Over The Line

Recently. Or maybe weeks ago. We were once again alerted to the change. The black streak of our sunset shadows raced away directly east. Shadows and sunshine drawing a line through our compass-oriented city. A black line that extended away from the sun, and an imaginary line that extended back toward the sun and across our solar system. A line we were crossing and stepping over. Stepping into a new season. Away from long days and short nights. Across the Equinox. And into the season of short days and long nights.

And perhaps this change is something of a relief. It has been a busy season for us. We filled many of those long days with long bike rides on rough trails. We floated in small boats down complicated streams and rivers. We tromped our way through deserts and mountains. We kept our eye on the sky. Our ear to the ground. Our nose to the wind. Our thoughts to the moment. And to all the moments that fell to the long, blind history of creation that saw stars form, planets congeal and cool, oceans fill, mountains rise, fall away, then rise again to be torn into the canyons and mesas that surround us. Thoughts tuned, also, to the step-by-slow-step temptation that lured molecules to coordinate and cooperate, to replicate, animate and differentiate, to probe new niches and fill them, to move over the face of the earth by cilia and tendril, by fin and root, by foot and feather.

Which I suppose is to say, that things are churning along more-or-less as normal for us. But perhaps you, gentle reader/watcher/lurker, have noticed that we haven't been saying much about it. Nor sharing many photos. And this is true. Though we have taken photos and have stories to tell, they haven't found there way here.

With this season change. With shorter days. Longer nights. We would like to propose the possibility that some of the missing adventures of the past might now find their way into form. Into pixels and posts. And -- if we're lucky and if we're engaging enough -- into the hearts and minds of those of you who are kind enough to visit.

In this busy world, ours is a rather slow production. This meandering stream of tales from our garden, from our natural neighborhood, and from our travels, is no competition for the ever-engaging onslaught of entertainment that fills our civilized world. And for this we do not apologize. But we do think there is a line. A vague and shifting and completely questionable line. A divide. Between the manic rhythms of the world we humans create for ourselves. And the slower, infinitely larger cycles of the world that created us.

If we have a purpose for this blog. A hope. It might be that our humble pictures and stories encourage the crossing of that line. That they can provide a needed push that gets someone -- maybe even us -- outside on a cloudy, chilly day. Or on a sunny bright day. Or on a dark, noiseless night. And into a place where humans are less integral and more transitory. Where geology and the lives of plants and creatures are available to the observing senses.

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Of course it's possible that we'll continue to fill these coming shorter days with our small adventures. That our backlog of photos and stories will only grow larger as weeks pass. But here's to a new season! And to hope.

Bikerafting 101

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Mike

There comes a time in every man's life when he wants it all. Fame? Glory? Riches? -- Pshaw! That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the time in a man's life when he wants to ride his bike and float his boat.

Oh sure, I suppose some men want a giant diesel truck and a jet boat. And that may be a similar urge, corrupted by wayward technology and poor self esteem. I myself, however, have always been comfortable in keeping my desires more humble, simple, and cheap --er, affordable. And I will always claim that this tendency resulted from a deeply felt philosophical desire to minimize my impact on the natural environment, to avoid undue complexity in my life, and to "leave a mark" on society that will be easily erased and not cause any lasting damage.

At this, I believe, I have been a success. (There are detractors who will claim that I have simply never gotten my act together, that an awkward personality coupled with a lack of ambition has saddled me with my lowly status. That my great personal success is in reality a complete failure. But what? Sour grapes, I say! Sour grapes!)

Nonetheless, it has indeed been over a dozen years since I unburdened myself of the ownership of a motor vehicle (a.k.a. "car") and decided to "simplify" my life, which I mistakenly assumed required that I A. have at least half-a-dozen bikes at any one time, and B. could not have a boat. --Just because most boats -- even "minimal" boats like kayaks, inflatable kayaks -- "require" a way of dragging them around when they're not in the water. And though I've shared boats, borrowed boats, rented boats, floated on other people's boats, I thought that it was not my destiny to have a boat of my own.

But, ah! Then along comes this new phenomenon ( --that is not really new, but where have I been? I don't know.) called bikerafting. Which, though I'd heard of it, wasn't really made real for me until Mike got one of these tiny, capable inflatable boats and shined a light into the darkness of my boatless-ness. Then he acted as a conduit between me, my low budget, and a heck-of-a-deal on a not-completely-used-up antique packraft. I applied a bit of my own fortitude and a bunch of glue, and Wa La! I became a packrafter!

The next logical step was to become a bikerafter. I inflated my little raft in Trina's yard and used several straps to lash my town bike onto the front. This done, things looked great, and there was no problem floating upon the grass. So onward! I deflated and strapped the raft to the bike and rode off to the river with Mike. The big, wide, flowing mass of water was rather intimidating to me, not knowing if the bike would drag the little boat to the bottom or not. So, with Mike's supervision, I inflated my raft and then strapped my bike to the bow and floated out into a nearby shallow pond, where, indeed, the raft floated with both me and the bike onboard. This was a good sign.

We carried our laden boats the few steps between the pond and the mighty river, and shoved off from shore. Not bad! The little raft was floating happily, if somewhat low in the water. Maneuverability was pretty good. And the river did most of the work. We languidly floated on through town, past bridges and cottonwood trees and sand banks and places where the river bike path had washed into the water during the spring flood.

We landed at a popular boat launch area and smugly assembled our bikes, flattened and loaded our rafts, and rode away. Success! Our little trip through town had officially turned me into bikerafter. And widened my eyes to the true beauty of the concept: no shuttle. The traditional scourge of river rafting is that one has to find a way to get a boat to the top of the run, and have another vehicle at the bottom with which to run back to the top again to pick up the vehicle at the top. But this bikerafting thing... Ride to the top, float down, ride home. Simple. Sweet. Effective.

It's a wonder I didn't think of it myself.

Keeping the X in Xmas

Trina:
There is something incredibly freeing and peaceful about not buying into the consumerist frenzy that is Christmas. I thought I’d write a paragraph or two about how and why I’ve stopped celebrating Christmas, delving into things like the guilt I felt even as a child knowing my parents were going into debt every Christmas in order to have a massive array of be-ribboned packages under the tree; my preference for giving and receiving gifts for no reason other than, “I knew you’d love this. I know it’s not your birthday, or any other holiday, but I saw this and thought of you;” the dishonesty and meaninglessness of a holiday co-opted from pagans and manipulated into what has become an empty, stressful, pressure-filled orgy of capitalism and obligation… but I find that even just writing about all that is unpleasant, so suffice it so say: I don’t do Christmas. It makes me uncomfortable. Ignoring it is utterly blissful.

Instead of Christmas, we celebrate Kwankahvusolmas-X (Kwanza+Channukah+Festivus+Solstice+Christmas+the X from Xmas.) And in the spirit of keeping the X in Kwankahvusolmas-X, we celebrated out in nature, on the earth's skinny trails, in the warm winter sun, stress-free.

Greg:
With short days and long, cold nights, it makes sense to spend time inside with loved ones, eating good food and enjoying music. And why not celebrate the day when the sun turns back from its descent and the days begin to grow longer again. I know some who like to kill a tree and drag it inside. Some who bow down before the birth of new hope. Some who light candles against the darkness. And many who scorch credit cards with the passion of love or reciprocity or obligation or desperation.

In recent years have I've found myself moving further and further from the annual frenzy of consumerism, fealty and fellowship that churns through each late-December. I continue to revel in the change of the season, but no longer feel the need to dive into the rest. And, more and more, to avoid the whole public affair altogether.

Moments being moments, I'm sure that I let certain opportunities pass that could be considered "lost". But moments being moments, I keep the ones I have with me, and do my best to live in them. I enjoy the moments I spend with my family even if it takes place outside of the proscribed holiday schedule. Maybe, even, because it happens outside the holidays.

We were invited. But we declined. Instead of spending two days on the road in winter driving conditions, we stayed very close to home. Instead of fighting queasy feelings toward a holiday we feel disconnected from, we gave ourselves to the days of the season. Out into the world and under the sky. The trees remained rooted in soil and rock. The jingling came from Sprocket's collar. The song was the voice of the raven, the crow, the dove, and the hum of tires on moist earth. We drew breath from the cool air and warmed our bodies with our motion.

Not, perhaps, the traditional celebration. But it did suffice.

Simple Pleasures: Peasant Food

Text: Trina
Photos: Trina and Greg

Up until I was four or five years old, my parents were living the simple, humble hippie life in Northern California, one highlight of which was tromping in creeks to get to the wild blackberry stashes, filling buckets with fresh picked, vine ripe berries, and hauling them home where my mom would make blackberry cobbler and jar upon jar of homemade blackberry jam. Then when I was six, they started their own business and work became life; life became work. There was no more homemade jam, no more canning, not much time for creek tromping.

I suppose that change must have imprinted on me as a lesson in quality of life – what you give up to be what society considers "successful," what you gain by choosing a simpler, humbler lifestyle -- because now (actually, about five years ago) as an adult, I made the decision to greatly simplify my life by stepping off the professional career treadmill and taking a simple, brainless, blue collar, punch-in-punch-out job in order to get my life back. It worked. I am no longer completely consumed by my job and defined by my title, and most importantly, I now have the time and energy to do more – many more – of the things that add joy and meaning to my life.

Greg was way ahead of me, having opted out of his "real" job years before, and doing seasonal work that allowed him to have winters off so he could spend them doing his favorite thing: riding his bike... all over the world. On a very low budget, and from an extremely humble home base, he has enjoyed amazing bike-touring and bikepacking adventures in Borneo, New Zealand, Chile, Hawaii, British Columbia, and England.

One of the greatest joys in this simpler life we now enjoy together is having the time to tend a vegetable garden and mini orchard, and to devote a lot of time to making wholesome, delicious food from that garden. We’re not yet able to grow enough food in our own garden to feed ourselves from it all winter long, and I don’t know that we’ll ever get there, but it sure is fun trying! Learning how to can food and finding good canning recipes has been a big part of the equation. In the process, we’ve been pleasantly reminded of the old practice of using every part of something, be it vegetable or animal. Fitting nicely with our romantic vision of a simpler, pioneer-esque lifestyle, this philosophy is referred to in one of my canning books as “The Department of Not Wasting Anything.”

This philosophy is what led to back-in-the-day foods like pickled watermelon rind; green tomato relish; ricotta cheese, which is made from the whey that is leftover from making some other kind of cheese; and new-to-me membrillo, which sounds very exotic -- in Spain and Portugal it is typically eaten with the contrasting dry, salty manchego cheese -- but is nothing more than a paste made from the pulp that is leftover from making quince jelly.

Chefs who use quince invariably say things like, “It is a truly unique fruit; there is no substitute for it; it has a flavor unlike any other fruit,” and they mean that in a good way. Quince is an uncommon, ancient, ugly fruit related to the pear and apple, looking kind of like a lumpy, knobby, furry cross between said pear and apple. So far we’ve only had opportunity to enjoy its aroma which is nothing short of otherworldly. I challenge you to sniff one and keep your eyes from rolling back in their sockets. If scent is any indication of flavor, and I'm pretty sure it is, it does indeed hint at something indescribable and perfumey that we hope to enjoy soon with the springtime addition of an Aromatnaya Quince tree to the orchard-ita.

I did glean 6 or 7 quince from a neighborhood bush last week, and peeled and cooked them only to subsequently learn that there are varieties of quince trees chosen for their flowers and others selected for their fruit. I had harvested from a flowering quince which I'm sure makes beautiful blossoms, but its cooked fruit certainly did not live up to the succulence promised in the many descriptions and recipes I've been reading. I hope dogs like quince.



The Department of Not Wasting Anything approach has also led us to start making bone broth instead of throwing away bones and scraps from the meat we eat, and using that bone broth as the base for simple, earthy, hearty stews and soups like this,



which is nothing more than some beans, onion, garlic, thyme and a couple of handfuls of our dried wild boletes, enriched by the little bits of meat scraps that fell off the bones during cooking. So simple, so healthy, and so delicious in a simple, earthy way.

A related change has been the move to buying free-range, local, non-factory-farmed, humanely treated and humanely slaughtered beef, lamb, goat and pork. When you buy meat this way, you get almost all of the animal, with the bones cut up for the dogs, and the organs for….? In the spirit of not wasting anything, I’ve tried my hand at making paté from goat liver, which proved adequately decadent, and will soon be embarking on beef tongue with horseradish-mustard sauce. Yikes! If we never post again, you know why.

Seasonal Exchange - The Plan and Characters

The point was to get away from the snow for some riding, relaxation, camping and sunshine. Not that we weren't doing most of that right here in the winter of Western Colorado. But we wanted to push things forward a bit. Push them right up to where Spring was happening. To where the camping would be pleasant, and the sunshine would land on our skin instead of the outside of our warm coats.

We figured that if we drove South far enough, we could exchange our seemingly long, cold winter for an early Spring. We loaded Trina's truck and got moving. Who are we? This should help:

Cast of characters:

Trina, semi-lapsed artist, outdoor woman, owner of pickup truck and three dogs, girlfriend of Greg.

From Bikeabout

Greg, seasonal slacker, outdoor man, boyfriend of Trina, adopted by three dogs. Inveterate photographer.

From Bikeabout

Bella, larger brown-black dog, born in a beaver den, creaky joints from a long life of adventure. Fluctuates between "spaced out" and her "second puppyhood". Current hobby: licking.

From Bikeabout

Zeek, white and tan Parson Russell Terrier. Tough, confident. Focused and serious. Has no idea he's a small dog. Always ready for adventure. Born to hunt.

Sprocket, small red Assyrian Moth Hound who runs like the wind. Sweet disposition. Thinks everyone wants to wrestle and play. Chronically enthusiastic. Suffers from separation anxiety.

From Bikeabout

The adventure seemed to gather around certain touchpoints: Riding our bikes on sweet trails. Driving backways and reveling in the decay of former glory. Wandering among desert vegetation. And, of course, the dogs.

I haven't had a dog of "my own" since I was a kid. So being adopted by these dogs has been somewhat of a shock. I've been surprised by how much fun they are to be around, how much they add to my life, and by how much hair can come off of even a single dog.

On this trip, they definitely provided opportunity for some of the most exciting moments we had. More on that later.