|
|
Remarkable, the psychological difference when the Big Snow comes, and you don't have to sweat having to meet unavoidable obligations. You HAVE to be... nowhere in particular. Time is not of the essence. For once, it's possible to take note of the overwhelming brilliance of reflected sunlight... delight in the momentum of questionable traction... stoop closer to observe the flattened geometry of individual flakes flashing prismatic light. OK. So, this time I won't get all bitchy. Two days, three films. The Majest1c. Manchur1an Candidate. Fifteen M1nutes. Communism. Communism. Eastern Bloc. Identity. Identity. Self-Importance. It's not like I was looking for thematic continuity. The same thing with the Philadelphia motif... first M0rimoto's, then DeNir0. Silly little coincidences, again. foolish, trying to rationalize the insignificant... but why to these pieces have to fit, and repeat, one wonders. Just Mental Mahjongg. Screw it... I'm going to make some beer. ...................................................................... Hostel Environment Day Sixteen: John Day To Sumpter (First day of July. Fifteen days in Oregon. Still crammed vividly in the grey folds inside my cranium. Like most of it... despite having the luxury of the journal in my hands, the images to study, the guides to recall; the memory of the smells, the vibration of the bike frame, the burn-and-chill of the skin are just a cognitive reverie away.) The lust for precious metal and instant wealth still hangs on the landscape like the smell of skunk long after you've hit one with a car. That's how John Day got there... at one time ten thousand people trampled over this dusty crack in the ground. Every mortal sin given mad props in a very short time. Now, mostly gone. But visible scars still show the effort. Long barrows of disembowled rock lie close to the highway like gouges from huge claws. Discarded structures and unfathomable names on roadsigns. Disappeared, desperate people. All of the above prime suspects in the reason why some of us would choose to leave the trail route and risk three mountain passes, twenty-four miles of gravel and no stops for water just to see what ghost towns really looked like. It wasn't going to be a Hollyw00d thing, but the lust for experience weighed more heavily in the gut. Be careful what you wish, shouldn't that be the caption, here? Though it seemed cooler in the morning, the rule of the past few days was cool and grey in the AM, scorcher in the PM. History would repeat itself, but reality wanted to make a point. Heavily burdened bicycles and gravel. Oil and water. You get the picture. Asphalt propels, gravel mires. Skinny tires plowing furrows in the crunchy quicksand, the effort equal to pulling a rickshaw with a sumo wrestler scarfing his bento box. White heat torching down from surreal skies, cumulonimbus clouds of asphixiating dust from unheeding log trucks, the long climbs up no more effortful than the battles to remain upright on the downhills... this creating the "inspiration" to witness: Whitney.
The Road To Nowhere Scattered skeletons of dwellings, like bleached grey bones of living things that had the soul eroded out. Silence, absolute.. absence of life spirit, total. Not even a ghostly electricity of things that had passed was imparted on the flat aspect, ringed by low ridges, settled in the pungent carpet of sage and dust. Disappointment, the principal atmosphere. Brian certainly felt that way, having endured the torture of nine flat tires to get to this point that shows on no map. His vocal delivery doing nothing for the preservation of Whitney's mark on history. And this was just halfway, before the end of the day's ride... ...which seemed to never arrive. Departure from Nowhere as arduous as the arrival. Shadows lengthened, watches nearing seven PM before the return to hard surface, and then to Sumpter... another mining town. No accomodations, save for an open space between vendors in the Thieves' Market (an open-air landfill of castoffs). The evening air chilled... the only place to eat, the Elkhorn, unable to heat food because of problems with the stoves. The exit from Oregon, the opposite side of the coin. |
|
|
