Some Pictures...

Greetings,

Here are some pictures of the three of us guys who are the main characters in our movie:




My character is the top picture and
is named King Kardia

The second picture is of my friend Jordan as Moria

The third character is my friend Nathan as Asthenes but for some reason I couldn't load his picture. Some other time.


Check out more at www.bookofbeing.com

Cheers,

Jonathan

Of Ping Pong and Shouting...

Of Ping Pong and Shouting…
Tonight was a night to remember. I am still hot and sweaty from it even though this evening was nice and cool at 62 degrees. We played ping pong like you wouldn’t believe and in the entire evening we probably played somewhere around 15 games. Jeremy, Nathan, Jordan and I all smashed little orange balls back and forth for probably an hour and when the dust settled it was shown that I emerged wearing the champion’s belt having lost only one game. The only way to describe it is that I was in some sort of indestructible groove. It was glorious.

I think in the last two weeks of being here we’ve played close to 500 games of ping pong. It is a great break from the stress of filming and gives us a chance to let fly the angst and vigor we’ve built up after hours and hours of being stuck in our costumes. Thus our games are always very loud and exciting. We’re planning to video tape an evening with several cameras to catch the craziness.

I shall be cutting my hair on Thursday. This is monumental as I have not applied scissors to my hair since the middle of November, 2004. That is 20 months of growing. It started out as an experiment in the freedom of Darfur to see what I look like with long hair. According to some folks I look good with it but frankly I have come to despise it. It is always in the way and getting tangled and yada yada yada. I would have cut it long ago if it weren’t for this movie. Our characters are all long-haired men and so I have kept it long for this filming. As soon as we are finished I shall race to the scissors and start hacking away.

Considering how hot is has been I am very glad to see it all go. I’ve also got a full beard and combined with my super thick hair (thanks to my Greek heritage) I am like to heat up quickly and stay hot. We’re planning to have a beard cutting day where we all part with our facial hair in humorous and video taped fashion.

Of Mud and Trucks...

Of Mud and Trucks
Even horses will get stuck in the mud. It happens. Didn’t you ever see ‘The Neverending Story’? Man and beast have been conquered by the elements as long as there have been elements to be conquered by. When it rains, it pours and when it pours on dirt it makes mud. When that mud is created in places where man must travel then a lack of travel occurs. I encountered this phenomenon rather intimately while I was in Darfur. The miles and miles we covered in our Landcruisers came with the price of many long and sweaty and grimy hours of having to dig our trucks out of the sand or, as was the case in the rainy season, mud. It is so helpless and hopeless to be driving along and then suddenly be deprived of motion. The spinning and whining tires unsuccessfully claw at the mud which just gives way like New Orleans levies. Man and beast are stilled conquerable by natural forces, even when that beast is replaced with a roaring, combusting machine on wheels.

I say all of that to set the stage for our adventure this morning. We got stuck. Yesterday’s ample rainfall turned the back-country tracks we’ve been driving on into narrow ice-skating rinks with occasional deep soups waiting for the unsuspecting motorist like the eternally digesting Sarlac. My friend Jordan was driving at the time and one of those soups took advantage of a slight loss in forward momentum and thus our tires were set spinning in place. Jordan handed the wheel to me and suddenly I was back in the bush of Sudan trying to free myself from the clutching ground.

Even in four-wheel drive the hefty 1987 Ford Bronco with semi-bald tires wouldn’t budge. We were looking at a very disappointing day and it was only eleven in the morning. Jordan had gotten stuck crossing a creek about two weeks earlier and had to walk for seven miles back home to get help. Unlike that experience we carried a cell phone but still the prospect of having to ‘limp’ home via cellular communication didn’t seem very appealing and so we set to removing our vehicle from the mud with dedicated fervor.

I was glad for my Darfur driving training and soon I was rocking the Bronco back and forth trying to gain some momentum to push past the muddy bog. That only served to dig me deeper and I stopped when I realized I was almost up to the chassis. We didn’t have a shovel (standard truck equipment in Darfur) and so digging out was to be accomplished with hands and sticks. Jordan dug mostly and Nathan and I piled sticks under the tires to provide traction. After several attempts our efforts were rewarded and groaning and screaming the Bronco burst free in reverse.

We still had to push a little farther on up this ‘road’ to our film site and so I backed up the two rut track to get some momentum to carry me through. Keeping it in 4-wheel drive I smashed the gas and shot down to the mud patch. There was a patch of dry ground to one side so I stuck my left side on that and punched through. Fishtailing and sliding I came free and was able to swerve in time to avoid a tree. Success.

I truly felt as if I were back in Darfur and it was kind of fun. It is nice to be the ‘expert’ and my numerous adventures of this kind certainly qualified me. Alhumdel’allah.

We ended up having a great day of shooting and although I am staying up late to write this I am dog tired. So I sign off...

Raindrops are falling to Rational Phobia

Raindrops are falling on my head
It is raining. Relief of relief. As the rain descends it seems to bring with it the quiet temperatures from high altitudes and settle them here in reality. Standing in the rain with a costume is thus a relatively enjoyable experience. We each have cloaks that go with our costumes and they actually serve well as raincoats. The effect is achieved of weary travelers, rain-soaked and beset by many troubles.

This late afternoon is quite a contrast, however, to this morning which began at 5am. We wanted to capture some sunrise sequences with my character and the only way to effectively do that is to, well, get up and watch the sunrise. I am not a morning person, at least I choose not to be. If I have to get up, or if I have reason to get up while it is still dark then I will do so and be ready for anything. This morning was not one of those cases. I was to put my costume on and after the past few days of filming that was the last thing on my list of ‘exciting’ things to wake up to.

Nevertheless we rose and we filmed and the sunrise was perfect. Sunrises have been overdescribed and we all know what they look like anyway, but the shots we took were really quite impressive. Viewing them later created further excitement on my part in anticipation of the completion of this project.

The sky was clear but for a few clouds and those that were present swirled and twisted in the warmth of the rising sun appearing red and pink. I was reminded of the age-old adage, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.” As sure as the sun rose this morning the red sky predicted the afternoon thunderstorms which cruised in and began to unleash their spite on the earth. We wanted to have some shots in the rain and therefore were glad to have the chance.

After standing out there for around an hour and quite wet we decided to call it quits with the option of coming back out if the rain diminished. So far it hasn’t and thus I am sitting at my laptop writing.

The slight itching on my neck worries me. My hope is that it is a mere bug bite. It may seem odd that I would wish such thing but in light of my fear of poison ivy the wish is thoroughly rational. That loathsome and pathetic excuse for a creation of God grows lush and beautiful in all corners and holes in this place. I am hyper-allergic to it, the mere thought of it causing me to break out in wretched rashes. In my short life I have had many encounters with it, each as despicable as its predecessor and powerful enough to send me scratching myself into misery for two weeks. So far I have been careful where I step and what I touch and my efforts have paid off.

The field we were shooting in had loads of the three-leaved demons but there were places I could stand that seemed safe. Time will tell of course. Insha’allah, as it were.

Right now we are semi-confident that we shall finish shooting in the time allotted. Nathan, the third character in the film, is scheduled to leave next Wednesday and if all goes as planned that will work fine. In light of the kind of delays and issues that we have had though he is checking into what it will take to extend his flight by a few days in order to give us a more comfortable buffer. Again, insha’allah, as it were.

Elation...

Elation
A lollipop to a child. The sheer joy and fulfillment on a child’s face when they receive such a thing is a priceless picture. Nothing seems to bother them. It is just the sweet candy mingling in the mouth to create the delicious juices and color the tongue. The sticky goo slips down their little fingers and gets in their hair and all over their face. Pure joyful involvement.

Well, I have conquered. No longer am I anathema to Kalea. The other day I got a smooch. Today I have built trust and have had my dance. We had been out for a long evening filming and returned hot and sweaty. Jeremy had decided to put together a ‘Book of Being’ Party to celebrate what we are doing and so as soon as we got back we just changed clothes and splashed cool water on our faces and prepared to go over to Jeremy’s house. Kalea was over visiting her Grandma and we offered to take her over with us.

Putting out my hands I asked her if she wanted me to take her to see her ‘ma ma and da da’. She took two steps over to me and then suddenly snapped out of my momentary spell. “What am I doing?” was written all over her face. I promised her that I would take her to her parents. Dragging Jordan into the mix I had him grab her and then in the car ride over I kept telling her that I was taking her to see her parents. Then we arrived.

In the driveway Jordan stood holding her and I again offered to carry her inside. With a semi-confident smile she consented. I was elated. Such a small thing but to make me happy. So I waltzed with her through the door. Triumph. She can trust me now. A few minutes after I handed her to Jeremy she reached out for me! So I held her again and danced to the music playing. Wow.

Candy, my friend, candy. I don’t know of a time recently when I have been so happy.

Jeremy set up a great party. He had beforehand called mine and Nathan’s parents to find out old history and put together a ‘how well do you know so and so’ game. It was a lot of fun. Then he gave us gifts of embroidered polo-shirts with the Book of Being logo and Book of Being hats personalized with our character names. It was very special.

My day has been one of struggle with the elements and then pure joy and fun.

River Shooting to Table Conquest to A Smooch on the Cheek

Of Ping Pong and such…
Today, Sunday the 18th of June, we spent about five more hours filming a scene by a river. As it has been the sun was ovenlike but much of my scenes were filmed with me standing in the river. The water was so deliciously cool. Glory be.

After dinner and several games of boggle (the Niednagel’s love boggle, as do I) we retired to the Ping Pong table where in spite of Nathan’s, Jordan’s and Jordan’s brother Jeremy’s efforts I reigned as king. I can’t remember how many games we played but I was just impossible to unseat. There were even games that seemed as if my opponent would emerge victorious but somehow in the end I conquered. I had a tremendous amount of fun but I imagine there are some folks going to bed tonight feeling very sorry for themselves. Eventually I’m sure I’ll crack, but right now I’m in the groove. It feels good.

Jeremy and his wife Danielle have a little girl named Kalea who is just under two years old. She is your above average cute little girl and quite well trained. Believe it or not she actually loves to eat ‘Cod Liver Oil’ and zucchini, and squash and all those things that parents have tried to cram down their children’s throats for ages. With most of the people here she is very personable and charming and loves to be held and cuddled with by them.

With me, there is a different tale. The first time I was here back in April she expressed great concern every time I drew near and it took the two weeks that I was here to finally get her to start being comfortable with me at least being near her. This time I have taken it upon myself to pull out all of the stops and get this girl to like me. I am persistent and such endurance is beginning to wear off.

I think it is my hair and beard. I am kind of scary looking. At first when I arrived she would have nothing to do with me. Then it progressed to a morbid fascination with me. Then it elevated to a smile here and there. Then it escalated to laughing and smiling and being pleasantly fascinated with me. That was the case as long as I stayed about ten feet away. She would be laughing and giggling and pointing and such but as soon as I stepped past that imaginary line she would freak and run around a corner.

Lately I have been trying to get her to dance with me. Her parents like to play classical music throughout the day and so there is always some song to waltz to or something. So while she watches I will pretend to ‘dance’ around the room and then dance over to her and ask her to dance. “No’. Okay, maybe later. I shall prevail.

Today, when we were all leaving her house after dinner I gave her kisses on her hand and scratched my beard on her arm and she giggled. I asked for a kiss and leaned in…at first she leaned away but then as I pouted and pulled away she eagerly leaned forward and planted a big one on my cheek. Success!

I shall get a dance out of her before I go.

On Location to Musings...

On Location, Filming of ‘Book of Being’
It is already several days into this adventure of a different kind. I’ve never been in a movie before. Granted, this isn’t your big Hollywood production with a projected audience of millions but we’ve realized that whether or not you put out less-than-admirable films or quality stuff the same amount of work is involved and the same amount of ‘little details’ are involved.

Each of us involved, Nathan Daher, Jordan Niednagel and myself, along with the support we’re getting from Jordan’s older brother Jeremy, have put a lot of effort into this film, some much more than others. The projected venue is a Christian film festival in San Antonio, TX. Our film has a website: www.bookofbeing.com. The plot, a teaser trailer, and some other media is available for viewing.

Today, Saturday, we are taking a rest from our efforts of the last couple of days. Missouri, our location, is very humid and hot this time of year and the amount of clothing we have on for our costumes only serves to amplify our toasty surroundings. So far we’ve been able to get some key things filmed and I’ve been pleased with my acting ability. There aren’t very many actors with my particular brain type and so I was a little worried that I might not be able to pull this off, but so far I haven’t had too much difficulty.

Jordan Niednagel lives in the Ozark “mountains” right on the border of the Mark Twain National forest. There are huge tracts of land that are pretty much untouched and are available for public access and would-be film crews. The scenery is very beautiful with rolling hills smothered in trees and winding valleys cradling wide streams.

Our movie is an allegorical story depicting the life and struggles of Believers in Christ and is set in a fantasy/medieval world called Being. There are elements similar to John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” as the three different kingdoms in Being are called Mansheart, Mansmind, and Mansstrength. As each kingdom falls away from the other and begin to worship their own abilities darkness and evil, represented by characters called the Aphel (ah-fell) which is greek for ‘darkness’, begin to take over their lands and they experience hardship and turmoil. The king of Mansheart, the head kingdom and one which hadn’t began to fully experience the same problems as the others, decides that a quest must be embarked upon to find “The Prince”, the founder of all of the kingdoms and ruler of the Western lands. Three warriors from each kindgom are beckoned to join in on this quest and together they set off to seek the solution to the danger.

As is the case with 90% of all low-budget films ours is mostly shot in the woods, the cheapest and most abundant of set options. However, we do have great costumes, each of them designed and put together by their prospective wearer. Our equipment is of great quality as well and the footage we have looks very realistic. So far I’m proud of what we have been able to pull off, although of course the final edit is that which shall determine success or failure.

The film festival is one of such a nature that the large bulk of the entries are not ones that we need be concerned of. There are a few that have been announced and that have provided trailers that we have some reason for trepidation but overall we are quite confident of our chances. I am definitely the most optimistic of the three of us, being the good-natured bloke that I am, and there is constantly occasion for me to proclaim my firm belief in our abilities and to call each of us to lay aside our doubts and enjoy these moments we have together and relish the future surety of our victory.

I do believe that I shall be fully exhausted by the time we are through though. While I am used to the heat that assaulted us each day in Darfur I was not accustomed to heavy clothing and certainly not very often the intense humidity and daily barrage of venomous and stinging insects. One must be careful to perform full body searches often so as to locate and extrapolate and exterminate the numerous ‘ticks’ that nestle into the warm crevasses provided by the average human body. Disgusting, but necessary. It is all part of the game I suppose but it further convinces me of the need to eventually settle in a part of our country where these annoyances can altogether be avoided.

Through the course of this fantastic journey I have indeed been exposed to the variety we have within our shores and have noticed several places where I would like to live. Growing up as I did for the five and a half years or so that I lived full-time in North Carolina was a joy (my family has been there for almost seven years) and I wouldn’t have it another way, but I have seen places now that pique my interest and I know that I would like to live there for a time.

One of the other benefits, as I see it, of this trip and the direction that my life has taken over the last two years (i.e. Sudan, et al) is a sudden desire for adventure an ‘non-normalcy’. There has been tapped within me an urge that I did not know existed before and although it is in its infant stages I believe it could be likened to the drive that caused such explorers like Ernst Shackelton or adventurers like Lewis and Clarke to embark on the journeys that changed their lives. I know it is folly to compare myself to such great men but I don’t think it is too bold of me to say that there might exist between us a bond in the form of our desire for the extraordinary.

When I realize these things about myself I then look to the source and understand that God, in His wisdom in preparing me for His plans, has placed a desire in me to go out and lay hold of experiences which will deepen and broaden me as a person. I cannot claim to know what use they will have for me later in life but I know that I can enjoy them while I have them and pray that someday the things I learn from them can be used to encourage others.

There are already brewing in my mind adventures to take that further excite me. I’m not going to divulge what they are right now but they will become known in due time. I’d rather not be a cloud that promises rain but never delivers.

According to Plan to Midnight Journey to Darfur Buddy to Hollywood in Missouri

Sycamore, Illinois
The lights of the sleepy towns we are passing drift calmly by the windows giving way to the black chasms of nothingness in between the next one. I’m sitting in the backseat of a Jeep Cherokee with my laptop and I’m on interstate 43 heading south from Milwaukee and I’m with Matt Cain my old chum from Darfur and his newly acquired bride the former Besty MacIntyre now Besty Cain.

I came to be here from where I was in pretty much the way I laid out my plans in the last epistle.

Kicking up the dust on the road from Camp I was again on the road and feeling down right good about it. In all truth I’ve come to love getting back on the road. Being with folks I know and love is great and I have enjoyed each stop on this adventure of mine but there has been awakened in me a need to move. Thankfully I’m not so possessed by it that think of nothing else. Those that are consumed by the itch to travel constantly can’t ever really enjoy where they are presently as they are thinking about the next stop before truly stopping at the one before. I think that I have been able to make the most of each of my stops and be content in them. During each one I’ve been able to slow down and rest a little and reconnect with people that I haven’t been able to see in a long time.

Such was Camp and such were the last few days.

It was a short drive to Little Falls, MN and it was right on my route down to Minneapolis and so stopping to see Keelan Diehl for lunch was an easy thing. His dear mother prepared a tasty home cooked meal and I had a pleasant visit. Keelan and I are planning our mutual friend Justin Lonas’ bachelor’s party for his October wedding. I’ve never had the honor of best man bestowed on me before and so I’m sort of having fun figuring out what to do. Justin is the first of my group of friends from growing up to get married and so up until this point there hasn’t been much of an occasion to be apart of such an event.

There were large storms tromping about and although I avoided their moist mischief I felt the cool air they brought with them. Before hitting all of those nasty storms in Washington I had pulled over to a Wal-Mart and bought two cheap sweatshirts and the added layers has really helped to keep me warm. I was glad to have them.

Minneapolis was just a hop, skip and a jump from Little Falls and so I actually arrived a lot earlier at my cousin CJ’s house than I had planned. As I pulled into his neighborhood I met him coming the opposite direction on an errand. I forgot to call and let him know I was early. Oops. We went back to his house and I was set up with my room and reintroduced with his darling of a dog, a Golden named Winnie. Sweetest dog. Exuberant. Coy. Soft. She really made me miss my own dog Skipper.

Anyway, CJ is JP’s son and thus my mother’s cousin. He and his wife Terri live with their daughter Kelly in a handsome suburb of Minneapolis and also have built a cabin up on the same lake as Camp Chippewa and just two doors down from my family’s cabin. As I grew up I would see them almost every year and they’ve watched me grow up from a pipsqueak of a kid to whatever gruff ruffian I’ve become now.

During my tenure in Darfur CJ and Terri followed my stories through my updates and they were eager to hear stories first hand. Also watching and listening was the exchange student that CJ and Terri have hosted for the last 10 months. Maryanne is a girl from Norway and was here in the States to finish highschool. This trip has really proved to me how good of an idea it was to put my pictures into a presentation and then to bring my laptop with me. I’ve been able to show it to many people along the way.

From Minneapolis it was about 7 hours down to Monroe, WI. I was driving down to see my Great Aunt Helen and at her recommendation I took the scenic route along the Mississippi River. It was mostly two-lane country roads that cut along the river bank sometimes darting inland to race over fragrant farmland and dairy farms before switching back to the serenity and curves of the river. The depth of summer has pretty much taken over this area and so everywhere there is richness to the green that makes you feel alive and fresh. Passing banks of wildflowers on a motorcycle is quite a sensual experience with more than just your eyes taking in the pleasure. The smells waft their way into your helmet.

The southern part of Wisconsin is full of huge farms that wrap around the low hills and all across the horizon are pictures of the agrarian skyline, countless grain silos. For this biker the two lane country roads that dipped and swerved with the terrain was a joy. I was trying to make good time and so I was opening the throttle pretty wide and really leaning into the turns. It was glorious. I love riding a motorcycle.

My Aunt Helen has worked for the Swiss Colony for many many years as the resident artist. She has been a family institution as many of us have prints of her artwork framed and hanging in our homes. I grew up seeing her at family get togethers at Camp and was always called by her “Jonathan Seagull”. The last time I saw her was three years ago at my Grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary celebration.

I pulled into her driveway and as I have made custom revved the engine to allow the roar to announce my presence. Killing it I hopped off and unstrapped my helmet. At that moment Aunt Helen came out the door, all smiles and followed by her happy dog Moxy. Many people haven’t been told of my current appearance and so she expressed some delighted shock upon seeing my long hair and thick beard.

Her neighborhood in Monroe is a quiet and pleasant one with lots of new families taking residence in old, regal houses and filling the parks and sidewalks with laughter and squealing that comes with lots of little children. We took a walk in the cool evening while the coals for our steaks got hot. Aunt Helen’s dog really liked me and accompanied me on our small trek.

I ended up burning the steaks and slightly under cooking the corn on the cob but with some delicious white wine and some salad our meal was well rounded and the conversation of things important made it all the better. After dinner some neighbors of hers came over and I again showed my pictures and talked of Darfur and of my experiences.

For a send off the next morning we ate a heaping pancake breakfast at the ‘Corner Cafe’, a greasy spoon joint that Aunt Helen likes to frequent. It’s the kind of place you find in the movies where all the old timers in a small town gather in the mornings to drink coffee and talk of the harvest or of the ‘durned things these youngsters do’. With that I was off again.

It only took me an hour and a half to get to Matt Cain’s house in Sycamore, IL, which brings me back to watching the lonely lights of sleepy towns drift by the car window. Betsy Cain, Matt’s wife, mentored a young girl who was in the 8th grade and the day I arrived happened to be her highschool graduation. Rather than hang out at the house I opted to just tag along for the ride and to spend time catching up with my good pal.

Matt is a real good friend and he really helped me to stay sane while we were in Darfur together. It was so good to be with him again after almost a year of being apart. Just as it was when Andy and I got back together it was with Matt. Thus the two hour car drive to Milwaukee was quite enjoyable.

I stayed with them as they spent time with the girl and her family prior to the graduation but then as I wasn’t ‘invited’ to the show I decided to head over to a movie theater and catch a nighttime show. Five minutes before seven I bought a ticket for a seven o’clock showing of ‘Cars’ and as soon as I walked into the theater the previews began to roll. I must say that I very much liked the movie and found myself laughing hard many times. As it worked out, as soon as the film ended Matt and Betsy pulled up to pick me up and thus I am in the backseat of the car on the way back to their home.

Some days later
Unfortunately I didn’t have much time the next morning to spend more time with Matt as I needed to hurry down to my friend Jordan Niednagel’s house in Missouri. I had about 540 miles ahead of me. Matt cooked up a hearty breakfast and after a hug and a handshake I fired up the trusty machine and again had the feel of the open road under me.

Illinois is a fairly boring state. Sorry to any of you who care about it. It just is. Lots of farms, grain silos and the like, but there just isn’t anything to get the ol’ heart racing. So I made up for it by cruising at a cool 80 mph and rolling up my sleeves and catching a deep tan in the hot sunshine. There was ridiculous traffic in St. Louis due to some construction and I was reduced to gobs of sweat in the stop and go traffic. Towards the end of that I started to cut in between cars some and get in the front when a car that was stopped opened its door right in front of me. I hit the breaks and swerve around it, cutting into a lane closed off by cones. So I was doing a bit of cone swerving action at about 40mph. Cool.

Lots of Missouri is pretty bland as well. Then I hit the road that Jordan’s house is on. I hit it farther north and rode a lot of it that I hadn’t seen before. It was very curvy and had lots of ups and downs that was really fun to do on my bike. However, due to the very worn nature of my rear tire I had to take it kind of slow. My mother, I’m sure, is happy to hear that.

So now I am with Jordan Niednagel and our friend Nathan Daher as we endeavor to film this movie we are doing for a Christian Film Festival in San Antonio, TX. The grand prize is very handsome and I am very confident of our chances to win. So far we’ve already had two days of shooting and they have proved to be very difficult. It is quite hot and our costumes do not lend to cooling us off but rather to accentuating the sweltering temps. At the end of the day when we rip our costumes off they are drenched with sweat and we stink like men. Missouri is full of all sorts of biting insects too, mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, little hornet like things, biting flies and the like. It makes it all very interesting.

Well, there you have it. I must forewarn my readers that from here on out my updates shall be sparse although I shall try and record the goings on that are of import. I am fixing to be returning home shortly and thus conclude this amazing chapter in my life.

Dragonflies to Dakota Drowning to Camp Chippewa to What's Next?

Camp Chippewa, Minnesota
Dragonflies hurt. The poor little guys. There they are flitting along enjoying the feast of bugs along the highways and here comes this guy on his motorcycle. Suddenly it is all over. They hurt the worst on the hands. I can handle them smacking my knees and shins and thighs but when they are plastered to my hands then I am truly disturbed. When they explode I get wet too. Then for a while my hand is slimy with whatever goo they were comprised of. My pant legs are covered in bugs and my windshield has a protective layer of smashed insects. It is kind of a testament to my length of my travels.

I started running into the dragonflies in Northern Minnesota where I am currently staying. They were as thick as...well...flies. I don’t like hitting them. Sure it hurts, but they also consume millions of mosquitoes. So a lost dragonfly means life and liberty to countless demons of the air (refer to my comments on Astoria, OR) and thus pain and misfortune on would-be happy vacationers in this beautiful part of the country.

My last few days have been ones that have tested me considerably. I have not been found wanting, thankfully, and have proved to myself and to whoever needs proving that I possess determination and endurance. Today my butt is truly sore for the first time. Monday I trekked about 770 miles from Snoqualmie Pass, WA to Billings, MT. Tuesday was from Billings to Mt. Rushmore...about 400 miles. Wednesday was spent covering 750 miles from Mt. Rushmore to Cass Lake, MN.

Those many miles stretch over very stunning parts of the US. I’ve described some of it but there was so much that I really struggle with even remembering all of it. Montana is called ‘Big Sky Country’ because there are parts of it where there seems to be more of it than anything else. While much of what you see is a clone of the previous sights it is still enjoyable to look at and I find myself paying more attention to what I am passing by then watching the road. Out there the highways are mostly straight and there aren’t that many fellow travelers to be worried about.

Wednesday was hard not only because of the sheer number of miles I covered but also because for several hours I plunged headlong into a massive thunderstorm system. I stayed dry under all of my leather and was able to keep cruising fairly quickly and so most of the time I was just trying to outrun the rain. South Dakota is quite large and flat and many miles before I hit the rain I could see it as a large and ominous mass in front of me, the strutting tops of the system rising like giants out of a fog. Enjoying the last fleeting rays of sunshine I pulled over and donned my gear and then resumed the march to battle.

There was a strong sense of accomplishment when I finally began to break free from the clutches of the storm. I opened my visor again and took off my gloves. Unlike the rain in Washington in which I felt cold, the rain across South Dakota was warm and I was burning up inside my little leather world. It was still overcast and gloomy but I could see breaks in the clouds up ahead and that the road aimed straight for them. Above me the sky appeared like it was a lump of bread dough that had been stretched and twisted and spread out too thin. It was as if all the rain that could be squeezed out had fallen and what was left over was the fragile and wispy remains of a once proud thunderhead. Such is life.

I have been coming up to what we refer to as “Camp” since before I was even a thought or the definite gleam that I’m sure I was in my parent’s eyes. Camp Chippewa is in my blood and many of my boyhood adventures took place here. Set on the shores of two lakes, Cass Lake and Buck Lake, Camp has been a haven for our family since its conception in 1935 by my great-grandfather Otto Endres. His sons built their own cabins next to the camp and each summer there is a reunion of sorts as the sons, grandchildren and great-grandchildren gather to enjoy the benefits of Camp.

Arriving at around 8:45 Wednesday evening I was inundated with snapshot memories. With each turn down familiar roads I was thrown back to specific memories of that spot. It was like riding down memory lane with an extra dose of nostalgia. Describing Camp is a difficult thing to do as there isn’t a way to break it down into simple words. It is more feelings. Memories. And ideas. It is something that helped develop me in ways that have even prepared me for the journey I’m currently on and as I mentioned Brian and I were constantly remembering things from our days as campers.

For the most part my time here has been another series of relaxing days. I have not had concentrated time with my Uncle John (JP as he is affectionately known around here) and Aunt Cammy (JP is my mother’s father’s brother) for a very long time. JP was the director of the boy’s camp here but has since turned over the office work to a guy who has been coming to camp almost all of his life. JP now gets to enjoy the spirit of camp but without worrying about paying the bills or doing the paperwork.

The first camp session hasn’t started yet and there are only a few of the staff here helping with getting things ready. As a result it is very quiet and I can walk down the trails and hear only the chirping of the birds and the swaying trees in the wind. Several times I’ve glanced up and caught views of the majestic bald eagles that nest in one of the large trees on camp property. After my long dash from Washington I have been grateful for these couple of days to unwind in a place that is dear to me and that provides such deep reaching peace. On Friday I decided to take a half-hour nap right after lunch and thoroughly enjoyed it. They had to wake me up though and I was startled to be informed that I was to get ready for dinner. My half-hour turned into around 5 hours. As we surmised I sorely tried my endurance the first part of this past week and I hadn’t allowed for my ‘batteries’ to recharge. I shirk away from the thought that those three days could do such a thing to me but I suppose that when you combine the vagabond status that I’ve maintained, and a steadily moving one at that, with those three days then I can allow for fatigue to truly set in.

Being in Sudan taught me that the body does have limits and that if you are not smart you’ll shoot past them and then seriously regret it. I can remember being skeptical of the sheer exhaustion complained of by one of our international team members. I had just arrived and was green as I could be and didn’t understand what happens to your mind and your heart and your body. As my time there evolved into months and months I quickly began to see the folly of my naivete and realized that exhaustion is real and debilitating.

That being said I am glad for these breaks that I have. Being able to just sit and stare at the water of the beautiful lakes, watch the eagles, write, play tennis with JP...it is all part of a great package of ‘rehab’. I’ve also been able to show my pictures of Sudan and answer questions about my time there and offer my comments on the things that go on there. I enjoy that every time I talk about it as it gives me opportunities to keep it fresh in my mind and to be able to revisit in thought some of my dear friends there.

This evening, Saturday, I spent with some close friends of mine who are mennonites in this area. Several of them have worked at one time or another at the camp and one in particular has done much of the construction and renovations over the years. The pastor of the local mennonite gathering and his family are particularly close to us and I actually lived with them for three months a little under ten years ago. They have children that were a little older than I was and I suppose the idea was to have me experience life on a small farm and learn life skills that would serve me later on. It was there that I learned some basics in construction and also hunted for the first time and with some help bagged my first deer. I was a punk 12 year old (I turned 13 while I was there) from the suburbs of Southern California and probably didn’t appreciate what opportunity I was being given. When I look back on it I see it as a very good thing in my life and there are many developments now that could probably be traced back to that time.

Their family has grown quite a bit since I was there with the older children getting married and poppin’ out grandkids and the evening was an interesting one with all them toddlers and little kids running around. With my current appearance of long hair and a full beard I was probably a little frightening to them and it took a little while for them to warm up to me. I don’t bite and am generally pretty good friends with little kids but I can imagine that for a three year old I could be huge and scary looking.

My plan is to leave tomorrow morning after breakfast and shoot south down to Minneapolis. Another of the Endres family (my mother’s father’s side), CJ and his wife Terri live there and so I will be stopping in for the night and to catch up with them. I’ve seen them up here at camp over the past few years (although it has been two since the last time I was here) but it has been 12 years since I was last at their home.

Before getting that far south I’ll be stopping at a friend of a friend who has become my friend and who is also involved in the wedding of our mutual friend. Keelan (the friend of a friend who has become my friend) is one of the guys who went camping with my friend Justin Lonas (the mutual friend who is getting married) when I was with him towards the beginning of my trip in Tennessee. He lives on the way to Minneapolis and so I’ll stop for a couple of hours.

From there the plan is to shoot over to Monroe, Wisconsin to see another member of the Endres family, my Great Aunt Helen. It has been a long time since I have seen her and I am more than thrilled to swing through her place.

Then I’m going through Chicago and there is a possibility that I’ll be able to see Matt Cain with whom I worked in Darfur. Insha’allah.

Then it is back to the home of my friend Jordan Niednagel in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Missouri. I’ll be there until I leave which will probably at the end of June.

Vancouver to San Juan to A Bout With Reason to A Long Dash Across Montana to Mount Rushmore

Brian left early the next morning. He wanted to make it back to LA in three days so as to be able to get back to work. Thus ended an exciting chapter of my trip and the only part of it in which I have been accompanied.

The reunion that I had with my fellow adventurers in Darfur was deeply fulfilling. When you live with someone in an environment like Darfur and learn to rely on them for encouragement and strength and they on you there is a bond formed that is difficult to find elsewhere. With Andy Shaver, who was our team leader, such a bond formed and we enjoyed the closeness of it during the year we lived together. We even shared the same office room together and so our contact was constant, either in the office or the house. It was thus very hard to see him go when he finished his contract because it was an all of the sudden ending of what was so vital to my mental stability. After not having seen him for seven months it was a good thing to be with him.

Another aspect of it is that I have never known Andy outside of Darfur. To be able to see the place he calls home, meet the girl he calls honey and hang with the guys he calls hombre’s was a good thing as well.

Also with us in Darfur was a guy named Chris Rae. Chris is from Vancouver and I arrived just a week or so before he is scheduled to go work in the Congo. Perfect timing. Chris is one of those guys who has an educated conversational opinion on everything. He loves philosophy and talking with him is like reading a dictionary. Big words. Deep meanings. He arrived in Darfur in July of last year and succeeded Andy at the helm of the project.

During the time that Andy had to work Chris took me for walking tour of Vancouver. We caught a bus down to China town and walked all over it making out way down to Gas Town, the shipyards, the financial district and the beaches. Chris is a great guy to talk to and over the course of those many hours we rehashed the things we both experienced in Sudan. It was relaxing to be able to sit in the sand and watch huge boats move into the harbor and talk of the things that once gave me anxiety attacks (literally).

I was there from a Thursday to the next Tuesday and was able to spend a lot of that time writing and doing some research on things that interest me. On the whole it felt to me as if the whole pace of my trip dropped to low gear and I was content at the suddenness with which it happened. The people that form the community that Andy and Chris subscribe to are people who live and work in the nitty-gritty of the city and who have a desire to show Christ’s love to those who don’t know it. There is a strong sense of reality there and it is very attractive. When involved in conversations with the group (several of them all live in the same house together, including Andy) I felt as though we were wrestling with issues that shook the world. I was thankful for the glimpse into their life, but was ready to move on when Tuesday came. That desire to move on stemmed not from discontent with their company, but more of an anxiousness to finish my trip.

At that time I was a vagabond for two months and I suppose it was beginning to wear on me.

I’m really impressed with the US Customs checkpoints coming back into the States. I told them that I had a backpack full of drugs and loaded weapons and plans for a Jihad and they just smiled and said, “welcome to America sir.” They did give me weird glances though when the only identification I presented was my driver’s license. You should have your passport, they said. Sorry, I said.

It was only a short hop down to the ferry at Anacortes and once again I found myself headed for the island paradise found in the San Juans. What was going to be just a four day stay turned into five and a half as my hosts prodded and pleaded for me to stay on. I must say that I was sorely tempted to follow their advice and get a job on the island and stay the summer. But I am previously obligated and thus I finally tore myself away mid-day Sunday. Uncle Brian and Aunt Joanne (Brian is actually my mother’s cousin) are marvelous hosts and I really could have stayed forever.

San Juan island is fairly large and there is much to explore. Among that ‘much’ is a glacier-scarred rocky coastline with many inlets and bays inviting the roving sea-kayaker to investigate. One of the things we did was to put one of their kayaks in the water (a two -seater) and go for a two hour cruise. I was introduced completely to the deathly chill of the water on our return leg as we encountered choppy seas (referred to in this case as ‘clapotis’) and several large swells splashed up on the boat and got me wet. All in good fun.

There was a running competition between Uncle Brian and I and it took place on the ping pong table and on the dart board. At first I was bested at both but gradually began to edge my way into the victor’s circle. I still have a hard time on the ping pong table (we were having matches that were absolutely incredible) but I soon became, as the heckler on the electronic dart board says, “the undisputed champion.” It was galling for mine opponent. I wear the title with pride.

My cousins, Brian and Joanne’s daughters, were all there for a while, two of them having entered into a half-marathon being held on the island. The run was on the Sunday I departed and all that morning as they ran I rode alongside of them on my motorcycle offering cheer and good natured encouragement...very comfortable encouragement...for me at least.

The first day that I was there, we had a picnic on the shoreline and shortly after consuming our food one of the resident pods of killer whales passed by and put on a show. The males breaching and splashing and the females coming to the surface and blowing lots of air. One aspect of the males’ show was that we would watch them shoot up completely out of the water and then come down in a huge splash. Then a split second later the thud and rush of the water would reach our ears. We all enjoyed that part of it.

So far, I freely admit that my time on San Juan island has proved to be most cherished by me and it has planted in me seeds growing towards the affect of me someday becoming a northwesterner. We shall see.

The Sunday I chose to depart on was overcast and dreary. Aunt Joanne tried again to dissuade me from going saying that I couldn’t start my journey again on a day like that. However I knew that were I to stay I would probably never leave (I wouldn’t complain) and so I pushed my feelings aside and hit the road.

Ah the open road again. There is a seldom duplicated feeling that you get during the first 30 minutes of the road. Your butt is fresh, the engine roars, and the white lines flash by like Seabiscuit on the home stretch. There is simultaneously a feeling of greatness at what you’re doing and a sense of incredible smallness when vastness of the land swallows you like a drop of water in the ocean. It churns within you and gushes forth in a song, a spasm of shouting or a feeling of excitement that pushes at every seam and causes you to squeeze the handlebars till your knuckles turn white.

Then the hours click by. You shift in your seat to slowly work your way around your butt wearing out each angle in succession. Feet up on the foot pegs. One foot up, one foot down. After a stop for gas and shaking of the legs freshness is returned. The boredom of the road can last for hours sometimes, but then you hit a corner and are forced to lean, scraping the pegs at 75 miles an hour. Or the monotony is broken by the sudden stab of pain as a butterfly or a beetle collides with your leg. Then you might round a corner or come over a hill and be presented with the sprawling majesty of a rugged mountain range, or rolling grassy hills littered with great herds of cattle or giant plateaus rimmed with jagged cliffs. There is always something.

At night you cannot see the road kill. You smell it. The odor of rotting flesh left over from the merciless sun and incessant picking of scavengers is thrown like a wall across the road and it exacts a toll from anyone not employing their recycled air feature...or from each biker that passes. One of the beauties of riding is that you are almost one with your surroundings. You feel the slightest changes in temperature, you feel the gusts and puffs of an indecisive wind and you smell the earth and creatures that you pass by. The dirt clings to your face, the sun bakes your skin and the wind chaffs your hands into brawny clamps.

All that is well and good, the real challenge comes with the rain. Heading east on highway 20 from Anacortes I made for the mountain passes which would lead me to the Grand Coulee Dam and then on down to Spokane on the far side of Washington, the evergreen state. I never made it that far. The dreary clouds pushed and shoved and built themselves up against the mountain range and began to unleash their fury as I myself pushed eastward. The road I was on was quite articulated and as the rain came down in increasing strength I began to worry for my safety. I made it about 60 miles and pulled into a gas station to shake myself dry and get something warm to drink.

I had noticed the climb in elevation and steadily dropping temperatures and worried that further up the road I might meet something which would spell my demise. Two local men struck up a conversation and when they found out I was heading eastward over the pass they warned me otherwise. Talk of hail today...maybe some snow. You don’t want to go that way.

Hmmn...part of me wanted to prove them wrong. Then, the other part of me, which in the past two years hasn’t had much of an audience spoke up. All it takes is one slick patch of road and those pretty cliff-like drops you were admiring will put an end to your plans of family and love...and further adventure. Sound counsel. I turned back down the road. I supposed that I might miss these pestilent storms if tried crossing the mountains to the south and so I dropped back down to Seattle and caught I-90. It was going along swell until it stopped being so. The rain began lightly around 8pm and increased in volume. I was determined to push on knowing that once I got through the mountains I would be in the more desert-like regions of Washington. I needed to make it to Spokane.

I-90, although it passes through the mountains, offered me a much straighter path and I was less worried about the turns in the rain. However, when you can no longer see because of the thickness of the rain (it was stand room only for the water) and the ensuing darkness...continuing on becomes folly. My leather had up to that point proved useful in the rain but even it began to crack leak moisture. Again thinking of my future family I pulled into a hotel.

But I was so far behind schedule! I had half of the northern part of the United States to cross and in order to get where I wanted to go and have time to spend with the people I care about once I got there I needed to be in Billings, Montana by the next night. This would have been Monday evening (or last night from when I’m writing this). That was 767 miles away from Snoqualmie Pass, WA (55 miles east of Seattle). Very well. So be it.

One in the morning on Tuesday this weary traveler rolled into Billings having conquered the carving roads through the mountains, the desperately long straights, the stench of road kill, the spite of other drivers, the grueling imprisonment on a small seat for 14 hours and the cold of Montana nights. Grrr…

And so now I’m in Mount Rushmore nearly 400 miles of road from Billings. I’ve seen it. Didn’t buy the t-shirt. And I don’t have a picture of me in front of it. The thing is impressive, worth seeing, and I shall probably return. But now I’m sitting here writing this missive and looking forward to the morning when I shall rise early and be on my way. I have another long day ahead of me that will potentially rival my dash to Billings in length. This time it is all on flat, flat and straight South Dakota and Minnesota.

So far on this trip I have gone through: North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and am now in South Dakota. Here here.

Oh, and there should be a law against billboards.

The Da Vinci Crud to Fire Mountain to Partial Vancouver

The Da Vinci Code
A few days before I set Boone in my rearview mirror I had my bike in the Honda Dealership to check fluids and get a North Carolina inspection. Part of the inspection process is to check the tires and if they are not above a certain tread level then they do not pass. My rear tire needed replacing and the front tire was projected to have something less than a thousand miles left on it.

6500 miles later Brian and I pulled into Fortuna, CA and I forked over 125 bucks to replace my front tire. Up until that point we hadn’t experienced rain en-route and so I wasn’t worried too much about traction. But we were breaking into areas that received rain regularly and I didn’t have faith in the gripping abilities of a bald tire in turn on slick pavement.

On our way into town we had passed a theater. The marque boasted the Da Vinci Code and we decided that we’d like to give it a shot. It was opening day. Thanks to the small town the crowds were limited. We settled into our seats and waited for the two hours of tripe that were sure to follow.

What irritated us the most wasn’t the factlessness of the story but the manner in which the movie was executed. Tom Hanks was cardboard, the dialogue was weak and contrived...it was painful. I remember sitting there in the first 10 minutes and thinking to myself, “I’ve read the book so I know there are some good parts coming up...so this has to get better...I hope it gets better.” Brian and I would look at each other and roll our eyes, not at the content of the message but at the atrocious acting.

The film will make the bucks based off of the hype alone, but once people step out of the theater and are greeted by their interested friends the recommendations to see the film will be few and far between. Those Christians that were freaking out have nothing to fear. All they need to do is do a little bit of reading and digging for the message and then a grounded sense of good filmmaking to counter this cultural phenomenon.

Mosquitoes
I grew up looking forward to every summer when my family visited my Mom’s parents at their summer home in Northern Minnesota. That side of the family inherited a summer boy’s camp from its patriarch, Otto Endres, my great-grandfather. I eventually became a camper there and would then stay beyond the camp sessions to enjoy family gatherings and fun times with the equipment of the camp.

What always presented a challenge for me was to resist the urge to scratch the inflictions caused by the innumerable mosquitoes that loved to feast on our flesh. Invariably each year my arms and legs looked like battle zones.

I say all of that to say this: I know mosquitoes. So when I say that our campsite in Astoria, OR possessed the largest and most ferocious demons of the air (mosquitoes) there is weight to my comments. I really have never seen anything like it. Their bite was incredible. Thankfully the buggers were slower and so swatting them out of the air or reducing their 3-D qualities with a quick slap of the hand proved to be easy. But there were so many that one would tire themselves in the space of five minutes. Brian produced some bug repellant that worked to the extent that they no longer felt compelled to bite but the swarms would dart in and out still trying to find a suitable lunch spot. So still they annoyed.

Astoria is the top left corner of Oregon.

Mount St. Helens
It was just shy of closing time when we pulled into the handsome visitor center located at a distance from the famous active volcano. After a quick scan of the inside and realizing that we didn’t have time to see what we wanted in the five minutes until close we decided to head to our campsite which was just down the road and come back in the morning.

Brian had planned our trip pretty detailed-like and had used the bottomless resources online to locate and provide directions for each of our campsites along the way. He had printed out the directions and maps for each day and put them in a three ring binder. After each day was finished we’d tear out the pages and prepare for the next day. It was very convenient and helpful and made our trip flow quite smoothly.

So following the instructions we found our campsite without any hitches. Those were reserved for the actual campsite. It was quaintly nestled on the shores of Spirit Lake which is in view of the volcano but not on the cloudy day in which we arrived. Not a soul was present. There were a few campsites designated and numerous trailer homes and an office with a shrill yapping dog but not a human could be found. It was actually kind of eerie. I looked at Brian with deliberate doubt written on my face. He saw it and hopping on our bikes we quickly departed.

We had something similar a few days earlier when we arrived at a campsite that contained absolutely zero tenants except for ourselves. There was a heavy fog moving in from the ocean which was just a few hundred yards west and 150 feet down from us. It pressed in with great speed and just brushed the points of the sleepy pine trees that were thickly scattered throughout the campsite. From our vantage point on the ground sitting around a roaring fire which was fueled by piles of free wood it appeared as though the trees were endlessly tall as they simply disappeared into the mist. There was a sense of creepiness at being the only people there and it was that feeling that compelled us to flee from the campsite with the shrill dog.

A state park was situated adjacent to the visitor center and it had many vacancies desiring occupation. We were happy to oblige. Around 6:30pm it began to rain. Bummer. The only place to be dry was within the confines of our tents. I enjoy my tent. It is perfect for what I need; it is light, packs up small, and it is just big enough to comfortably fit all of my gear and leave room for me. But it isn’t a place to ‘hang out’. That is now what we found ourselves having to do.

There was plenty of light left in the day so we set about keeping ourselves amused. Reading, napping, etc. I had my computer with me so I set about working on my trip log. I haven’t reduced myself to calling it my ‘plog’ yet and I don’t suspect that that ‘yet’ shall ever be fulfilled.

15 hours after crawling into our tents it finally ceased to rain. I slept quite well and actually left my tent before the rain quit as I had ignored a certain call for far too long and the caller was getting impatient. No it wasn’t my cellphone ringing.

We were possessors of thoroughly soaked equipment and thought as much as we rolled up our tents and stuffed our sleeping bags into their compression sacks. Whatever was in the tent escaped moisture intrusion but the droplets falling from the trees succeeded in doing during wrap up what they couldn’t do during the evening hours. It really didn’t matter though. We were going to be staying with my Dad’s brother and his wife, Uncle Wesley and Aunt Johnena at their home in Spanaway, WA. Showers, laundry and such were just around the corner. But first we had to find out what kind of racket was being run over at the visitor center.

It was a racket alright. Actually, it was one of the nicer visitor centers managed by any form of government that I have been to. Modern and clean architecture, comprehensive and tasteful display of information and several films that sought to take the viewer down a path of utter fear and loathing at the thought of living in the crosshairs, and it is the crosshairs, of a series of vengeful ‘fire mountains’, Mt. Saint Helens, of course, being one of those.

We were geared up to actually head over and see the mountain and the other visitor center at its base but learned that it is a 45 mile ride and the chances of there being a break big enough in the low lying clouds to see the crater were slim to none. We decided to eat the extra cost it took the see both centers and hit the road.

Spanaway, WA is a nice town south of Seattle and is reached by taking Interstate 5 up from near Mount St. Helens through a series of rainstorms and a network of other smaller state highways. Up until this moment we really didn’t know what wet was. The comfort of our family’s home was more than welcomed and our reunion was most enjoyable.

It had been four years since our last gathering with this branch of the Drake family and there was much to catch up on. My cousin Johnena is recently engaged and left the next morning to visit her fiancee. She is number two of twelve grandchildren, Brian being number one and me being number three. I was able to show my slideshow from Sudan and talk about my experiences there which I always am eager to do.

Overall it was a good visit and bidding farewell until the wedding date we departed mid morning after one night.

Seattle
The fifty miles from Spanaway to Seattle pass by quickly. It is a nice drive when it is dry. Too bad we didn’t experience it dry. Getting rained on isn’t that bad. I’ve got my leather jacket and pants which keep me well taken care of during a downpour. What gets difficult is being stuck behind other traffic. The entire freeway becomes a misty cloud and on top of complete immersion you have severely reduced visibility. Riding a two wheeled machine in such conditions taxes you, mentally and physically. The whole time you are expecting that one of the tires will hydroplane and you will slide down to a watery death. Wiping out probably wouldn’t actually kill you, it would be more likely that the drivers behind you wouldn’t be able to see you and would only realize their mistake as their otherwise smooth ride would abruptly take on a crunching bump. It would all be over in a matter of seconds. Still those thoughts crossed my mind. So I purposed not to wipe out. I’m writing this report so neither I nor Brian experienced such misfortune.

Our cousins Kelsey and Caitlin live in Seattle and so we stopped for lunch together. They are the daughters of Brian and Joanne Endres, Brian being my mother’s cousin. We’ve been close to them growing up as both of our families spent considerable time up at Camp Chippewa in Northern Minnesota. Camp Chippewa was founded by my great-grandfather for boys who need a place to experience nature and encounter themselves whilst in the midst of great adventure. After the camp sessions the rest of the family would come and enjoy each other’s company and the beauty that is readily available up there.

It had been a few years since either Brian or I had spent time with Kelsey or Caitlin and the lunch we had was a great time to catch up. That night we then traveled up the coast a bit to Anacortes where we caught a ferry which took us over to the San Juan Islands where Brian and Joanne recently acquired a house and are currently living.

I’ve been around. I’ve seen beautiful things. I’ve been in places where the beauty is so intense that words are folly. The San Juan Islands are one of those places where I am so taken by its appearance that I am speechless. It is so pleasing. Of the many islands San Juan island is the largest and we were on the ferry to Friday Harbor. Aunt Joanne and Becky (her daughter) met us as we roared off the ferry and led us back to their ‘Walden’. They even live on a road called ‘Wold Road’. Sounds similar.

It is a slice of heaven. Quiet. Serene. Beautiful. They’ve got a small house that is perfect for what they need and it is surrounded on one side by a tall deer fence to protect the vegetable garden. Behind the house about 30 yards are three green bee hives full of activity and promise of sweet honey. They’ve got five acres and they are situated in the bottom of a large valley which serves as home to other farms, bed and breakfasts and other quaint homesteads.

There is also a shop building on their property where they have set up a quality ping-pong table and the home theater. Attached to that building is the ‘boat house’ where their three sea-kayaks rest between voyages. My brother and I were seriously impressed by this entire place and it was with regret that we left the next day. I consoled myself with the thought that after 5 days in Vancouver I would take up the offer to return and stay for a while.

Vancouver
Having lived and traveled Interstate-5 for the 16 years we lived in California I was only ever exposed to the sections that commute from LA down to San Diego and in between. It is mostly pretty ugly. Construction everywhere, bland hills, ugly buildings, etc. I knew that it extends all the way up to Canada but I had no idea that it could actually be considered pleasant to the eyes. The hour and 20 minutes it takes from Anacortes to the border is one of the more beautiful interstate highway sections in the United States. Lush and vibrant farmland lies all around and in the East massive snow-capped Mount Baker dominates the horizon. On our way up to the border we could not see it because of a devilish looking storm system was piling up against that mountain range and spewing its venom on the earth. For several minutes the highway pointed right at it and I was thinking, as I’m sure Brian was, that we were about to be plunged into that churning froth.

At the last moment the road took a turn to the northwest and we barely brushed the outskirts, getting a slight soaking. I have never seen such dark and evil looking clouds. It was during late afternoon which around here is usually still quite bright but the thickness and heaviness of the clouds blocked all light from penetrating. Truly amazing. On top of that display of natural power the colors were made all the more rich because of the eerie lighting and overload of rain.

By the time we snaked through some mountains and arrived at the border checkpoint we were dried out and the sun was shining brightly. Canadian Border Patrol didn’t bother us much and soon we were on our way up the Canadian version of I-5, Highway 99.

Canada is a stunning country. When I was younger and going to the boy’s camp my great-grandfather started I took part in the canoe trips that we took up into the Canadian shield. The trips were at least a week and they were excursions into complete wilderness. You can imagine how much trips like that would shape a young boy and give him a confidence in himself, especially after he carried a canoe all by his lonesome on his shoulders for the ¾ of a mile that most portages between lakes comprised of.

All of my experience in Canada was in the province of Manitoba and I had never seen the other parts of the country which I have now found to be breathtaking as well. Even with cities and people the surrounding area overwhelms the man-made objects and dominates the horizon every-which-way.

Vancouver is plopped on a large bay and has an active shipping port. Huge cranes loom over the water to unload the gargantuan tankers and container ships that cruise on in. Just north of the city across the water is a mountain range that has some snow on it and at night you can see the ski resorts lights. Brian was startled the first evening because he forgot about the mountain and was suddenly confronted by the lights. He is not a believer in the paranormal but for just a split second there was some doubt...oh, right, the ski resort.

More on Vancouver later...