But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before. -Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

The Honda's Cruise through Mojave, Joshua Tree, Salvation Mountain, and Baja Mexico

My First Motorcycle Tour

I rode the Honda 750 from Las Vegas to San Marcos, where I spent a day with Grandma, and then I rode from San Marcos through Death Valley to meet with my Dad in Furnace Creek. We spent the night at Furnace Creek, then rode the next day back into Reno along the Eastern Sierras.

The Matt-packing Trip

I arrived in Salt Lake City by bus this morning at about 5:30 AM. As soon as I left the bus I went looking for breakfast with a fully-loaded pack and Patagonia messenger bag, and found a great little place in a hotel. SLC is an absolutely gorgeous city this time of morning, but judging a city at 6:00 AM is a bit like judging a newborn baby while she's asleep. Still, this seems like an excellent place to be.

I asked the maitre d' if the restaurant had wireless internet, and she looked me up and down disapprovingly before saying that they did, but I could not stay for too long because they were very busy that morning. At first I was offended, but then I realized that my appearance closely mirrored that of a homeless person and that her reservation was at least understandable, albeit rude.

I shoved my backpack into the booth with me and got out my computer. I booted up my Rosetta Stone: Mandarin for Beginners, and started to do the Pronunciation Lesson that I couldn't do last night on the bus because it would have been too loud for the other passengers. I then realized that I was only fueling my already poor social image by staring gravely at my laptop and pronouncing the Mandarin word for "boy" one syllable at a time, often repeating the same syllable until the computer felt I had pronounced it adequately. I think it's safe to say that I am high in the running for the craziest person in this breakfast restaurant right now.

My Dad mentioned yesterday that I did not write nearly as much for this tour as I had for my previous tour, even though I had Internet access just as often. I had noticed this myself, and the reason was perfectly clear for me; touring with other people is a lot more of a social event than a solo tour, which is more introspective. On a solo tour, I was constantly fussing over technical aspect of my bicycle, constantly poring over the map, and writing much more. With other people, I was more focused on enjoying my time with friends.

Touring alone has its benefits, as does touring with others. I think that part of the reason that I tried to write so much while I was touring back in 2008 was because I constantly wished that I could share the experience I had with others: to allow others to see what I saw, meet the people I met, etc. Even writing though cannot capture the absolute joy one feels when riding with a strong tailwind; the written description is nothing when compared with the sensation itself.

I think that may be why I didn't write so much this trip. I think that talking with Laura and Sam about the absolute simplicity and beauty of such a trip, being able to instantly laugh or scoff about some minute detail was the outlet I needed all along, and the reason the blog allowed me to go so far in the first place. Still, the Chronicle is a nice record that hopefully I can compile someday, and I will try to write down the various days of our trip before they escape my memory.

-TH

Day Three

The first two days of this tour have gone perfectly; a strong wind out of the North pushed us further South on Highway 95 as the temperatures rose and the elevations dropped. We camped our first night in a culvert, had breakfast in Searchlight on the second day, and camped just North of Needles, CA on the second night.

Today has not been so lucky. The arm of my trailer broke off, apparently overstressed, poorly crafted metal on the new trailer. On top of that, my oversight in not doing constant repairs and diagnostics left me with very weakened spokes, along with the busted trailer. There are no bike shops in Needles, and very few bike shops would have the part I need anyway; we might be heading to the welder.

On the bright side, it is great to have Sam and Laura along. The pictures, as well as the company, is vastly improved. We're having a lot of fun playing Texas Hold'em with Rocks and night frisbee. Most, if not all, of the pictures I upload will be from Sam or Laura's camera.

-TH

Southern Winter Loop: Touring Again.

It's January 2011, and I'm finally using this Chronicle again to follow a bicycle trip: nothing makes me happier than to write those words. I'm poring over maps, counting tent stakes, and checking the weather like only an adventurer can, and with with the necessary importance of someone who lives at the mercy of the weather and his own preparation. It has been almost a year and a half since Eli and I rode down to Yosemite, and nearly two years since I left on the trip that would come to shape so much of who I am. I don't know what has taken me so long to get back into the saddle; maybe it took until now to find the strength, both mentally and physically, to embark on such a large adventure.

I am thrilled to report that I have two new recruits along with me: Sam Turman and Laura Reaney. We are going to head from my house in Las Vegas down to Lake Havasu, and continue South (hopefully) all the way to the Sultan Sea and Salvation Mountain. Frankly, I don't care where we go. We have three great bikes, three racks, and two trailers. I don't know how we are going exactly because there are no published maps for the route we plan to create. All I know is that I'm publishing on this Blog again, and with a vigor that I have not felt in quite some time. 11 is my lucky number, and 2011 is beginning to seem like it will be a lucky year. Here's to comebacks. Cheers to everyone, and thank you for following me.

-TH
January 3, 2011

La Llegada

Laura and I arrived late last night at the Airport in Leon, and took a cab to Guanajuato.

The more I walk around the city, the happier I am with my decision to come down this Summer. Until now my undergraduate degree in Spanish has always been almost a party trick for me, something that I could use if I wanted to but always with the option to return to English. Now I hear people in the streets speaking in Spanish, see signs in Spanish, and I am reminded that this was what I worked so hard for!

I cannot believe how beautiful the city is. The buildings wind around the hilly landscape in organized chaos, with streets snaking this way and that. The town was built before a time when builders would simply level a large mountain that was undesirable; the architects of Guanajuato needed to work with the hilly terrain, and the effect is remarkable. I will write again soon, as we are in the process of finding an apartment and a language school for Laura.

My last 10 days as a 1L.

It's 5:40 AM.

I'm sitting on the trunk of my car, gazing East. It's 67 degrees in Las Vegas; it will reach 91 by the heat of the day. I spent another sleepless night tweaking and rewriting my take-home Contracts Final Exam, and now I'm basking in the reward.

My favorite part of 1L is the sunrises. I've seen my fair share this year; probably more than every other year of my life combined. Each sunrise is another badge of honor, an affirmation that once again I, piddly Trevor, have overcome the darkness and the bitter cold. I've endured once more. I will fight another day, and another night if need be.


"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai decouvert en moi un invincible été."


Roughly translated, Camus said "In the depths of winter, I discovered within myself an unconquerable summer." This year has proven beyond all doubt that no matter how difficult or insurmountable a challenge may appear, its completion or even sufferance will bring a renewed appreciation for everything that I forget to give thanks for.

I love my hardships. I love my bruises, and my scratches, and my fatigue. I might not appreciate them at the time, but these emblems give me the strength to suffer greater hardships, bigger bruises, deeper scratches, and more profound fatigue.

The darkest nights and the harshest winters instill the brightest sunrises and the pleasantest summers within me. I'll finish up this year. Boyd, I'll see you in August for round two.

Three Hours Ahead and Decades Away

Grandma Hartzell’s Christmas gift from my Dad was flying Emma and me to Erie to visit for a few days. If you are thinking to yourself that this is a paramount example of “a gift and a curse” for my poor Grandma Lorraine, I couldn’t agree more; but like it or not, she is stuck with us!

Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.

Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.

At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.

I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.

He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.

I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.

If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.