industry run by some of these small farms where people can feel eco- and labo friendly by spending a couple of hours picking their own food straight from the fields. Their is something quaint and romantic about this as we feel less separated from our labor. It's one of those rare moments in today's world where we can feel like we are directly producing something with our own labor. But, in truth, this too is only a minuscule portion of the real sweat and muscle behind farm work. As I passed signs for low flying planes warning of cropdusters, I hoped they were off duty this Sunday even as I realized these are working conditions of people in the fields every day.
At the end of the day, I took advantage of still being near my point of departure and called Marianne for a ride to S.F. As we went down the road and passed Devil's Pass, I realized it was a good decision as the construction, traffic, and steepness of the mountain pass all combined to make this virtually impassable for bikes because the shoulders of the road were shut down. Not wanting to face the winds all the way up to Oregon, I altered my route to go up HWY 101 and eventually parallel I-5 thru Northern, CA.
In Sausalito, I realized HWY 101 wasn't bike friendly so I had to head back to the coast and ride up to Reyes Point Station where I could cut back over to Santa Rosa. Along the way I encountered many friendly bikers who were in awe, envy and profoundly generous in their support of my trip after asking where I was going. My gear was a sure sign that this was no casual ride I was undertaking. I was encourage by one man who told me he had crossed the country last year and was loaded down with more gear than I. Already I've unloaded some items and am constantly thinking about what else I can dispense with to keep the load light.
But every day is a new adventure and I find I need to increase my tolerance for the unknown. After a 10 hour day on Day 2 I check into a Motel 6 in Santa Rosa when I find the high visibility of the regulations against camping in a local state park backed up by patrol cars. The next day I go over more hills as i head towards Calistoga. It tales me 3 hours to ride 15 miles over the mountain and by this time my thighs hurt every time I see the road swing upwards. I stop at the Petrified Forest and Old Faithful and check in at a gas station for drinks and directions before getting on the road over the next mountain towards Clear Lake. The mexicana attendant says "dios mio" and shakes her head when I tell her I'm riding on a bike. Half an hour later, I would be saying the same thing as I head up the pass and realize there is no shoulder and a sign tells me there's 10 miles of uphill to go. I've found that the reward of coming downhill exhilarating, but going up and down with no shoulder and heavy truck traffic kicks my survival instinct in and I remind myself that the goal is to survive. I turn around and go back to Calistoga, where 2 inquiries later I find the bus depot where for $3 I can get a ride to the next town.
On the bus I converse in broken Spanish with Lorenzo Martinez, a farm worker who also has a bike. He evades my questions about where he's from and instead tells me where he might be going. He likes working in this area because it's beautiful and the pay is ok but he says the price of $300,000 for a casita is out of reach for him and his wife. She has taken off to Michigan for the picking season and when she returns they may move to Texas to join his sister who moved there last month. He doesn't know where in Texas because he hasn't heard from her, but he hears that it might be more affordable. I assure him it is, but I can't say what the pay is like. When we get off the bus I regret not taking his picture, but feel so "touristy" I refrained from doing so. I have to figure out how to do this without feeling like I'm objectifying the subject of the camera's gaze.
That night I sleep on a ridge overlooking a vineyard outside of Clear Lake. It's a restless sleep with the traffic nearby and the temperature not cooling down significantly until late in the evening when the moon rises. As I head towards Williams the next day (July 4th) I rejoice that for once the day begins with a downhill ride before reaching a set of rolling hills. What I've learned however is that up in the hills/mountain you can never really tell where you are or what's around the corner, so about 15 miles from Williams when I spill the water out of my Camel Bak when transferring water from my jugs, I worry about having enough to last me, particularly when I tend to drink more when going uphill. I decide not to risk it and make a sign for a ride to Williams. About 15 cars and 15 minutes later, a blue van pulls over and I'm greeted by John and Mindy and their dog Maggie--who are on their way to a camping trip in Mendocino national Forest. They are hippies in every sense of the word (cool!)--the bumper stickers inside the van's sides and ceiling bespeak their worldview--quotes from John Lennon ("Give Peace a Chance"), "We are all the HUMAN Race", "Animals feel pain, too!", as do the zig zag rolling papers on the floorboard. Over the next 25 minutes we discuss politics and they, mostly John, are clear that the country is in sad shape because the government has sold out to corporations, both national and international business interests dominate our policies. John feels like people are feeling more and more powerless but that he's aware that resistance occurs in small ways and thinks that people have to band together and refuse to capitulate. He's pretty disgusted with the electoral process and sees little difference between the parties, but at the same time they both seem to have a strong belief in the essence of Americans, a spirit that will not allow injustice and imbalance to dominate forever.
They drop me off at the first gas station in Williams, accept my donation for the ride with surprise, and wish me luck on my journey after they pose happily for a photo.
I make it to Colusa by early afternoon and decide to rest. The next day I go to Corning and the weather is dramatically hotter. I am enjoying the flatness of the ride thru this valley but I find myself having to stop every 1-2 hours for shade. At the edge of Hamilton City under a tent I meet an elder from Nayarit, Mexico selling an ice-cold sweet and sour lemon-lime-sugar concoction called Tejuino de Colima. It's fantastic. As I roll into Corning I cut thru a neighborhood looking for downtown and I hear a paleta salesman. I enjoy a strawberry paleta and pedal down to street with one hand. That night I stay at a rest stop along Hwy 5 and have to fix two flat tires I picked up when I went off the road and a bunch of burrs from a plant punctured both tires. The next day I make it to Redding but the temperature has reached new heights and when I find out in Anderson, just 10 miles outside of Redding) that the reason I'm feeling so hot is that it is 115 degrees, I decide to take a long, long break and let the sun start setting before completing my ride for the day.
Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge 
July 4th Napa Valley County Fair sign 
The Petrified Forest and Old Faithful
A spot of shade along the road
John, Mindy, and Maggie outside of Williams
Between Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay are numerous beach farms and places that advertise "pick your own" strawberries and cherries. As I looked at the beautiful landscape of these farms with ramshackle boarding for farmworkers I wondered about their quality of life and couldn't help but think how migrant farmworkers remain the bell weather for how Latinos, mostly Mexicans, are treated in this country. To be sure, when migrants are able to settle out and they often do well and their families tend to obtain a better education and become upwardly mobile. my own family history speaks to this. But why is it acceptable and "necessary" for us to allow such horrific double standards of workplace laws regulating safety and wages? Do most Americans even know that migrant farmworkers have a lifespan that's more than 25 years less than others? Do they know that farmworkers earn an average annual salary of around $10,000, that laws allow children in the fields to enter the workforce at a younger age, that minimum wage laws don't apply to most farmworkers, that children often attend six or more schools in a given year as their families follow the crops? Do most Americans even care? Or is it simply better to be willfully ignorant? Talk about inconvenient truths. I, like many others, understand the appeal of enjoying the fruits of one's labor symbolized in the "pick your own" fruits or vegetables cottage industry run by some of these small farms where people can feel eco- and labo friendly by spending a couple of hours picking their own food straight from the fields. Their is something quaint and romantic about this as we feel less separated from our labor. It's one of those rare moments in today's world where we can feel like we are directly producing something with our own labor. But, in truth, this too is only a minuscule portion of the real sweat and muscle behind farm work. As I passed signs for low flying planes warning of cropdusters, I hoped they were off duty this Sunday even as I realized these are working conditions of people in the fields every day.
At the end of the day, I took advantage of still being near my point of departure and called Marianne for a ride to S.F. As we went down the road and passed Devil's Pass, I realized it was a good decision as the construction, traffic, and steepness of the mountain pass all combined to make this virtually impassable for bikes because the shoulders of the road were shut down. Not wanting to face the winds all the way up to Oregon, I altered my route to go up HWY 101 and eventually parallel I-5 thru Northern, CA.
In Sausalito, I realized HWY 101 wasn't bike friendly so I had to head back to the coast and ride up to Reyes Point Station where I could cut back over to Santa Rosa. Along the way I encountered many friendly bikers who were in awe, envy and profoundly generous in their support of my trip after asking where I was going. My gear was a sure sign that this was no casual ride I was undertaking. I was encourage by one man who told me he had crossed the country last year and was loaded down with more gear than I. Already I've unloaded some items and am constantly thinking about what else I can dispense with to keep the load light.
But every day is a new adventure and I find I need to increase my tolerance for the unknown. After a 10 hour day on Day 2 I check into a Motel 6 in Santa Rosa when I find the high visibility of the regulations against camping in a local state park backed up by patrol cars. The next day I go over more hills as i head towards Calistoga. It tales me 3 hours to ride 15 miles over the mountain and by this time my thighs hurt every time I see the road swing upwards. I stop at the Petrified Forest and Old Faithful and check in at a gas station for drinks and directions before getting on the road over the next mountain towards Clear Lake. The mexicana attendant says "dios mio" and shakes her head when I tell her I'm riding on a bike. Half an hour later, I would be saying the same thing as I head up the pass and realize there is no shoulder and a sign tells me there's 10 miles of uphill to go. I've found that the reward of coming downhill exhilarating, but going up and down with no shoulder and heavy truck traffic kicks my survival instinct in and I remind myself that the goal is to survive. I turn around and go back to Calistoga, where 2 inquiries later I find the bus depot where for $3 I can get a ride to the next town.
On the bus I converse in broken Spanish with Lorenzo Martinez, a farm worker who also has a bike. He evades my questions about where he's from and instead tells me where he might be going. He likes working in this area because it's beautiful and the pay is ok but he says the price of $300,000 for a casita is out of reach for him and his wife. She has taken off to Michigan for the picking season and when she returns they may move to Texas to join his sister who moved there last month. He doesn't know where in Texas because he hasn't heard from her, but he hears that it might be more affordable. I assure him it is, but I can't say what the pay is like. When we get off the bus I regret not taking his picture, but feel so "touristy" I refrained from doing so. I have to figure out how to do this without feeling like I'm objectifying the subject of the camera's gaze.
That night I sleep on a ridge overlooking a vineyard outside of Clear Lake. It's a restless sleep with the traffic nearby and the temperature not cooling down significantly until late in the evening when the moon rises. As I head towards Williams the next day (July 4th) I rejoice that for once the day begins with a downhill ride before reaching a set of rolling hills. What I've learned however is that up in the hills/mountain you can never really tell where you are or what's around the corner, so about 15 miles from Williams when I spill the water out of my Camel Bak when transferring water from my jugs, I worry about having enough to last me, particularly when I tend to drink more when going uphill. I decide not to risk it and make a sign for a ride to Williams. About 15 cars and 15 minutes later, a blue van pulls over and I'm greeted by John and Mindy and their dog Maggie--who are on their way to a camping trip in Mendocino national Forest. They are hippies in every sense of the word (cool!)--the bumper stickers inside the van's sides and ceiling bespeak their worldview--quotes from John Lennon ("Give Peace a Chance"), "We are all the HUMAN Race", "Animals feel pain, too!", as do the zig zag rolling papers on the floorboard. Over the next 25 minutes we discuss politics and they, mostly John, are clear that the country is in sad shape because the government has sold out to corporations, both national and international business interests dominate our policies. John feels like people are feeling more and more powerless but that he's aware that resistance occurs in small ways and thinks that people have to band together and refuse to capitulate. He's pretty disgusted with the electoral process and sees little difference between the parties, but at the same time they both seem to have a strong belief in the essence of Americans, a spirit that will not allow injustice and imbalance to dominate forever.
They drop me off at the first gas station in Williams, accept my donation for the ride with surprise, and wish me luck on my journey after they pose happily for a photo.
I make it to Colusa by early afternoon and decide to rest. The next day I go to Corning and the weather is dramatically hotter. I am enjoying the flatness of the ride thru this valley but I find myself having to stop every 1-2 hours for shade. At the edge of Hamilton City under a tent I meet an elder from Nayarit, Mexico selling an ice-cold sweet and sour lemon-lime-sugar concoction called Tejuino de Colima. It's fantastic. As I roll into Corning I cut thru a neighborhood looking for downtown and I hear a paleta salesman. I enjoy a strawberry paleta and pedal down to street with one hand. That night I stay at a rest stop along Hwy 5 and have to fix two flat tires I picked up when I went off the road and a bunch of burrs from a plant punctured both tires. The next day I make it to Redding but the temperature has reached new heights and when I find out in Anderson, just 10 miles outside of Redding) that the reason I'm feeling so hot is that it is 115 degrees, I decide to take a long, long break and let the sun start setting before completing my ride for the day.
Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge 
July 4th Napa Valley County Fair sign 
The Petrified Forest and Old Faithful
A spot of shade along the road
John, Mindy, and Maggie outside of Williams
Tejuino de Colima outside of Hamilton City
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
The Start of a Journey
On Sunday, July 1 at approximately 1030 am Louis left Santa Cruz, CA on his *Journey Across Our America.* Unfortunately the coastal winds of California forced him to rethink his route up the coast to Oregon. So, on Monday Louis crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to head inland. Today he is resting in Colusa, CA, and will make his way to the 99 tomorrow. From there he will continue his journey north to Oregon. Good luck, Louis!
PS - From time to time I (Marianne) will help Louis keep his blog updated.
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