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.


Thursday, January 1, 2015

2015

The little treehouse studio apartment, nestled upon a Berkeley hilled named after its view, Panoramic Way, is now gleed owners of the newest additions to the "posse". Nuptunia, stamped with a Marmot seal of approval, reads 'limit -15 degrees F.' She is a sleeping bag colored the freshest orange egg yoke and warm enough to keep an human's delicate flesh from fading to a blue tint. And after a few test runs in mountain snow, she holds the furry down that is the ticket to warm nights in white uninhabited places. And then there is a compass, gifted from the baking New England mommy, Ms. O'Reilly, who sent Ralph this new magical toy along with a gallon of the sweetest tree blood known to man, maple syrup. Finally, something, aside from maple glazed carrots and sugar filled veins, got that red nosed deer out of bed.

You see, Ralph has spent the past days waking only for carrots and to trace across the apartment to new nap spots. There are a few midnight moments where he is found on the dramp and chilled rickety porch convinced California winter is like a summer get-away on a Hawaiian beach. Having just returned from the busy season at the North Pole, he tells me traveling via a magical sleigh, around the world in a single night, dancing on rooftops and delivering childhood dreams of material manufacturing, is quite exhausting. Must be like riding 3000 miles over two mountain ranges with a 4lb reindeer strapped to a rack of gear. But Ms. O'Reilly's new toy, the magical compass that points north, enthralled his 20 year old bones and exhaustion ceased for a moment. The idea that a plastic circular device was dropped on our doorstep and points directly to his home at the north pole, where his great master Santa inhabits, was a sign. And he, like the millions convinced that pages of a "sacred" book tell the truth of a man who walked on water, he too is now convinced the plastic hands that point north are a calling.

So I told him there is a trail in the mountains and it leads directly north. I didn't break the news that we aren't moving to the North Pole. But once the snow melts, since the humans who supply his carrot necessities are unwilling to accept the idea that icy mountains are a Hawaiian Vacation, together, our crew can hit that trailhead this summer. Starting just east of our over populated hippy town, we can trek north for weeks on large sections of a very famous Pacific trail. Convincing him of the delights: we would dodge all cars and the scenery could fill a memoir in memories, or at least a blog of spelling errors. Our chief editor would have to be lured along, and mama Joad, and there would be no crazy people obsessed with their cellular devices or in a hurry to get from point A to B. It may require a few nights of rehydrated chili and a wild and crazy mountain party with the beavers, but would also entail a loaded supply of carrot cake Clif Bars secured in a very bulky and heavy, unexciting, but trusty bear canister.

It was an easy sell. And that was that.