If I were to head south from Eureka to Meyer’s Flat, I could then exit 101 and begin my adventure. Avenue of the Giants south to Elk Creek Road east to Dyerville Loop Road South to Alder Point Road west was obviously the way to get to Garberville, and thus 101 South, without a five hour detour. My research indicated that some portion of Dyerville Loop Road was unpaved, but that it was frequently ridden by people on touring and road bicycles, so I decided it was probably okay for my Pontiac Grand Prix, as well.

In fact, Dyerville Loop Road had about twenty miles of unpaved surface, mostly well maintained. There were a few sections that the inexperienced dirt driver might find challenging, but as long as one keeps his eyes up and his speed down, the rough stuff is negotiable. I got through without damaging my vehicle, and found the startled stares of the ridge line ranchers to be quite amusing. I can’t wait for the next mudslide!

Here are some photos from the trip. Here, north and south are not geomagnetic references, but rather indications of my general direction on the route map. In other words, I might say “I’m looking south”, but actually be facing east. The point is that continuing in the direction indicated would eventually bring me to my southerly goal, Alder Point Road:

5 MILES EAST OF ELK CREEK ROAD, LOOKING SOUTH

LOOKING SOUTH AGAIN; A RANCH TRUCK IS ABOUT TO COME AROUND THE CORNER, FAST

LOOKING NORTH FROM THE SAME SPOT, PRE-RANCH TRUCK

LOOKING NORTH; SNOW, SKY, TREES

SERIOUSLY, I WOULD NOT WANT TO BREAK DOWN HERE

ALMOST SOMEWHERE

My poor, poor car. It was not designed for such roads. Those who know me well will have some idea how I enjoyed this drive, and what it cost my car. But, hey, equipment can be replaced, right?

Finally, Alder Point Road was paved, but in such poor repair that I actually felt all four wheels leave the ground at one point as I dropped over a ledge in the fractured roadway. It’s also very steep. I think I need new brake pads.

First, the bus arrived an hour late. During my wait I had ample opportunity to speak with my fellow passengers. One spoke to me of “the Russian driver”, whom she said had left a woman behind in Willits on the same route the previous year. She told me that when a passenger had pointed out the soon to be stranded woman’s absence as the bus pulled away, the driver said only “not my problem”. When our bus finally entered the Day’s Inn parking lot in south Santa Rosa, the driver stopped to honk repeatedly at a driverless delivery van parked inconveniently. Finally, the bus pulled up to the boarding area, and the woman with whom I’d spoken earlier said “the Russian”. This was not, in my view, an auspicious start for my journey.

When the driver started checking bags and passengers, I tried to ask him where in Eureka he might be stopping, so that I could text the info to my ride in that city. I got no further than “excuse me, but could you…” when he barked the word “No!” at me. He never once looked up at me, or any other boarding passenger that I could see. The bus was crowded, as I expected, so I moved to a space near the back and settled down for the ride.

My seat was two seats in front of the bath room. The seat behind me had a trash bag on it, and the driver shortly entered the bus, came to the back, and made sure we all understood that the trash bag seat was not to be used by any person for any reason. As the bus got under way, I noticed the smell. At first I thought it might be the trash directly behind me, but as the odor intensified I investigated the situation and discovered that the door to the bath room would not close fully. A broken door latch guaranteed that I would breathe the fumes of a chemical toilet, badly in need of a fluid change, for the next four and a half hours. Normally, this would only be an inconvenience, but as I had just recovered from a cough the chemicals in the air, stirred to greater concentrations by the driver’s vigorous efforts to make up lost time on the trip north, stung my throat and lungs. When I finally arrived in Eureka my eyes were watering, and I was coughing again. I am now using a steroid inhaler prescribed by my physician to reduce the inflammation of my airway caused by these burning chemical fumes.

I might have mentioned something of this to the driver, except that I had long decided that this man had no concern for the welfare of his passengers. I’d seen him kick a man, wearing only a thin coat, off the bus in Rio Dell for the crime of falling asleep with litter in the seat next to him, and heard him shouting the question “is this yours?!” at shocked passengers while waving a partially empty water bottle in their faces (he’d found it on the floor). I saw him take a bag off of the trash seat behind me and drop it on the floor. When the bag’s owner, an elderly lady, said that it contained her medicine and that she needed it within reach, he said only “it’s right there”, and stormed off to the front of the bus to continue his assault on the highway. I looked out the window and saw him crowd another vehicle partially onto the shoulder in a corner. The man was a terror.

In short, it was the bus ride from Hell. The bus was late, the air was toxic, and the driver was a malicious tyrant. I cannot imagine the circumstances that might cause me to ever board another Greyhound bus. Fix that bus and retrain the driver. You’ll be doing yourselves a huge favor.

Earthdance is an outdoor event. Vendors and artists from all over the western United States converge on a ranch just a few miles north of Laytonville, California, where they set up shop under awnings or in billowing tents. There are multiple stages, and at almost any time one hears music and other performances all about him. It’s bewildering, in a way, but not displeasing, a sort of sonic confetti that tells the listener “you are here, you are part of this”. The music continues late into the night, and the parties never stop.

Attendees arrive in carloads, many having hitched hundreds of miles for the event. Tickets are not cheap, and many people are willing to try to take advantage of the long perimeter to sneak in for free. The Chef and I have been charged with wandering that perimeter and keeping them out.

The Chef is so called because that’s what he is, a chef. He’s run restaurants before, popular ones in distant cities with glamorous sounding names, but the economy finally drove his clientele back to their personal kitchens. So here we are, an unemployed chef and an equally unemployed physicist, wandering up a dry river bed, hoping against hope to find nobody and nothing.

We encounter, over our three days and nights of patrol, a few “volunteer” campsites, hidden in clusters of undergrowth or just over the property line. Those off property are safe from our hands, but those illegally tucked into the brush are removed, all contents stored at the security station for retrieval by the offender, should he or she care to look. We find one gate crasher sunbathing nude on a rock behind the vendor camp ground. She offers us a badly faked entry bracelet as proof of her right to be there, and we instruct her that she must go purchase a valid pass. She’s not within the event perimeter, so we can’t throw her out, but we do tell her that her bracelet is too poorly made to get her in. She laughs and says the night watch is too busy to care. We wish her a good day.

One camp seems to be far enough from the event to be a non-issue, but we call it in anyway. The voice from security command tells us it’s not a priority for us, and directs us closer to the event’s center. We comply. One individual, camped in the families area, has gotten incredibly drunk and begun threatening all around him. His situation gets messy fast, and, sadly, somebody decides to throw him to the cops. I wish him luck.

Later that night, the head of security calls us in to command, where we are given charge of two young men to be escorted off the property, something to do with thieving and fighting. We are instructed to escort them to their illegal camp, see it torn down, and walk them to the road. They mumble continually, cursing and threatening us, but the Chef, retired military, has his charge in an interesting arm lock, and mine has noticed that I understand that a good flashlight is weapon as well as a light source, so all we get is noise.

The camp site turns out to be the one we called in that wasn’t a priority. It also turns out to be light enough for the two crashers to move together. Walking the two burdened youth back toward the road, I relax my grip on my Maglite. They’re carting too much to carry out their earlier threats of violence against the Chef and I, though if they dump their goods and run… no, I can see that they’re tired. Noisy as they might be, the fight’s gone out of them for the time being. I’ll never see them again.

The decongestant and cough syrup are working now. I think I might listen to the rain and sleep. Good morning.

Every day, the wind would blow through the huge forest, across the medium sized clearing, and into the small patch of flowers, making all the flowers dance and sing.

All, that is, but one. She was the most beautiful flower of all, and every day while her sisters and brothers danced and sang in the wind, she would cry, because she believed that the wind made her less beautiful by messing up her petals.

One day, as the other flowers danced and sang in the wind, the most beautiful flower finally decided she’d had enough. “That’s it,” she cried, “I’ve had enough!” She pulled up her roots and stomped to the edge of the medium sized clearing, where she hopped over an old log. Planting her roots, she felt sure that the wind would never find her there, and she slept peacefully through the night.

The next day, the wind blew through the huge forest, across the medium sized clearing, and into the small patch of flowers, making all the flowers dance and sing. Then, the wind did what it had done every other day, which was to cross to the edge of the medium sized clearing and hop over an old log. Imagine the wind’s surprise when it found the most beautiful flower there! The wind blew her petals about, and went on its way.

The most beautiful flower was distraught. She’d gone to all the trouble of leaving her flower patch to get away from the wind, and here it had found her the very next day! She moaned. She cried. She wailed. In fact, she fussed so loudly that the noise woke an ancient mushroom near her on the old log.

“What”, asked the ancient mushroom “is all this noise about? I’m trying to sleep!”

The most beautiful flower explained her situation, stating that the wind, every day, messed up her petals, making her somewhat less beautiful, and that she’d tried to get away from it, but that that mean old wind had tracked her down and done it all over again. “Oh, where”, she finished, “could I possibly find shelter from that nasty wind?!”

The ancient mushroom pondered this question for a long while, occasionally humming or hawing, then said, “Well, I know of such a place, but I’m not sure you’d like it there.”

“You must tell me”, exclaimed the most beautiful flower, “and I will go there at once!”

“All right,” said the ancient mushroom, “but I warned you.” And he told her.

The most beautiful flower traveled through the huge forest for three days and two nights, never resting. She crossed rivers, climbed mountains, and trudged through valleys, until, finally, she reached her goal. There, exactly as the ancient mushroom had promised, was the entrance to a cave.

The most beautiful flower worked her way back to the deepest, darkest, most secret recess of the cave, and planted her roots. “Here,” she whispered into the echoing darkness, “the wind will never come.” And she was right. The wind never came to trouble her there, but neither did she see the sun, and without the sun’s sustaining light, the most beautiful flower of all withered, and died.

Moral: Beauty hidden is forever lost.

I found Jesus today. He was apparently homeless, riding a beat up old K-Mart special through a parking lot with a sign slung under one arm. The sign read “Laborer Seeking Work”, and I assumed he was into carpentry. There was a cross hanging from his neck on a leather strand. The cross seemed to be made of particle board, or maybe extra thick cardboard. He was wearing a long denim dress. There’s a song in all this, I just know it. Something tells me it’s a country song. I have an idea for a chorus:

“Jesus is a transvestite, and that’s OK with me.

“I just need to know if I should call ‘im ‘he’ or ‘she’.

“Jesus is a transvestite, he’s into women’s clothes.

“But you can take it from me, old son, that she’s still one of the bros!”

Yeehaw!

Now that I’ve thoroughly pissed off all my Christian and/or C&W friends and relatives, a change of subject is in order. I just read an article by one Ray Comfort (is that a made up name?), who is handing out revised copies of Darwin’s “On the Origin of Species” on college campuses. He ripped out three chapters, and rewrote the introduction, all in an attempt to make the book fit in better with his creationist beliefs. I recognize that the copyright is long since lapsed, but to so radically change the content of a book and present it under the original title seems like a sort of intellectual crime to me. Naturally, I commented on his post at length, but that was really just so I could sleep better at night. I don’t actually believe I’ll “reach” him in any meaningful way; he’s either an idiot or a liar, and both are difficult to reason with. For the record, I don’t deny that he has the right to his faith. But to dress it up as science demonstrates a failure to understand the scientific method. Dude, one may not teach faith in a science classroom. How’d you like it if I showed up at your church and gave a lecture on Newtonian Mechanics (with lots of asides about the failure of the Bible to adhere to physical theory)? Sort it out.

First, there was the unemployment. I worked in solar, for a contractor. Our business was closely tied to housing, and you know what that means. Thereafter, I looked for work, doing odd jobs on the side. I had a brief stint as a cable installer, but that’s not for me. The only way to make money doing that is to go way too fast. All the money makers I trained with said things like “this isn’t technically how we do it” and “don’t let anyone see you doing it this way”. They sped, tail gated, lane cut, ran stop signs, cut corners in their work, and flat out lied about work getting done. I’m not that guy, so I couldn’t compete as a cable installer. Cabbing was a joke. I’ve commented on that, so I’ll leave it alone. Suffice it to say that if I ever ride in a taxi, I’ll tip BIG. I had an “interview” for a position in insurance sales. The ad said “Get paid to present Union members with their negotiated benefits packages”. The ad lied. It was actually a sales opportunity, with a $650.00 buy in. It was to insurance as Amway is to plastic junk. That is also not me. I’m not going diamond, and I’m not a rough tough can’t get enough psycho rhino. I interviewed for a medical devices technician position, and the interviewer told me she’d call me on a given day, one way or the other. That day passed weeks ago. She won’t return my calls. I’ve heard “we’ll call you” so often that it’s what I expect every time. So now I’m going to meet with a man who matches people and jobs. I’m really not sure, anymore, who needs me to work for them, but I’ll discuss it with him.

I love my family. It’s all I have. They keep me alive, and cause me to smile. Nothing else is real. So, I stay home, cook, clean, and smile at the baby. If the world needs me, it can leave a message for me. You know where I am.

I don’t know who designs baby clothes, but it’s pretty obvious they’ve never actually clothed a baby. Wriggling, squirming, and flailing her tiny limbs, my baby resists every effort to remove or replace her clothes. I say all we really need is to wrap her in a blanket and keep her diapers changed, but no, we must keep her in age appropriate cute clothes for the rest of her life. From now on, I’m going naked in protest. Stupid fashion people…

Diapers leak. We received many packages of diapers as gifts, and we are truly grateful. Sadly, the wonderful eco-friendly diapers everyone gave us at the baby showers are about as absorbent as those brown paper towels found in park rest rooms. Sure, we could use cloth, but I’m already doing three or four loads of laundry each day, and I have to cook and clean sometime.

People have been having babies for, what, a hundred years or something? You’d think we’d have baby stuff that actually made it easier by now. I expect to hear a chorus of “design it yourself”, but dammit Jim, I’m a physicist, not a seamstress!

On the “success” side, one relative gave us a portable play pen with a bassinet conversion. I’m proud to announce that I successfully deduced the appropriate placement of all of the pieces, without a manual, and the system is now functioning at 100%. The cat has decided to leave it alone, as it was never her territory to begin with.

Finally, our baby girl actually slept for two uninterrupted three hour stretches last night, which means I am capable of forming sentences again. Hey, that means I’m a sissy!

Don’t worry, we lock the cat out of the bedroom at night.

I apply for multiple jobs weekly, and had two serious interviews in the last two weeks, but am still unemployed. I decided that I must be a consultant who has confused himself with a regular employee. In that spirit, I’ve created a company name for myself, and wrote a short blurb intended to market my talents. I’ll do a little more independent research, but would like people to read what I’ve written so far and comment on it. I am not permitted to post the “flyer” in this space, as I’m not paying, so if anyone would be willing to read what I’ve written, just contact me (or leave your contact information, if that’s a simpler process for you). Any help will be appreciated. It seems I am unhirable.

THE DREAMS

1- I’m at a party in a strange house, surrounded by people I’ve never met. A woman, plain but somehow interesting, approaches me and starts talking about tattoos. She shows me her back piece, a woman’s outline in blue with what seem to be wings or a cloud above and behind her. She holds a red flame in cupped hands. The woman tells me she looks forward to dancing around the fire while I drum. I wake to an echo, what’s left of the name “Rowena.” I later discover that Rowena is the Cornish Goddess of knowledge, whose symbol is the rowan tree. This explains the “wings.”

2- I’m at another party, this time in my childhood home. I meet an extremely attractive woman who asks me upstairs, and I immediately realize I’m dreaming, as the house I lived in was single story. Hoping I won’t wake too soon, I follow her upstairs, where she commands me to perform for her sexually. When she is done with me, she tells me that I “may go on.” I wake to the name “Anwen”, who is a servant of the Keeper of the Gates to the Underworld.

3-The next party takes place in a small cavern next to a great underground lake churning with giant, blind fish. Again drifting in a sea of strangers, I encounter an old woman who challenges me to a sparring match, light contact. We agree to fight for three touches, and then begin. She uses a dynamic, sweeping style which seems best suited to a blade. The fight is close, but my Karate prevails. She tells me that my ability is “sufficient”, then wishes me well. I wake to the name “Cerridwen”, about whom I know little.

4-This gathering takes place under an ever-changing night sky. Nothing remarkable takes place until the sky begins to lighten with morning’s approach. As the light intensifies, I notice that it has no one source; I am still under ground. The assembled beings begin to sing together, and seem sad when the final chorus is reached. I look to my right and find seated beside me a small, beautiful woman. Her skin is pale, her hair is white, and her eyes shine with every color.

“They sure loved that song,” I say.

“Yes,” she says, “but they love you better. Sing and they will sing with you.”

So I sing something, and the crowd sings with me. I wake speaking the name “Anwen.”

5-I am moving through a system of caverns, toward an exit. The door I am approaching leads out of a crypt worked into the outermost caverns. Filled with a sense of urgency, I rush toward the exit, only to find my way blocked a horizontal forest of desiccated arms flailing from recesses in the walls. I draw a sword and hack my way to the door, intending to exit. I wake as the door opens. There is no name echoing in my mind upon waking, this time, but I know they’re not finished with me.

6-Following Anwen through a series of rooms cut into the great cavern’s walls, I see many windows permitting a view of the lake. She leads me up three flights of stairs to a balcony which overlooks a crowded plaza on the lake’s nearest shore. The entities gathered below move energetically, fighting or dancing, or both at once. A hand on my left shoulder draws my attention to a figure I immediately know as Meg, who has just joined me at the balcony’s rail. She apologizes for the delay in her arrival, then says, “It was I who called you here.” Again, I hear a name on waking, this time “Meg.” I have read that Meg keeps the knowledge of herbs and healing.