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.


Saturday, July 19, 2014

Day 6. Off the Grid

Miles: 117
Elevation gain: gradual up, flat, tilt downwards, gravity worked in our favor and the headwind wrestled him like a brother. Something like 4000ft. 
Temperature: high 102

Transported into a horror film, susanville was too eerie of a town. Crannied at the base of the majestic Lassen Sierras, the streets breathed a drug riddled disparity as the thunderstorm loomed in the distance. Nightmares haunted the comforts of a bed and Stan's face became the unfortgettable unease that settled in the parklots until dawn. 

Beside a row of fast food joints and $5.99 steak houses, the one birthday wish stood green and bold on our way out of town. Starbucks, the most homey joint in this town, stocked full of earl grey tea, real fake milk, and bees vomit. It was paradise at 7am and before I could pronounce seeped dried black leaves, a vanilla triple shot soy latte was placed in tan hands, a mistake by the kid in a green apron. Espresso is consumed on my watch about 5 times a year, and metabolizing 3 shots either erupts a panic attack or murders a 100 mile day. Althought nothing compares to a fresh roasted bean from our hometown, O'Reilly savored his joe, knowing the enjoyment would be many days away. We want out of California by Sunday and the map was scattered with pinpoints of tiny ghostlike towns. 

And that was exactly what we found. Abandoned shacks, rows of rusted orange 1920's trucks and forelorned cement mixers. Boarded planks sealed broken cafe windows with old time horse tie-ups. Signs leaving this town showed their green faces and we flew up the 395 fabling folklores about the bastard offsprings of periwinkle beasts.

Unaware that California has segments of complete desolation without water, service, or human interaction for stretches of 80 miles, the provocative musk of distant forest fires lured us onward. 

I've officially lost my privledges to talk to strangers. With nothing to stop for but shackled ransomed gas stations, we delicately fondled ancient antiques like kids in a dusty attic. Zooming up, a dirty, wifebeater colored Pontiac, smoking from oil dehydration, suddenly killed our time warped buzz. Naively wanting to help, life quickly teaches that not everyone is a friend. He sat there, watching us with comatosed heroin eyes and nodding silently when we asked if help was needed. A red and drunken zombie's face starred callously and in the moments of silence, nothing but the words "get the hell out" ran like a sprint through minds, and out we got. If I had ever thought of doing this alone, I would be a proud owner of a sawed off shotgun by the time the California boarder approached ready to exhausted ammunition and annihilate creepy old men and bears. 

The miles flaked off in dosed increments. And so, hour long siestas relieved imploded muscles in mid afternoon heat. Somehow Alturas, the only functional town within a century was a looming mirage to a birthday finale. And that beer tasted "so fucking good!"

Suburban camping on a birthday night on a cycling trek to Canada gave us amnesty in a local park against miscreants and the boys in blue. This early settler of a pilgrimage town full of 1800 pioneering vehicles and in darkness something about sleeping in the bed of a wagon thrilled dreary bikes. It was a glorious end to an all too epic day. 

Tomorrow morning high noon, a new state!