"Down Hill from Here"

The syncro's starter cranked, lagging for a second before catching.  The liberally muffled exhausted echoed around the small mechanics shop in Arcata.  I grinned at John, the grey haired man poking his head into the engine bay.

"It's still doing that slow crank thing... we cant really figure out what that's about.. but it's not cutting out any more," John yelled over the rough idle of the syncro. "One of the guys went through and secured the harness with zip ties and checked all of the grounds.  Not sure exactly which one it was, but its not cutting out anymore."

"Awesome.  I just need to get back to Portland.  I can handle a slow start and rolling her if she craps out."

"Just park on hills," John replied with a laid back tone echoing his roots in the far northwest corner of California.

"I've gotten pretty good at that,"  I laughed.

"The other option is that we order a starter from Go-westy,  but that wont be here until early next week."

"I'll take my chances."

"Thought so.  Safe travels man."

After the better part of a week in Arcata, I tossed my backpack in the back seat of the Syncro and headed towards the 101.  The freedom of having a wheels again overcame my fear that the starter could crap out at any moment.  At the same time, it made me realize how good I had it when the van was 100% reliable.

Sticking to the coastal rout,  I followed the 101 up from Humboldt into Oregon.

"I can get 70 miles to the gallon on this hog..." My week in Arcata prompted me to pick up this hog.  She fits well in the back of the syncro and is perfect for motoring around town.

Memories flooded of all the times that a break down would have been a serious problem.  Middle of nowhere in Baja,  500 miles from the nearest van mechanic.  BLM Land in Utah,  50 miles from the nearest cell tower.  20 miles down a 4x4 road in Death Valley.  All of these scenarios would have required multiple day efforts just to get the van to a mechanic.   It's best to count your blessings, I mused to myself.

Cresting the peak of the coastal range and the syncro descended into the Willamette valley.  In the distance,  the radio towers dotted the west hills.  Like a spot light singling an attraction,  these towers spelled an end to my mechanical plagued journey that started over a month before.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's all down hill from here," I informed the empty passenger seat.

Here are some more links,

North (Facebook).

The Road Giveth, and The Road Taketh

We approached the cow cautiously,  half expecting it to stand up with a moo or two and charge one of us.  As we neared,  the vultures relinquished their prize and joined a dozen or so others circling a few hundred yards above.  The thousands of flies however,  kept up their work,  buzzing around the carcass.

"What do you think happened?" I asked,  holding my t-shirt over my nose like bandana.

"Holly shit,  see that calf?!?"

"Is that what that is poking out of its ass err I mean vagina..?"

Walking around towards the cow's back, I noticed the hoofs and nose of a baby calf sticking part of the way out of cow's vagina.  My stomach contracted as I caught a small whiff of the what would surely be the first battle of a war of stench.

"Fuck.. it must have died giving birth."

"I wonder how long it's been here?"

Looking up at the sun, I squinted my eyes, "Ehh maybe a day, maybe less.  It hasn't been ripped apart yet."

"No way to really know I guess.  Can we go now?  This is creeping me out."

"Yah, this shit is weird."

We walked back towards the idling van in silence, still analyzing the cow and her still-born calf behind us.

"That's something you see in a movie.  Remember when they killed that cow in Apocalypse Now? Well that's how fucked up that cow is.  Same level."

"I've never seen anything like that in my life.  It's trapped in suspended agony. Could you imagine being there when it died?"

"I'd rather not. Let's get the fuck out of here.  This shit's bad juju."

Nodding in agreement,  I opened the door and climbed back into the Syncro.  Releasing the emergency break, we rolled forward.

"That's something you'll never forget."

"Definitely."

Revving up to the top end of first gear, I shifted to second and we headed south towards I-40 on the Forest Service road.

Seeing that cow marked a turning point in our trip to the Four Corners region.  Later that day in a wind storm on I-40, the strap of my Thule surf rack gave and we lost a surfboard.  Tim and I heard nothing and didn't realize the board was missing until we stopped to get gas a few hours later.  Futily,  we backtracked an hour hoping to see the board laying on the shoulder. No luck. In a separate but related incident a pair of jeans that I had drying in the cargo rack blew off.  Hopefully a Navajo found both the surfboard and the jeans on the side of the road and is enjoying them.

Annoyed with the losses but happy that it was just a pair of jeans and a beat up surfboard, Tim and I continued our travels west, back towards southern California, where both could be easily replaced.

Campfires.

I downshifted from fourth to third on a two lane highway out of a valley in northeastern Arizona.  Cutting through open range,  the occasional cow dotted the otherwise unremarkable landscape. The van shook subtly twice in the low RPM's and then continued its whining acceleration up the hill.

"Did you feel that?"

"No, what do you mean?"

"I think she misfired or, we ran over a snake the size of four by four..."

"Ohh yah, I thought we ran over something in the road."

"Nope we didn't hit a thing...She's never done that before.  Thats not good.."

"Maybe it's the altitude.." Tim suggested in earnest.

Matching Tim's optimism with a healthy portion of my own wishful thinking,  I accepted this answer as a plausible cause and continued west.  The knocks disappeared.

Hanging at the watering hole.

You Shall Not Pass.

Tim has a photo blog called Cairn Culture.

'

Wild Horses in New Mexico.

Craftsmanship in Chaco Canyon.

Unmapped.

By the Nevada Arizona border,  the knocks and misfires had grown from the occasional sputter on a steep hill to a voilent convulsion every time I accelerated.  In low RPM's, the shakes were hair raising. To avoid this, I kept revs high.  As the knocks continued, my hopes of limping the Syncro back to Los Angeles evaporated. In vain,  I tried a fuel injection cleaner at a gas station.  For half an hour,  the convulsions disappeared,  only to return with vengeance.

"We aren't going to make it to LA," I said to Tim with a solemn face following a particularly long series of misfires.

"I know we aren't..." He said as if he'd known for longer than I had. "What do we do?"

"Well,  you have AAA dont you?  Lets get off the interstate and take side roads back as close as we can.  The other option is that we call it quits here and try to find a shop in Bullhead City or Havasu City to work on the van on Monday."

"Fuck that.  Those towns are hell holes."

"My thoughts exactly.  Let's push for LA."

Turning off the music,  we continued towards the setting sun, reviving high in third gear.

On a linear progression,  the knocks continued until the van stalled, contributing her last bit of forward motion.  Turning on the hazard lights I rolled to the side of Route 66 a stone's throw from the California border.

"Well, that's that."

"At least we are in a pretty place,"  Tim said glancing towards the setting sun.

I sheepishly smiled in agreement.

"Do you want to make the call or should I?  We're 284 miles from LA.  We're going to have to use both of our AAA accounts," I said to Tim as I checked Google Maps on my iPhone.  Wrestled my wallet from my back right pocket, I flipped through expired New York Transit cards, reciepts and other old reminders of yesteryear.  Eventually, I found my AAA card.

"We are so fucking lucky we have cell reception here."

"What's the deal,  I'll make the first call,  then we wait an hour and then we get towed 100 miles and then you make another call and get towed another 100 miles."

"Yup, thats about right."

"Shit.  It's going to be a long night.  What I would do for a beer," Tim laughed.

"The Road Giveth and The Road Taketh,"  I agreed.

Here are some more links,

Warren Zevon, Desperados Under the Eaves (Youtube),

The Road Giveth and The Road Taketh (Facebook).

2 Hippies

An east wind blew a rooster tail of dust off the dirt road a few miles a head of us in the Valley of the Gods.  Oscillating between second and third,  the Syncro kicked up its own kicking up its own cloud as we cruised down the washboarded road.

"I think thats a VW," I said,  squinting at a red and white blob slowly emerging into view.  "...looks like an old Westfalia." I directed towards Tim.

"Out here?"  Tim reached for the binoculars laying on the center console and adjusted them into focus. "Yup,  sure is."

Pulling the Syncro out of gear,  we coasted down the slight hill towards the oncoming van.  "I'm going to stop..."

"Of course you are."

Noticing a fellow VW van,  the Westfalia followed suit and slowed to a stop.

"Nice ride!"  I grinned, sticking my head out the window to give their van the once over.

"Like wise.  Is that thing four wheel drive? A Syncro?" A man in his late 50s answered in a deluted English Accent,  killing the engine mid sentence.

"Sure is,  front and rear locking differentials too."

"And big mud tires! You've come to the right spot to use those," a chipper women of around the same age as the driver interjected over the rough chugging of the syncros engine.

"It looks like it," Tim replied,  leaning over the center console.  "How long have ya'll been traveling?"

Bases on a mutual connection with the road and life spent in a van, our conversations skipped the routine pleasantries.  Our professions were never discussed. Instead we focused on the important things,  like the logistics of boarder crossings in Central America, and van break downs.

 In 2009, Wendi and Stephen left their home in Canada, and hit the road in a 1972 VW Westfalia. Two and a half years and 50000 miles later,  their still at it.  They've been to Panama.  They've been to Kalamazoo. Their optimism and sense of adventure was contagious.  Check out their blog for some of their stories and photos.

Micro #vanlife.

After half an hour of comparing stories from Baja, Nicaragua and tips for finding free places to camp, a stream of dust appeared on the horizon,  signaling the arrival of another travel.  Parked side by side, we blocked the road. As the pick outfitted with a large camper approached

"We should be going," Stephen looked at his watch.

"As should we,"

"Maybe our paths will cross again," Wendi yelled as Stephen reved up their air cooled engine and rumbled into first.

"I bet they will," I smiled.

With a quick set of honks,  Wendi and Stephen's van set off.

"I hope I'm that alive and in love when I'm in my sixties," I said, watching their Westfalia crest the hill behind us.

"Meto.  They have something figured out alright."

"Sure do."

Here are some more links

 Living The Dream (Wendi and Stephen's blog),

2 Hippies (Facebook).

Life is Better When You Surf

"It has a really shitty learning curve," I said to Tim as he sat in the sand with his arms crossed on his knees, still dripping from an outside set.  Setting my board down in the sand,  I unzipped the chest zip and pulled the flap over my head.

"You get rocked for awhile.  It goes with the territory.  When I started surfing,  I rode one of Dan's thrusters.  I got slammed by 40 degree hurricane swell for a year or two before I finally figured out what was going on. It was so fucking cold."

"I just don't feel like I'm going anywhere when I paddle.  I can't get any speed."

"Yea, that feeling sucks.  It's all about making small adjustments, moving forward and backwards until you get balanced."

"I was trying that." Tim pushed his toes down into the granular and then flicked them up. "Let's go hike up one of those," Tim nodded towards a nearby hill."

"Comme onnn Tim.  It just takes time...practice.  It's like learning to snowboard or skate.  You just have to do it."  I flipped my 6'3 hull over and inspected the finbox.  Pulling the board up towards my mouth, I sucked at a recently repaired crack along the front of the finbox.  No water or air escaped despite my attempts to give my beloved board a hickey.

"I'm going back out."

"Wait, I'll go, just let me chill for a second. Let me catch my breath."

"Alright."  Laying back down on the sand, I propped my head on a round rock.   A few driftwood structures dotted the empty beach at Andrew Molera State Park.  We were the only surfers at the beach on an unremarkable Wednesday.  The waves were small but protected from the howling north wind by the point.  I closed my eyes and listened to waves break.

Bananas.

Sunset in Big Sur.

Blam's set up.

Hand painted.

Campsite.

Classic sticks.

Girl Scout cookies stacked 7 high and guarded by loyal pooch.

"If you want the ultimate, you've to got be willing to pay the ultimate price.."

Spring green.

Chaco tacos.

This dude is DTVL.  Down to #VanLife.

An especially loud crash made me sit up, "When you get it,  you're going to rip.  It's such a wild sensation."

"Yea, it looks fun," Tim grinned. "Everyone that's riding waves looks so pumped."

"It just takes patience.  That's one of the reasons I like it so much.  I'm not good at waiting for anything,  but with surfing,  you have to wait for the waves to be good and  the wind to be right.  Then, when you paddle out you have to take the right waves.  A good surfer is wise.  That's not the case with snowboarding or skating. Surfing makes you more wise."

For a minute we sat and watched a few waves roll through.

"You ready?"

"Alright,  I'm ready."

Here are some more links,

Life is Better When (Facebook).

#vanlife (Instagram).