70,000 calories condensed in an ex large white paint bin, weened shut with heavy duty duck tape, our 14 days of food resupply was shipped off to huts on horseback waiting patiently for our hungry arrival. Stocked full of 50 cliff bars, enough whiskey for one night, and overloaded with a plentiful amount of dehydrated hummus to ruin my love affair with this lovely spread, we thought we were "semi" ready. In all honestly, except the unexpected. Taking advice from strangers sharing stories, I packed the necessities, hot coco, miso soup, advil, a shovel, and sleeping pills. Telling my mother we were ready, compass included, I am glad to have a trusty mathematician tagging along, pinpointing GPS coordinates to the millionth.
I grew up in Los Angeles, sprawled cement city, without a tree in site. The treehouse deep in the woods I dreamt to live in at an age when Santa Clause still existed, came with hot dinners and ice cream at night, a warm bed, where the big bad wolf only existed in nightmares and bears called themselves Smokey and Yogi. But the actuality of facing the biggest fears still awaits. It is not the daily milage or lack of clean undies and socks that is to all a bit daunting. You see, it was about 23 years ago my 5 year old self was camping with the toughest outdoorsy man alive, my father. Shrinking to the size of a worm deep in my sleeping bag, a bear rummaged through our precious food canister. "Get the ax," my mother gasps. What lay between my pajamas and death were only the fluffy down sleeping bag feathers and a thin sheet of royal blue nylon tent. I survived that night, but lay ridden with post traumatic bear syndrome 23 years later.
Once again walking through bears' front yards in a mere 48 hours is a reminder that no solid adventure, no matter how terrifying or brutal or beautiful, can be passed up.
This is a compilation of stories, days upon days of meeting strangers in the oddest of places, making friends with trees, barren roads, desert heat, and stuffed reindeer. About seeing the continent via a bicycle. And about falling in love, testing human limits, and restoring a faith in humanity.
Pages
- UTAH - Tent, Reindeer, Bicycle 2014
- Heading to Alaska on a Bicycle
- THE JOHN MUIR TRAIL: A Tale of a Reindeer and German Lover 2013
- JMT South to North: SOLO in the SIERRAS 2015
- Oregon: Willamette National Forest, Boy, and Mount...
- ONE COUNTRY VIA A BICYCLE 2012
- MAINE: Cycle Touring the Northern State of Blueberries 2015
Intro
Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.