Blog

“It’s my van life!” - Here and Awake

Thu, 1 Dec 2011 21:19:27 -0800

Hiking the Lost Coast, CA
The clouds bloom from under the lowering orange sun like a stampede of blue mushroom tops summersaulting over each other to reach land. I perked up on a ledge with faith in weather that it will not rain tonight, and the mushroom clouds will keep looming on the horizon fulfilling their never ending quest of land. I decided to camp under the stars, sheltered on the cliffs above the Lost Coasts Black Sand Beach. Leaving the overnight parking lot at dawn with my handkerchief stuffed in one pocket, a watch worn on a belt loop, a big floppy green knit hat, dorky zip off hiking pants, a overstuffed small backpack held together by a carabiner, and my glasses with shinny arm bling; of course a group of interesting fellas walk up and start asking me questions. Playfully, I told them I could chat all night, but I am already an hour later then planned and with the light disappearing, I bid them ado.
That first night I made a dinner of tinctures, echinacea, red clover, dandelion root, grapefruit seed oil (ewky), St. John’s wort, in a first step to cleanse my body. I packed the wooden flute I bought four years ago in New Zealand, to get inspired musically. Yankee Doodle, being the only melody, lame. After my musically challenged attempts, I tripped out that bears were spying on me, I swear it was the tincture concoction.
The next morning my $50 mid-rated sleeping bag was soaked with the ocean mist, those mushroom clouds must have make their way to land. I pack up, moisture and all. Bundled up in nearly all my layers, I hiked down Black Sand Beach. Round and oval black rocks of all sizes layered the beach, looking like a zen garden with displaced larger rocks on the smaller. I saw neighbors, a couple with a surf board strapped to ones back. Not being a surfer myself, I thought it would be to late in the season for being in the ocean. The beach I aimed for loomed in the distance seeming closer then it took to walk. My knee started pounding after not being taken for a walk recently and the sinking steps of walking on sand or the moving of larger stones under my clunky hiking boots didn’t help.
Hours later I made it to Rattlesnake Ridge Trail head. A beautiful hike that started by following a river, where two crossings involved the removal of hiking boots and I slightly panicked after the second crossing due to trail lossage. 86 switchbacks is what the park ranger told me, from sea level to slightly over 4,000ft. Cleansing and first muscle usage in a while made for a slow daunting hull up the steep hill. The sun hitting thin aspen trees with their changing leaves dancing with the wind. Once on the ridge I found a camp, aka a big enough spot on the side of the trail to set up a tent. By now the winter winds found me and tried to blow me off this mountain, with a tent I slept soundly.
The next day I had hoped to be a lot further. Day dreaming of whether I ought to treat myself to a hotel and have the longest bath in the world, waxing and face mask included. However, I was miles away from that day dream and the more I walked, I realized it’s not what I would do anyway. I summited King Mountain, and traversed the east side of the ridge. The eastward wind must have done something bad to her sister the westward wind because they were having it out something fierce and I hiked in the center. The King Crest Trail eventually turns into an old dirt road that appears still drivable to the 4wer types.
I finally came to Buck Creek Trail head around 12:30pm and collapsed at the sign post. With a few sips of h2o and rotations of ankles, I was off down the trail. It started getting hot, the sister winds were on the east side and now I on the west, but stubbornness is a funny thing cause I know when I am doing it but I like the game, and I refused to stop and take my long underwear off and fleece sweater. When the sweat burned my eyes I stopped and striped to the appropriate attire, and peed at the side of the trail. This is when I realized that I have not seen a single person up here. Perhaps most would get a nervous feeling in their gut and maybe I did, but it thrilled me to be “away”, and I skipped down the trail (I am lying, with a soar knee, backpack, down hill, and the only one out here if I fell, no skipping).
With in no time I was back at the beach and of course during high tide. I dramatically dropped my pack off my shoulder and laid flat on a drift tree (like driftwood but a whole tree). I listened to the wind and smiled, I saw a bird and followed, I smelled the oceans mystery, and I tasted my dried mouth then stood to get water. While fetching h2o, I notice that high tide or not I could pass at least a little further down the coast. Off I went and made it fine. Staggering is the perfect word for the last hour of my hike. The sun vanished over the horizon as she must, and only lingered the essence of her warmth in the lasting orange line above the oceans cool breeze (see last photo).
aLeXaNdRa LoVeLl

Travel Archive - Burning Man

Mon, 7 Nov 2011 07:54:28 -0800

Crazy is a common word used to describe my riding a bike to Burning Man. But I have been reassured that it is crazy in the sense of persistent, brave, honorable, strong,tenacious, yet still a bit quirky.
Six AM on August 20, Jillian, Andres, and I headed up the 4,200 foot grade from Bishop to Mammoth lakes, CA. It was a hard push for the first day of my seven day bike tour, but energy was high. The first stop was “Pie in the Sky” at Rock Creek Lodge as a treat, for it was my 30th Birthday.
Once in Mammoth Lakes, we had a lovely dinner with a few close friends, and a long soak in the hot springs afterward.
The next day Jillian and I said our goodbyes to Andres, and continued day two with just us girls. We decided to link the Mammoth Lakes scenic loop with the June Lake loop. This was my favorite ride of the entire tour; beautiful the whole way, not too much highway time, and not to hot. I highly suggest linking these two byways. Live music was playing at the Mobile Mart curtsy of “The Whoa Nellie Deli”. A nice way to celebrate before I headed up the rest of the way alone, while Jillian toured Hwy 120 to Hwy 6 back to Bishop.
Lee Vining to Bridgeport, though only 25 miles, is a daunting pursuit that took me nearly 6 hours. My bike must have weighed 90 lbs with all my stuff, and with a two mile grade that took three hours alone, plus arriving in Bridgeport I had to push my bike up a mile long dirt road
to Travertine Hot Spring, because the ground was loose and my tires would not grip. I was exhausted, and getting eaten by mosquitoes. I randomly ran into my friend Diane and just as she left yet before loneliness set in, a huge silver bus showed up with piles of wood stacked on top. An obvious stigma of Burners. I must have made quite the impression, I come jogging up with my jacket inside-out like a crazy woman (my jacket was black and it was hot and I needed a long sleeve for the mosquitoes and because I am ridiculous I totally forgot that I looked like that) but the three men warmed up to me nicely and we soaked in the springs for a while.
Day four I headed to Nevada. Pardon the summery, but for now I have not much to tell of riding 110 miles in the hot desert alone with the burning sun and my mp3 player running low. One thing I found about riding alone is you just keep going cause there is not much to do. What I thought would take three days or more took only two.
Day six in the AM I arrive at the “store” in Nixon, NV. Burning Man did not start for another four days and I was only 75 miles away. Talking to some local Paiutes, I decided to go to Pyramid Lake and take the day off riding. The Paiutes were impressed with my persistence, and I was impressed by their love of Burning Man (keeping in mind no one I talked to enjoys the amount of people that attend and most would muse on at least 1/3 less people). They asked, “Where do you camp?” I responded, “you ever get the thought that someone may be sleeping behind a sage brush? Well that is me.”
Pyramid Lake smelled so bad. I asked a local about the stench and he explained that this time of year the new planet life is growing and pushing all the settlement up and the wind blows it south of the lake. I hung out at the stinky lake all day, alone, singing as load as I could, walking in circles, reading, did some laundry, and slept in an awkward little spot. There were some interesting formations, and a beautiful sunset.
Day seven, I woke up brushing the spider webs off me, freaking out a bit at the size of these brown insects. Today was the hardest day of my tour. The sun shone without any cloud coverage and radiated 95 degree heat. I kept telling myself to keep going until shade, before I rested or ate. Needless to say I found no sage bush big enough on this lonely road to provide shade. Then my persistence turned to stubbornness when my back wheel lost three spokes causing it to rub on the frame of the bike, and my thighs developed sun blisters. For the last 20 miles into Empire, I pedaled twice as much for half the distance, because I did not want to stop without shade (62 miles later).
When I arrived in Empire (17 miles to Burning Man), I found refuge in the first place I saw, the pulled pork venders. After basking in their shade, I moved my bike to under a tree and attempted to work my tire straight. The pulled pork venders gave me a meal. The real food melted in
my mouth and the salt helped me recover. Once my bike was trued and belly full, I volunteered myself to work in order to camp in Empire.
I jumped in a camper and joined the Glen Show. Glen is a
lighting vendor for festivals, his energy was all over the
place, which help us stay up until 10 am the next day due to a
6 hr massacre of Reno’s Walmart. I slept on the way back to
my bike in Empire.
Day eight, a fellow bike tourer pedaled up, bought me a beer and motivated me to ride into Burning Man early, because they must look the other way for two Bike tourers.
So after riding the extra 17 miles, the gatekeepers pulled a power play - emos vs. athletes - and didn’t let us in. We pedaled back to Gerlach for the night.
Day nine, slept in, hung out with two awesome littlegirls, sold some blinky things, accidentally left my Patagonia Nano Puff behind, and hit the road again to wait in line to enter. With permission from Reno firedepartment, we rode on the playa up to the gate. In my excitement I hit a bump and broke another two spokes in my back wheel. We jumped on the frame in order to bend it back, then continued up the playa.
This time the gate keepers let us in. We hooted and hollered as we pulled up to the welcome gate. Being a “virgin” burner I rolled in the playa sand, rang the bell, and screamed “I am no longer a Burning Man virgin.” And everyone around welcomed me home, and I immediately felt the glorious comfort of home.
aLeXaNdRa LoVeLl

Bed Time Stories - The Toad Sisters

Mon, 7 Nov 2011 07:50:30 -0800

The two sisters raised their jaw breakers in the air and smashed them together. Bits of sugar chipped off and landed on the tile floor of the campgrounds market. Every time the sisters went camping their parents give them a giant jawbreaker. The jaw breakers were bigger then their fists, yet still the licking started.
While exploring the campground, they came to an open field. The sisters looked at each other, then ran through the field. As they ran, frogs started hoping in all directions. The sisters immediately stopped.
“Don’t step on them,” Ann cried. She wrapped her jawbreaker in plastic and tucked it in her overalls front pocket. She spotted a small frog and chased it for a few steps, until it stopped hopping. Ann bent low and scooped the tiny frog up in her hands.
“I want to see.” Mae said.
With cupped hands, she brought the frog to Mae. She slowly opened her hands. The frog was tiny and a color between brown and green, as it breathed its white throat swelled and shrank. It had long strong legs for its size.
“Can I touch it?” Mae took one finger and started moving towards the frog. Ann tossed the frog on her sister’s dress. A sharp squeal came out, as she brushed it away.
“Don’t,” Mae wined and sniffed her runny nose.
“Don’t be sad, I will get another frog.” Ann put her arms around her sister.
“Okay, but I want to chose which froggy.” Mae rubbed her eyes and then smirked.
They walked around the field, ankles moist from the grass. Frogs hoped from under their feet. Ann tried to get her sister to chose a frog.
“How about this one?” Ann suggested.
“Look, a big one over there!” Ann pointed.
“That one is extra green.”
But Mae was not interested in any of the frogs they saw.
The sisters came to a small pond surrounded by grass nearly as tall as Mae. Ann pushed through the grass an looked into the edge of the pond.
“Mae, come look.” Ann said. In the pond next to mud, rocks, and underwater plants was a cluster of clear jelly balls with a dark center in each of them.
“What is it?” Mae asked.
“They’re frog eggs.” Ann said. One of the black dots inside its clear jelly ball, wiggled.
“Did you see that, it has a tail.” Mae said. One by one the black dots moved in a circle within their clear jelly balls. Mae giggled every time.
“They have little legs, this means they will hatch soon.”
“Where’s their mommy?” Mae asked.
“The mom leaves and the eggs grow in the water and turn into tadpoles. When they grow big enough they will lose their tail and hop onto land.” Ann told her younger sister.
They watched and watched. Mae grew impatient and started throwing rocks down along the pond.
“Mae, come quick. Their hatching.” Ann screamed with excitement. The black dots looked as though they were nibbling through the clear jelly eggs. They wiggled through a small crack as if their lives depended on it.
“Mae, Ann ... Where are you? ... It’s getting to be supper time.”
“Oh, it’s mom.” Ann said. The two girls emerged from the long grass surrounding the pond.
“We’re here mom,” Ann shouted.
“Ann,” Mae tugged on her older sisters blouse. “You said you’d catch me a frog.”
“Well you never picked.” Ann said, but Mae got sad. “I’ll tell you what, pick one out on the way back to camp.”
The sisters walked through the grass and tiny frogs jumped away from their feet. The closer they got to camp and further from the pond, the less frogs jumped away from their feet.
“There are not many frogs left to catch, Mae. You should pick one quick.”
Just then Mae stopped and pointed. She pointed to a cut down tree where only the stump remained. It was off the trail and in the forest.
“I want that one.” Mae stood still. From were they stood the frog on the stump looked small, but with every step Ann took, it got bigger and bigger.
The frog was huge and dark brown with no green, it had round bumps beside each eye and looked fat, like it’s never moved.
Ann got behind it and reached her hands on either side, then hesitated. Ann looked back at her sister. Mae had her arms crossed impatiently.
“Girls!” Ann heard her mom call.
Ann took her hands and simultaneously scooped them around each side of the fat lazy frog.
Ann wrinkled her face and walked fast towards her sister to show her the frog. It felt bumpy and rough, like an old leather boot chewed up by a dog.
“It’s not as slimy and more sticky.” Ann told her sister as she held the fat frog out for her to see.
Mae nearly touched it with her finger, but as she did their dad jumped behind and poked her sides.
“Boo.” Their dad said in a low voice.
“Dad, you made Ann drop the frog.” Mae sighed.
“That was not a frog.” Dad said.
They looked at each other and said, “then what was it?”
“A Toad.”
“What the difference between a frog and a toad?” Ann asked.
“Well they are both amphibians, but frogs have long back legs for jumping high and fast, and toads have shorter hind legs for walking. Also frogs live near water and need to stay wet for their smooth moist skin. While toads have a dry warty skin that surceases a poison to keep predators away.”
Ann looked at her hands and started wiping them on her overalls.
“Ann not to worry, we will wash your hands good before dinner, just don’t touch your face. The poison toads have is to taste bad to predators, frogs don’t have this they just jump and swim fast with their webbed feet.”
“Will Ann get warts now?” Mae asked her dad.
“No. That is a rumor. Toads look and feel warty, but the bumps are the parotid glands which surcease the poison. Did you know, toads and frogs don’t crew food, they catch it with a long sticky tongue and swallow insects whole. Toads can eat 1000 insects in a day.”
“The frogs eyes popped out more then the toad did.” Ann claimed, holding her hands out in front of her. They were nearly at camp.
“That is right. And one last thing, that I find interesting. Toads and frogs don’t drink water, but absorb it though their skin.”
“Come on girls, go wash up for supper.” Their mom said at the camp.
“Especially, Ann.” Mae said, and they both giggled.

aLeXaNdRa LoVeLl

Short Story - The Cat Lady

Mon, 7 Nov 2011 07:48:09 -0800

“Joanne Cathleen Morone,” the tow truck driver called from the highway side of the 1994 Ford Econoline van, he kicked orange leaves on the ground while waiting.
“Joe’s fine,” a smoky voice informed. Joanne escorted herself around her van with one hand steadying on the hood, the other stained hand took a drag of cigarette missing her pink painted lips the first time. Straightening out her half untucked salmon blouse and faded rib-high jeans, she walked toward the tow truck driver with a sweet smile, but stopped too close then stumbled back.
“You a’right Mrs. Joe,” he could smell a mixture of aromas on her, mostly cat hair. “Did you call for a tow?” He said, watching the light drop over the high desert plains behind her backcombed flaxen hair.
“Mrs.!” Joanne snorted, then instantly turned nearly sticking her cigarette in the tow truck driver’s eye. “I just can’t seem to keep thing piece of junk on the road.” Her arms came down when she noticed he backed away tripping over one of her cats.
“Snowshine,” Joanne picked up the cat who lay content in her blue vain arms. “Here are the keys.” Joanne dangled the keys in his face, he slowly reached for them, but she pulled them away with a grin and tossed them his way. The tow truck driver shock his head and opened the driver side door.
“Rrrrrmeow!”
“Shit!” The tow truck driver jumped against the side of the van, sliding away from the open door. The smell brought tears to his eyes, he went to block his nose or eyes from the stinging ammonia and urine, but his hand was covered with silky yellow goo. He looked up at Joanne, who was checking out the tow truck and getting lipstick all over the cat in her arms.
“Oh, the local kids egg my van, I stopped cleaning it off ‘cause the next day there’s always more.” He had a look of horror. “Umm,” she said sobering up, “I’ll grab you a cloth.” The cat leapt out of her arms and followed her to the other side of the van.
“Beep - George ya’there,” the tow truck driver whispered into the radio.
“Beep - Ya’done the van tow?”
“Beep - Na’man I don’t get paid enough for this shit. The whole street smells like cat piss and my hands got egg on it, this lady’s crazy all flirting like she’s not 40 years older then me, cats crawling everywhere seriously there’s 15 or more in her van and she lives in it parked for the truck drivers, it’s all nasty.”
“Beep - Just get the job done and outta there, let the mechanics worry about her.”
“Beep - Na’man I can’t, I’m allergic to cats, I couldn’t drive this van onto the tuck if my life depended on it.”
Joanne emerged from the corner with a navy blue sweater three times her thin body, a flask, and a towel.
“I sprayed anti-bacterial freshener on the towel, I heard your allergic.” Joanne’s green eyes softened and she suddenly looked twenty year younger, he took the towel.
“Beep - We’re gonna sent Scotty, hold on there.”
“You want a sip,” she rocked the flask back and forth gazing at it.
“Nahw! You got a cat engraved on it.”
Her eyes shone, but more from holding back years of tears. “One of my clients gave it to me, he was determent to call me Cat.”
“Well that’s nice of him!”
“Naw, he thought I was a crazy drunk cat lady, he just wanted free business.” She drank from the flask like water.
“Whats your business?” He asked out of causal conversation but it hit him too late. Joanne stood up and staggered a bit, gave the tow truck driver look of deprivation. She walked across the street without looking, a car in the other lane honked.
“Mrs. Joanne!”
Joanne threw the cat flask at the semi-truck. A car stopped at the side of the road, followed by a police cruiser. The officer, the tow truck driver, Scotty and Joanne all watched as the flask went right through the driver side window.
“Crunch!”
Joanne, still in the middle of the street, fell to her knees. Everyone looked at each other, the officer walked toward her and tried to ease her off the road.
“No, no, no,” she slapped the cement with both hands mimicking a preyer ritual.
The tow truck driver coaxed her off the road and they stood beside her van while Scotty, dressed in a rain poncho and white medical mask over his nose and mouth, drove the van onto the tow truck.
The officer was on the radio with the animal shelter.
Joanne and the tow truck driver sat in the gravel at the side of the road. The leaves were few, but all red, orange, and yellow, Joanne was spinning one between her fingers.
“The kids, the ones that egg my van, I think they cut the wires underneath.” She reached into her giant sweater and pulled out a piece of paper with something rolled-up in it, then handed it to the tow truck driver, her had was cold, soft, and smoke stained. He unrolled the paper, a pair of wire cutters, the note read: Whore.

By Alexandra Lovell

“It’s my van life!” - Whale Beach

Wed, 28 Sep 2011 13:13:07 -0700

I finally left the hustle and bustle (oh I forgot how much I dislike that clique, I will try again). I greatly enjoyed visiting loved ones in all their cities, but glad to be on my own schedule. However, my schedule turns out to be slower then when Jillian and I traveled down the coast on bicycles!
The coast is so beautiful and I missed the ocean more then I thought when living in the mountains (lets not forget I was born on an island). So it has taking me 48 hours to drive from Santa Cruz to Half Moon Bay. Love it! At a later time I will (blog) about my daily happenings, but for now I want to talk about love, and not philosophically either.
I sat writing in my journal overlooking a sandy beach, waves crashing, blue sky; you got the picture. After a few amazing conversations, including a generous motorcyclist with beautiful eyes, whom left me $20 (I know right), I walked to the beach and did a session of yoga. I am learning yogic meditation mantra chants - ong namo guru dev namo, hey I actually remembered.
This guy was meandering the beach, and perhaps it was my interconnectedness with universal energies or my want of random conversations, but I felt I ought to talk to him. I took my time walking back to my van, dipping feet in ocean, visiting the rocks, and bumping into a seal, before I walked up the path.
As I pasted this guy on the trail, I said, “did you see that seal?” (lame) He said, “no, but this is a hard place to leave.” (perfect) Which made me think about how I saw the sign “beach access”, and was compelled to stop, missed the turn off, turned around, and upon arrival I sat on bench overlook to write, and said aloud to myself, “I am the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.”
Back at the parking lot, I made an offering to this guy, an organic pair gifted to me by Rachel, in exchange for a brief conversation. Aguacate, my new nick name for this young man, was an amazing and beautiful person.
I guess my point in this blog is a confession - I love, falling in love with strangers. I don’t mean “oh he’s cute and smart and all” I mean an instant click when meeting someone else who gets it, who vibes with you. Even if I never see or hear from Aguacate ever again or any other loves of my life that lated merely hours; because I would never trade those hours. In fact I wish to (and I might already) fall in love every day. I hope the same for all of you.

Sasha Lovell

“It’s my van life!” - Moon Goddess’ Sleepover

Fri, 9 Sep 2011 10:06:58 -0700

(August 16-17, 2011)
I had this romantic idea of climbing the moon goddess arete of Temple Craig with a group of east side mountain ladies on a full moon. Due to lack of excitement, my taking on too many projects, and the dynamic plan changes of climbers, the trip was narrowed down to Jillian and I.
I remained exhilarated to climb a mountain with my best friend. So we gathered our gear, waited until I got off work at 7pm, and drove down to Big Pine. That night we cooked a dinner, organized or gear, and decided to set the alarm an hour later for 4 hours of sleep.
It was a beautiful Sierra sunrise, however we should have been miles closer to the base of the climb. With positive attitudes and faith in our skill, we hiked the trail at a good pace for the weighted packs. When we reached the steep snowy ice bank, we smirked because most being an axe to assist, and we didn’t need one. With all smiles and 11AM slowly approaching, we started the route.
We cruised. Simul climbing for the first five pitches made for smooth climbing and spirits were high. With six out of fourteen pitches done and six hour of sun left. We were confident and proud of our mission. I lead a hairy exposed 5.7 with ease and we munched on nuts and Probars before Jillian lead up the 5.8.
I was getting cold and pitch nine had been going on for an hour. When I climbed to join Jillian on the next ledge, she looked concerned.
“I don’t quite know where I should be.” She shouted before I got all the way to her perch. I looked around and in my opinion it all looked sketchy and loose and not the class 3 ledges that we were looking for. We switched belays and Jillian looked around with no luck and now two hours of sun left.

The route Hairy 5.7

Our camp

We decided to leave a nut and repel down to the “escape gully” to check it out. However the sun dropped faster then expected and the gully looked steeper then the climb with added loose rock. A scary dark abyss of rope tangling, rock dropping, invisible repel stations, and leaving gear behind. We were both tired and a bit frustrated with ourselves. On the plus side the weather was decent and if we got to cold we could walk up the gully and descend from the top.
Jillian and I found a tiny ledge that blocked rock fall and wind (for the most part) and rested for the night. We decided that if we got to cold or motivated to continue, we would move, however it was much safer to not mess around in the unknown dark.
The sun came. When it warmed us enough, we peeled the emergency
blanket off and immediately saw two climbers on moon goddess arete.
I shouted across the canyon, “It was a lovely night for a slumber party.”
And they shouted back, “did you two have a pillow fight?”
To make a long story short we repelled and hiked out safe and sound
promising to always allow for more time, to look at more photos of the
route, and a few other tips. Although the epic, we were prepared, played it
safe, and keep great spirits.
Sasha Lovell

Travel Archive - Backpacking in Sanuk’s

Fri, 9 Sep 2011 09:59:02 -0700

July 26-27, 2011

Last year friends of mine showed me an alpine lake that blew me away.
High in elevation, rarely visited, tons of fish, surrounded by greenery,
and a dozen other features.
On July 26, Andres and I parked at Convict Lake and headed toward
Lake Dorothy, to camp overnight and fish. People had warned us about the raging river and the dangerous crossing, but like most warnings, I waved it off, “for I am a mighty mountain woman, right?”
At the other side of Convict Lake, wary hikers warned us that the bridge had washed away. After they pass, I whispered to Andres, “the bridge had washed away years ago.”
Now I know I am building up this river crossing, but take heed that it was no big deal. Nothing like, say, forging chest deep, alone, through a 30 foot wide river in New Zealand.
As imagined, the rocks used last year to hop gracefully across were now the cause of white rapids. I took my boots off, while Andres tiptoes across the river in his FiveFingers. It was suggested that I toss my boot across to him, however there is a reason I climb and hike, rather than play other sports that involve throwing or kicking balls around. I managed to gently toss my boots into the river. Luckily, they landed next to Andres so he fished them out. As I crossed, my feet froze and I cut my knee, but I made it fine.
My boots were soaked. Fortunately, I brought my Sanuk’s. I slipped them on and tied my hiking boots on my backpack to dry. We headed up the trail another five miles with 40 lb. packs, no boots, and no socks!
Lake Dorothy is the main feature of one of the most beautiful meadows in the High Sierra Nevada Mountains. The meadow stretches for miles with spring flowers lasting well into the summer and yellow aspens in autumn.
After goofing around the meadow, we hiked up in the sand on a faint trail. One reason I love this hike is the drastic changes in scenery; canyons to valleys, valleys to dry rock, dry rock to meadow, meadow to aspens, aspens to a marble ditch, marble ditch to destination. In this case the destination is the most spectacular fishing lake.
Before setting up camp, I dump the contents of my backpack on the ground, grab my Fisher-price quality rod, and other gadgets, and stand at the side of the lake determined to catch something for dinner. Then it hit me. I just hiked up with a 40 lb. pack on sharp rocks with no socks and wearing Sanuk’s, yet my feet were happier then ever.
Just as this thought leaves my unwinding mind, I catch a fish. About time, I had already lost a fish by unhooking it over the lake and it shimmied out of my hands. I reeled the second fish in slowly, as I walked to my staged head-whacking rocks, the though still welds my stomach shut. As the fish gets closer to the shore, I notice it wiggling side ways. Did I catch the most inadequate fish in the lake? Hanging right over the water at the end of my line was a nice sized alpine lake trout, hooked by it’s belly.
I know what you are thinking, I am the best fisher woman ever, right - or the luckiest? This fish must have pitted me. My quickly rigged lure had loose fishing line ends that most likely poked fish in the eye as I reeled the lure in. The poor guy, swimming along saw the lure and said, “she
thinks she’ll catch us with that lopsided hair ball of a lure!” And as he was laughing, poke, hook in the belly.
Andres and I had a fish each that evening, fried a few up with a
bunch of bacon and vegetables.
The next morning, I put my dry hiking boots on, even though the day
before they gave me a heel blister, which filled with a mysterious
liquid I hacked loose with my knife. We started down the trail.
After crossing back over the river, I decided to try out my Sanuk’s the last four miles of down hill. Despite the sharp rocks on the trail, my leaking heal blister, the heavy backpack, and downward slope of a sandy trail, my feet felt great. Better then my hiking boots.
It got me thinking about this “support” I talk about with customers all the years I’ve worked retail selling shoes, and this new barefoot-running movement. But that is a whole other article. My conclusion is; if I keep hiking in Sanuk’s, I am going to need another pair.
Sasha Lovell

Bed Tome Stories - Under the Sea

Fri, 9 Sep 2011 09:56:24 -0700

*I wrote this in grade 6, my mind wondered even then (written in 1991). It hasn’t been edited*

Long ago when the earth was cracking , in a little town a young girl named Euphemia was rushing the chickens into their coupe. It was another earth quake. Euphemia was only five. Her mothers name was Lis and fathers name was Leo.
Lis cried, “Euphemia, come inside, hurry up!”
As Euphemia ran, a big crack split right in front of her. She looked down and saw water.
“Mom!” Euphemia cried. She ran the other direction. Euphemia tripped over a rock and fell in a different crack. The last thing Lis said to her was, “I love you, do not forget.”
Suddenly the water was gone from the crack, and huge pillows filled it up. Down Euphemia fell. Lightly she fell on the pillows. Then the pillows disappeared and a whole bunch of tunnels were all around her. While the puzzled five year old was choosing which tunnel to go in, the earth quake finally stopped.
Lis and Leo were looking in the crack that Euphemia fell into, but all they saw was water, there was no ground.
Euphemia looked up and saw them. She cried, “Mommy, Daddy!” at the top of her lungs. As she cried, she said, “they can’t hear me.” She kneeled to think.
A moment later, she jumped up and exclaimed, “I got it, I got it! I’ll go in one tunnel and come back out the other side.” Euphemia chose the pretty tunnel to go through first. So she went. Half way in, she saw a light right in front of her and she ran.
At the end of the tunnel she shouted, “I’m free, I’m free.”
Just then a wicked voice screeched from behind a bush and said, “No you’re not!” The little creature was a Troll. Euphemia blinked, she did not believe her eyes. She ran back through the tunnel she came from. The Troll was too quick and put a gate up in her way, and laughed, “I got you now!”
She screamed. The high pitch made the bars crack and she ran away.
When she got to the other side, she went into a different tunnel, the ugly tunnel. On the way she felt something magical all around her. When she got through the pretty tunnel, she saw a Unicorn eating leaves off the trees. In a glass shining lake, there was two Mermaids. Euphemia asked the Unicorn, “Where are my mom and dad?”
“Over the hillside at the end of the rainbow,” replied the Unicorn.
She said goodbye to the Unicorn and Mermaids, and walked over the hillside and past the rainbow.
Euphemia looked around, she saw he mother. “Mommy, Daddy!” called out Euphemia.
Lis and Leo said, “Honey, where were you?”
“I do not know exactly,” she said. They all hugged and went home, where they lived happily ever after.

The End
By ten year old me Alexandra Ann Riddell

Poem - “Ekphrasis”

Fri, 9 Sep 2011 09:54:28 -0700

Intertwining; penetration
of senses oozing into
ears, words, eyes
the accruing of this love we call life;
always searching for
that connection,
that meaning;
knowledge of us, our world
my heart full of vehemence
and I scream; giggling
to see us all share,
come together; our
eyes, words, ears
gushing from our hearts onto us;
the artists,
the ingenuous,
knowing us and entwining
together,
as one,
art.

extrapolated by me
on October 07, 2006
Alexandra Riddell

“It’s my van life!” - Off to see the Man Burn

Fri, 19 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0700

Wish me luck! I am hitting the road with the faded tires of my 1970’s Schwinn Crossfit 10 speed bike. Thanks to Joel, my bike has been dismantled and re-mantled in time for my departure. I learned some things too - A truing tool in really a spoke wrench and the gear plate is really a freewheel.
The plan. Andres, Jillian, and I will ride our bikes to Mammoth Lakes, CA from Bishop, CA, stoping at “Pie in the Sky” for my birthday pie. I turn 30, and all I want to do is meet a few friends for food then bivy at the hot springs, because the next morning Jillian and I will ride our bikes to Lee Vining, CA. Conveniently, there is music playing at the Mobile Mart. Monday we head to Bridgeport, CA, and the hard bit is done. Jillian will sadly leave me to bike the rest of the way to Burning Man alone.
I wont bore you with the details of my riding alone through Nevada deserts and farmland in scorching August heat. But I should arrive at the gates of Burning Man August 28, ready to volunteer as a greeter, if they’ll have me.
I hope to come back from Burning Man with tones of stories and photos (perhaps even audio and video). I will post and share. I hope to have sore legs from dancing and bike touring. I hope to meet tones of amazing people.
So until my return on September 6th, I will not be posting any new writing to my website, I will not be getting any voicemails, and I will not be emailing, msging, skypeing, or facebooking.

Good bye, off to an adventure,
Alexandra