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.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Day 1. Yosemite

Miles: 62
Elevation gain: 6000 ft
Elevation max 9945 ft
Temperature: 95 and thunder showers 

Dear Yosemite,
Knowing that hwy 120 winds from the western sierras to the eastern side, was rain, thunder, lightening a passive aggressive welcome to your home? As if the 9945 feet summit alone didn't lack enough oxygen to convince our crew we were out of shape and that Canada was an entire country away. The 40 mile climb slowed us to a snails pace, and tourists navigated by in colorful gas mobiles wearing plates from all the states. You thought you could outsmart us on day 1, roaring thunder through pine needles, bouncing lightening off mountain peaks, and coloring a sky to signal a war zone of hail about to let loss, bombing ice cold pellets. But you were wrong simply because of Smurf blue bagginess, the one item that always gets a laugh and then envy on these type of trips. Rain pant they are, and never happier to see them burried in the bag cradleing my material life. 

Your harsh welcome made colors come to life, unbleached by the blistering mountain rays. Porcelain speckled rocks jetting from valleys and cliffs, and scrappy trees hung for life between slated meteor sized geological formations. Your trails, the veins that guide mammals through your core, attract the most interesting of sorts. Meeting an Italian and German, two young girls laced in worn boots, we shared tales of a similar journey to Canada. They, by foot, were hiking the PCT, 2500 miles, 6 months north from Mexico to Canada, and I stood there stunned in awe. As if suddenly, 2500 miles in a mere 6 weeks on 75lb bikes northbound was a luxury ride in the park. Taking the pampered life of fresh milk in tea everyday over too many clif bars and raisins, I was content to be traveling via bicycle. 

Ralph had spent most the day atop the compacted down fluffy mummy home. Strapped to the top, his legs dangled in the breeze and large mascot body and bright red nose drew a lot of attention. Entertaining himself beneath the giant trees, he spent the morning in glee, getting friendly waves and directing air conditioned buggies safely around us. But summer turned to winter, and hibernation called him into Mrs. White, his friendly dry pannier. Down the Sierras we flew, breaking 50mph speed limits, drenched in mountain fresh droplets, the day spent going up was well worth the 10 minutes going down to camp. 

The five of us lay pooped under birch and pines sprinkled with purple wild flowers and a soothing river. After pitching tent, the only energy left was enough to muster up our departing gift of homemade bread, thanks William, veggies, and grey poupon sandwiches. We were far from bear proof anything, but too tired to care, as Ralph assured us he was well rested for a watch dog evening. As water drips in spuratic moments all that is left is to carefully pack away the vivid scenic beauty into the depths of lasting memories and fall fast asleep.