The Obligatory Christmas Post

¡Hola mi amigos y feliz navidad!

Many apologies for the extended delay in posting a little something, but Mexico has done nothing if not slowed me down this past week or so. Moreover, internet is somewhat sparse where I've been hanging my hat these days. Please allow me to catch you up a little!

By the time I left San Diego California on December 15, I was feeling good! I had managed to accomplish my main goal of visiting the General, and I was heading into Mexico right on schedule. I caught the trolley from the town center down to the border, all the while doing my best to absorb the last of the U.S. I would likely be seeing for a while.

To be sure, I had observed a tangible shift in language and culture as I made my way down the coast of the United States, but whatever gradual continuum had been progressing was sharply broken as I exited the trolley car and walked across one of the busiest borders in the world, into Tijuana. A drastically new world in so many ways, as I would come to learn over the next week. In those first few moments however, it was the immediate sensual differences that dominated my attention - the new sights, sounds and smells of street life.

I spent the morning wandering around Tijuana, awash with memories of India, as I practiced my fledgling Spanish on the various vendors and street folk. After a light lunch in a wide bazaar, I decided to move on down the Baja a little to find a place to stay in the nearby port city of Ensenada. Despite being one of the more touristy destinations in the whole of Baja (so close to the states, and open to international cruiseships almost daily!) this was an appropriate place to cut my teeth on Mexico, and I stayed a few nights in a local backpacker joint, enjoying the food and relaxed lifestyle, talking to locals, and trying to formulate some kind of itinerary with regard to making my way through the rest of Mexico.

Once upon a time it had been my plan to make it to Oaxaca, a beautiful old city, and cultural epicenter in the south of Mexico for Christmas time, so that I'd be primed to head into Central America with the new year. Suffice it to say, however, that Mexico has had other plans, and has done a good job of convincing me to extend my stay. There is simply far too much to see and too much fun to be had in this monstrous country. With the help of some lovely folks in Ensenada, I managed to formulate a slightly more realistic schedule, which will hopefully have me ready to make my way into Central America around the end of January. But I digress.

One significant development since I have crossed the border - and one which has led to much adventure, I can tell you! - has been my transition from a hostel-based traveller, to a beach-based traveller. I had heard in Ensenada that throughout most of Mexico, camping on the beach in designated locations is far cheaper than staying in a hostel or guesthouse, and moreover, that in all other, non-designated locations, it's free. This was music to my stingy ears, and so, only a few hours before leaving Ensenada, I managed to find myself a little shit-ass tent and sleeping bag which (after a few minutes of bargaining) I snapped-up for USD$60, along with some sturdy rope to fasten this new load to my pack. I got the worse of this deal, to be sure, but I was looking at $10/night in most hostels along the Baja, of which there were only a few anyway - and all full of giddy sun-burned travellers besides. So I decided to take to the sands, and haven't looked back!

There is far too much to tell, but I can say that life on the beach is far more interesting that life in the city. I have discovered a whole sub-culture of travellers out there on the surf, including but not limited to: families of big-rig-RV-driving "Howdy-Partner" Americans, scraggly ex-film-makers cum sufi-mystics from Montreal, a young surfing/mountain-biking French-Canadian couple from Whistler BC, and a gaggle of switch-hitting couples from San Francisco, plus a host of various other misfit foreigners of all ages, hailing from points all over the globe, albeit most from the U.S. and Canada. Add a healthy splash of Mexican tourists, mostly young well-educated men (i.e. Ph.D and medical students) or whole families piled into the backs of pick-up trucks, and you may begin to get a sense for the crowd through which I've been moving of late.

Needless to say, there has been no shortage of good company, and I have shared much laughter and song with them this past week or so, along our various little stretches of beach, sheltered by the handsome seas-side mountains of the Baja. Moreover, since entering this little community of beach-bums, I have found much success moving about by thumb. Here on the Baja there are only a handful of roads, and so if you are headed to yonder town on foot, there is always a pretty good stream of vehicles ready to stop.

In fact, it was one such ride, a few days ago now, which got me into my present situation! I had just been dropped some 15 miles south of Loreto (a little city on the Sea of Cortez, in the state of Baja California de Sur), at a little beach called Playa Juncalito, where I'd heard the camping was good. As I made my way from the road down to the water, I was approached by a rather large truck which slowed to a stop at my side. With a smile, I asked if there was room for one more down on the beach. A man with a broad white moustache replied from under the bill of his cap: "Well, yes, but you should probably eat first, would you like to come to a potluck?" If there is one thing life on the road has taught me, it's that this is not a question one says no to, and so off we went.

As we drove on, I came to learn that this man was none other than the "Commodore" of the local yacht club, and moreover that the potluck to which we were presently heading was to take place at this very same yacht club. Now of course I had absolutely no idea that there was any yacht club around here, (nor had I ever even been to a yacht club in my life, for that matter), and so was appropriately surprised and pleased to find myself, only a few minutes later, bumping elbows with all manner of sailors from all over the world, most of whom lived right here on the Baja for much of the year, but many others from away and just passing through. The food was abundant and various, and the beer and cocktails were cheap. Needless to say, it took some time for all this to sink in, thankfully time is all I had at that point, and so once it did, I happily made my way through the crowd, sharing my story with strangers of all ages, and enjoying the pleasant atmosphere, and spontaneity of it all.

To make a long story short, the gentle Commodore and his lovely wife were kind enough to put me up in their spare RV that night, and that is where I have stayed for some few days now, taking part in all manner of local events, ranging from participating in the daily CB Radio program, and helping out with various small tasks around the house, to overseeing the towing out of a beached whale, and helping mend and salvage a shipwreck!

I could write volumes about the hospitality and kindness of so many people here, especially my generous hosts with whom I have spent the most time, but at their request, and that of the community at large, I am to report only the following message about my stay:

So far I have had a terrible time here in Playa Juncalito. The food is awful, the dogs nasty and the people ornery and calous. There is a bandito behind every tree, and I never feel safe. Moreover, the weather is poor, and the streets and guesthouses are overrun with vermin. In short, if you're ever planning a trip to Baja Mexico, don't bother coming here, it's not worth it. Spread the word.

I want to close by letting you know that this may be my last message for a while, as tomorrow morning - Christmas Day - I am leaving on a five-day journey by sail, down the Bay Of Cortez with some kind folks I have met here who needed crew. With luck and good weather, we will be in La Paz for New Year's eve!

I send you all my warmest wishes for the holidays, and thank those of you from whom I have received lovely email messages recently! It is always nice to get a taste of home, and hear what you've been up to. (Also, please feel free to post comments/questions on here - they always brighten my day - and to kindly tell anyone who may not know about this blog that it exists.)

Lots of love from Loreto! ¡Adios!

The General 3

I woke on Sunday morning around 7 AM, quickly packed my belongings, locked them in storage, and made for the road. More daylight, I was convinced, would mean a better chance of getting a ride. I threw up my sign, and stood eagerly waiting. It was drizzling a bit but I didn't mind - my clothes were still a little wet from the day before anyway. (I had worn all my heaviest clothes in yesterday's rain, and so had nothing to change into that morning, but no matter.) Before long I had my first ride, a young local man who lived just up the road, and dropped me at a little breakfast spot where I gulped down hot coffee, eggs and hashbrowns, and dashed back to the 198. I decided to walk a bit up the narrow freeway (which had been no more than a two-lane road for some 40 miles now), turning from time to time to thrust out my sign and my winning smile as soon as I heard a car coming up from behind, which was not so frequent now, as I was getting out into deeper country.

As far as I can tell, success in the world of hitchhiking depends upon a few key variables, as anyone who has tried it will likely consent:

1) Visibility: Obviously, if you cannot be seen, chances are slim you'll be picked-up.

2) Accessibility: Being visible is all well and good, but if you're not positioned so as to afford potential rides the time and space required to first consider, and then actually proceed with the business of pulling over and picking you up, you're out of luck.

3) Weather: Intensity of rain/snow seems to me to correlate positively with pick-up frequency.

4) Attitude: A smile does seem to help - despite famed warnings about the wildness of the world.

Anyway, I eventually found what I took to be a prime location, out in front of a local home, incidentally, and stood for a moment, my eyes on the road. I was a little surprised therefore, when a man's voice came from behind me, asking if my car had broken down - it was his house I was standing in front of. No, I explained, I had no car, but had come down from Canada by bus to see the biggest trees on planet earth. He seemed to be intrigued by this, and after a short chat, we two were off in his car, en route to Sequoia National Park - maybe a twenty minute ride or so. Along the way we spoke about my travels in India and the United States, and as he dropped me at the visitor's centre, he kindly remarked that if I needed a place to stay, he would put me up in his RV for as long as I liked, and that if I needed anything whatsoever to call him, anytime, at home. I thanked him warmly for this generous offer, and said goodbye, walking into the central office to see what the rangers would make of my plans to walk up to the General.

Inside, a nice young girl explained to me that she had seen people bike or jog my proposed route, but never walk, and moreover, these trips had been in summertime with the sun high in the sky, and the roads free of snow.

"How much snow is up there anyway?" I asked.

"Well, it's been raining down here for nearly three days, so I'd guess about three or four feet." she replied.

This news, coupled with the fact that it was still about 20 miles to the giant forest (not to mention some 3500 feet up, in elevation) did not have me jumping for joy, but as I explained to this girl - and to everyone else who had been looking at me sideways since Visalia when I told them my plan - I had simply come too far to turn around and go back now. And so, with her blessing, off I went up the General's Highway, in a good rain, alone, at around 9 AM. I knew it was a long way, so I was moving at a pretty good clip, jogging a little at times, when the incline subsided. It wasn't long until I started to feel the wet coming through my longjohns and boots.

My first break was about an hour into the ascent, to shake a little water off, munch on a few mango slices, and re-group mentally. Judging by the map, if I kept my present pace (which in itself would be impressive, I thought) I could expect to have reached the General by early afternoon, and assuming I didn't stay long, and that the descent would take about the same amount of time, I'd hopefully be back at the visitor's centre by around 6 PM - about an hour or so after dark. The prospect of running uphill all day without anything more to eat than an orange, and half a bottle of water was daunting, but on I ran. Another half-hour went by before a van slowed-up beside me (only a handful of vehicles had gone by at this point) and a jaunty-looking woman poked her head out around a smiling ginger-bearded man, and offered me a ride. (They were on their way up the mountain to ski.) I quickly accepted, and off we went.

It wasn't long before I realized that I would never have made it up that road on foot. Ever onward and upward we snaked, soon entering slush, and then snow, which quickly deepened, and soon enough, we were seeing vehicles off the road, and plows hard at work to clear things up. About an hour or more we must have driven deep into the giant forest, until at long last we came to the parking lot for the trail up to the General Sherman tree - you'd never know it though, for all the snow, easily three feet in places, and far deeper where the plows had piled it. We got stuck, in fact, at one point, and had to get out the shovels to escape. But I could care less - I was there! I had only a short walk to complete my pilgrimage. It was a beautiful moment, up there in the silent snowy woods.

I snapped a quick photo with my generous

new friends, and ran off up the trail like a kid in a theme park, cutting fresh tracks as I went. Before I knew it, I found myself standing before the General, all 2.7 million pounds of him. And what a sight. We were all alone - just the two of us there - the snow gently drifting down. I took a few photos in a futile effort to contain the monster within the bounds of my three inch LCD screen, and then, laughing, I fell backward into the snow thereby assuming the only posture in which it is actually possible to see most of the General at once. Flat on my back, still panting from my run, I lay in the snow for some time gazing upward - a glorious culmination of so much planning and effort.

In time a few others came to see;

a couple from Bristol, and a youngish man from Germany, and we made chit chat as they snapped photos of their own and moved on. Getting alittle cold, I thought I'd better go too, but not without saying goodbye.I hopped the low guardrail separating the General from the people of theworld, and made my way up to a man-sized nook in his vast trunk (easily 40 feet in diameter) and there I stood for a moment, my hands pressed against his ancient bark - cold, but as alive now as it was some 2500 years ago. And then, smiling, I took my leave, walking and then running again down the trail.

The General 2

The bus leaving L.A. was about an hour late and so I rolled into the Visalia Greyhound station at about 5:30 AM, still groggy from the fitfull half-sleep so common on such nocturnal journeys. It was still pitch dark outside, and colder than I had expected, and what's more the bus station wasn't even open yet. At least there were a few other scragglers about. I knew that if I had any hope of making this journey happen it would have to be with the help of people around me, so I did my best to make chit chat with these folks, dropping a hint or detail here and there concerning my present mission.

My first lead came from one young local woman who told me that I might find some understanding ears at a nearby restaurant called Cat's Corner Cafe, popular with the locals - perhaps someone there might offer a ride up the hill? Shortly thereafter the bus station opened, and I decided to have a talk with the counter-staff to kill some time until 7 AM or so, when I figured there'd be a better chance the cafe would be open. There was little they could offer me other than encouragement however, since, as I mentioned, virtually all transit out of Visalia was out of service. All they could do was to print me out several open tickets so that I'd have a variety of options available to me depending on when I made it back down the hill. I thanked them and made my way down Noble Avenue in search of the cafe as the sun began to rise and burn off some of the chill of morning.

I managed to waste a few precious moments getting lost on the way, but after asking directions from a gaggle of rubbies, got back on track and soon spotted the cafe, just off the 198 freeway. It was bustling, which was encouraging, and I walked in - all smiles - determined to win the good graces of some local who hopefully lived near Sequoia National Park. There was a line-up so I sat and waited a moment by the front desk, where strangely enough there sat an old Magic 8-ball. I more or less instinctively - if uncharacteristically - picked it up, thinking silently:

"Will I make it to the General?"

"You may rely on it." came the fuzzy blue answer.

I smiled to myself and took a seat on an old diner-style swivel-stool at the low breakfast bar in between two chipper looking Californians. I perused the menu and remarked to my neighbours that I'd better have the chicken-fried steak, because we didn't have that kind of thing in Canada - the bait was laid.

"Oh, you're from Canada, are you? What brings you all the way down here?"

"Well! Let me tell you..." I smiled, and before long I had my two neighbors immersed in a lovely conversation about all manner of topics (including, incidentally, the pros and cons of a 100% carnivorous diet, which one of these men espoused, claiming that the government only encouraged the regular consumption of fruits and vegetables as part of their sinister plot against the populace) but most importantly to me at that moment, about my present troubles. How was I, the car-less Canadian going to make my way up to the giant forest? Well, as it happened, neither of these fine men lived out toward the park, and so no ride was offered, although the one man made a phonecall to a ranger friend on my behalf to inquire about road conditions - snow, as it turned out, and lots of it - and the other (the carnivore) generously bought my breakfast (despite its containing vegetables).

So, still rideless, and my head now swirling with thoughts of trudging uphill through the snow, I headed down to a little place up the road called Lover's Lane, where my breakfast mates told me I'd have the best shot at nabbing a ride. The rain had come on now, and so I quickened my pace, but I knew it wouldn't be long before I was good and wet. Soon enough I had found the spot, and with a sigh and a laugh, stuck out my thumb for the very first time in my life. It wasn't long however, before I realized that I must have looked a rather dubious character standing there in the rain with my beard and my dark glasses (mandatory after my recent surgery, you'll recall, even in grey skies). What I needed was a sign. So, off I walked to the nearest gas station, and after rifling through the garbage a minute, found a suitable piece of card across which I scrawled my best Canadian-flag, and the words: "EAST THANKS!"

No word of a lie, I had a ride within fifteen minutes. A soft-spoken older gentleman of Spanish descent picked me up, and told me that although he was actually headed in the other direction, he'd be happy to take me up the road some twenty mintues. I obviously accepted and we talked the whole way, about the various sadnesses he had endured in his life - the loss of many friends and loved ones to cancer, and his wife's present battle therewith, as well as his own injury, a broken back some years - and seven surgeries - ago. Despite the grim subject matter, our chat was pleasant enough, and I gave him a hearty thanks as I stepped back onto the road, one ride closer to the trees, in somewhat wilder country now, and with new encouragement about my journey. Again I threw up my sign, and sure enough, within minutes, was picked up by another kindly Spanish man, this one with less English, who offered to drive me all the way to Three Rivers, where he lived. Terrific! On this longer ride, we did our best to tutor each other in our respective languages, and shared a few laughs. He let me off in front of a little general store in Three Rivers and wished me luck.

By this time it was only around noon and I was quite pleased at how things had gone so far! At this rate, it looked like I might even make it to the General afterall! Excited, I put my sign out and set to waiting, still in the rain. After a few minutes however, as I began to grow quite wet, I decided to pop in to the general store to use the washroom. Inside, I saw a sign advertising riverside cabins for rent which I discovered could be had for $50/night. A bit steep to be sure, but I realized that even if I did make it to the General that day, I'd likely still have to sleep in Three Rivers that evening. And so, to make a long story short, after walking a quarter-mile up the road, in the pouring rain to scope out prices at nearby places, all of which were higher, I decided to take a cabin. Unfortunately, this cabin was also located some few miles up the road, and so off I went again, still in the rain, to find the place. At this point in the day, it was beginning to grow darker, and the idea of a hot shower and a bit of rest was sounding better and better, (recall, I had hardly slept since two nights prior) and so by the time I found my little cabin, I quickly yielded thereto, and wound up calling it a day. But I was close, and I could feel it.

Tomorrow I would march on the General.

The General 1

Nestled in the fertile loins of central California there stands a silent army - an ancient batallion far more daunting than any ever amassed by humankind. Some know them as the Sequoia, others as the Sierra Redwood, but no mere name, however majestic, can serve to capture the sheer magnitude and presence of these soldiers of old. For this, one must walk among them and stand before their great and noble leader, General Sherman, the largest individual organism on planet Earth. More voluminous than nine blue whales, the General looms some sixty stories into the sky above, holding fast - along with his faithful troop - to that same patch of ground they've held since the time of the ancient Greeks. It is among these incredible giants and their magnificent chief that one comes to realize that it is the plants, and not the animals - let alone human beings - who rule, and have long ruled this earth, and who will likely remain sovereign here long after we are gone.

After a few lovely days in Monterey, I dedcided to head South to L.A. to visit with the sister of a good friend of mine. Although I hadn't seen her in well over a year, she was generous enough to put me up in her modest apartment in West Hollywood for a couple of nights, where I had a great time! It was very nice to touch base with someone familiar after a few days of hanging out with strangers. It wasn't long however before I started thinking more seriously about a trip to see the General, but when I actually got down to the business of researching the logistics of making a trip to Sequoia National Park at this time of year, I was more than a little discouraged. Ever since I started planning my time in the U.S. some months ago, seeing the General had been one of the adventures I was most excited about, but at this point things didn't look good.

The shuttle bus which usually runs between Visalia and Sequoia National Park, I came to learn, is out of service from December to February. (Visalia is a five hour bus ride from L.A., and is the closest Greyhound runs to the park, but is still some 50 miles away.) Moreover, the public transit which runs between Visalia and Three Rivers is only operational on weekday mornings, and here we were Friday night. (Three Rivers is the last bit of civilization before the park, but is still some 23 miles away.) Suffice it to say, the odds didn't seem to be in my favor, but something in me wasn't about to let go of this dream - this veritable pilgrimage - to see the largest trees on earth. And so, despite my better judgment - and heavy eyelids - around midnight that evening, I packed up my few things, said my thankyous and goodbyes to my generous host, and made for the Los Angeles Greyhound station in the black of night, without the foggiest idea of how I would make it to the trees, let alone make it back down to San Diego before my Greyhound bus pass died in a few days. But I'll tell you one thing, I was smiling the whole way.

Word

"Indeed there is little in life of more value to the transformation of the self than to one day uproot your whole existence, cut away the gnarled mass that has grown in and around you, scythe the wheat that has grown from your soil, and take up the rhizome of your soul, away from its homeland, away from all it has known of sunlight and season, away from the forces which watered and fed it and pruned it along, and go to another place, find another patch of earth, and then lay down your tuber in the mud and watch it blossom and grow."

These the words of one Jack Haas, a Canadian born adventurer, mystic, and author of a great many books one of which was lent to me a short time before my travels. I've been working through it these past few days, and finding much hearty food for thought, as well as a good laugh from time to time.

So, I'm in Monterey, California for the moment, enjoying some un-expected sunshine - forecasts had this whole week slotted for rain. It's a lovely little town, if deserted, but it's not hard to imagine it swarming with tourists in peak season. So far it's been a welcome change from the bustle of San Francisco, and I've been making good use of my days by relaxing before the rocky shoreline, listening to the crash of the waves ushered in by the cool Pacific breeze.

I want to make one quick note to those concerned with giant trees, indeed the giantest. There was a time, albeit brief, when I thought that I might have to do away with plans to visit The General. I know, I know. The logistics of bus travel, and budgetary concerns had me thinking I might be better served to skip it. But I have recently been reinvigorated by some new knowledge, and so all is not lost just yet.

That is all for now friends - thinking of you all fondly!

A Little Shit & A Few Sights

Now, I think I've spoken to a number of you about the rough layout of my travels, but for the sake of clarity, the plan at present is to make my way down the Western coast of the American continents, through the U.S., Mexico, Central and South America, all the way to the southern tip. If at that point I still have residual funds and/or energy, which I hope will be the case, I'll begin working my way back up the eastern coast.

At any rate, I'm only two bus rides in, and the magitude of this journey is starting to become a little clearer to me. Let me catch you up a little.

I left Vancouver early last Monday morning, and after a short stopover in Seattle, rolled into Portland around supper time. Daniel, a kindly Buddhist fellow Cara and I met in India last year, and who had since settled in Portland, was good enough to meet me at the station, and escort me out for a night cruising the dingy but chic Northwest Quadrant. I was pleased to discover that not only does Oregon state have no sales tax, but that happy-hour beer prices hover around the $2 mark. (This is prime local microbrew we're talking by the way, not just watery draught.) Needless to say, we decided to avail ourselves of this bargain, making the rounds, and were in pretty good shape by the time we made it home. Unfortunately, Daniel had to leave for a few days the next morning, and we shared a heartfelt goodbye after a healthy American breakfast of chicken-fried steak and eggs at a local greasy spoon. Although he generously offered his home to me for the remainder of the week, I decided to head out sooner rather than later.

The following morning - wednesday, the 2nd - I called ahead and made arrangements in San Francisco, and was on a bus that afternoon. This was a longer trip - a grueling overnight voyage of some eightteen hours. I arrived around noon the following day - thursday - a little dazed but none the worse for wear. Hell, the sun was out and I was in San Francisco! I hit the streets, and must have walked for some two hours straight, up and down Market street mostly, but poking around some of the adjacent streets as well in and around a roughish part of town called the Tenderloin. So very nice to be in a big city again, with all the ups and downs of lavishness and poverty, glitz and grime. My dreamy sidewalk afternoon was interrupted however when I noticed a rather large bird shit-mark plastered squarely across the front of my coat. I dashed into a nearby cafe to clean up, and decided I'd better find my hostel and settle a bit.

Incidentally, thursday nights are half-price at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA), so after cleaning up and collecting myself I opted to check that out, and on the way I happened across a jubilant pair of Spanish girls touring the U.S. after finishing their schooling abroad. We toured the museum together, and have been hanging out ever since. Today we had a lovely visit to the magnificent Golden Gate bridge, where much photograghy ensued, and then rolled around the famed Haight-Ashbury district for a time, making a few special stops at nearby streets of reknown. Now, I don't know what this area was like in its day, but these days it's a pretty happening scene; the streets are lined with the obligatory dingy cafes, vintage/used clothing and smoke shops, as well as a fair helping of book and record stores. A good bit of window-shopping was had. In between dodging a few well-poised Greenpeace pushers, and pot-selling pan-handlers, we shared a lovely lunch in a little bistro and were soothed by the sounds of Cat Stevens, Crosby Still Nash & Young, and Joni Mitchell, among others.

I should leave it there for now, as I'm on a borrowed laptop, but I'll have you know that I am well and happy, and settling well into life on the road. I believe I may stay here another two nights or so.

Talk to you very soon!

The First Morsel

Well I suppose it had to start some time.

Sure snuck up on me though. I finished with work only last week - I still have fitful dreams of swinging hammers, and stomping shovels - and now here I am on my way! I'm in Portland at the moment, in some quirky, local, organic cafe, called Brews Brothers. I had The Elwood Panini, for those of you in the know.

At any rate, I thought that if I were to write a blog, I'd be best served to put a little something down from the get-go, just to let everyone know. I must say, it's a style of writing I'm not yet used to. It feels a bit like giving a toast at your birthday party. You look out, and see friends and loved ones from all different parts of your life, all grouped together now in one room, staring up at you and waiting patiently for you to offer up some delicious morsel of wisdom. It's a rare luxury having you all out there at attention (supposing, of course, that anyone is reading this) so I figure I'd better do my best to make use of it.

Wise or not, however, there is only one thing that seems to be yearning for release this morning, and that is simply to say that although I've only just begun all this, I find myself missing you all very much already! Up until recently, I'd been measuring my time in days, filling them to the brim, and counting them down in preparation for my departure. But time on the road, it seems to me, is measured not in days, but hours, and my hours of late have been spent chiefly in thoughts of you guys.

I want to thank you for all your encouragement over the years, and especially in regard to the present trip! Many hands took part in its creation, and I look forward to sharing some of it with you on here, if I can.

That's all for now. Bye Bye!