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.


Friday, July 18, 2014

Day 4. Truckee to Frenchman Lake.

Miles: 81
Elevation gain: too dilerious to know
Temperate. 104 degrees 

It is priceless. No matter how rigid a budget, the one unresistable luxury comes in the form of morning early grey tea, doused with almond milk and honey, or roasted bean infused water lightened with cream and sprinkled with brown sugar. The warm awakening could be sipped for hours, bicycles waiting patiently outside. Seeking the busy flow of sleepy dawn beings brings an excitement to the day and curiosity amoungst caffeinated addicts. 

We've adopted street lingo, road names that tear any night hungry creature to shreds. Freddy and Betty, the 80s duo speak in Brisitsh accents to pass the time, anchoring drifting minds, meticulously spewing words in correct pronunciation from chapped lips.

It was hot...too hot. 104 degrees to be exact and like chopped onions we sautéed in a pan of singing butter. The California desert sucked consciousness from the important crannies of the brain, sun bleached arm hair contracted swarthy skin, and dehydration overheats refrigerators to the point of nausea. We passed through towns with populations of 120, and entire houses for rent at $345. 

Home was found, next to a creek, off a deserted state road leading to a mysterious Lake. Exhauation overcame and urge to fight Mosquitos who petulantly chipped away at precious salty skin. Bodies cooling in the shallow coolness of the river, the sky black beneath the sunny trees.  Thunder began to crackled through rustling trees in the distance, then rain drummed at the walls of our tent, and lightening was counted in Mississippis nearing the core. 

Famous 1960 cambells tomato soup and fresh bread had been carefully selected at the last stop in town. But the biting blood thristy insects and cool afternoon rain showered canned us into our mesh home with a loaf of sourdough, bottle of cheap Chardonnay, and Henry, the favorite honey bear. Recollecting the day, Ralph was pinched by barbwire, water was rationed down to the last drop, and naps washed over us under Aspen trees. From the help of locals, somehow we found the only road headed over the mountain that wasn't a 4 lane channel of massive transit. Grappling with the notion that tomorrow's wake up climb would include no warm beverages until noon, a long dirt road and mountain pass awaited unstretched muscles.