California Dreaming

October 20, 2010 was the day I rode Mozi through the trunk one of the giant redwoods in Northern California. It was an event I hadn’t really considered before spotting the sign and realizing the possibilities. Maybe I did see the typical America family driving their station wagon through a huge tree on a Disney movie back in the late 1960’s, but it never entered my mind that I would be doing the same thing, but in a different tree. You see, the famous tree,”As Seen on TV”, is in many locations. Silly me, I thought there was only one.

Rewind one day...As I rode into California from Oregon, it was not with a grand celebration. Crowds were not gathered at the state line to cheer me on and salute the small American Flag which is exposed to my eyes each time I look down at my tank pack for a quick glance at my Blackberry. The governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger, couldn't make it to this historic event in my life, today. I'm sure he has more pressing state affairs to tend to. But, it would have seemed fitting for the "Austrian Oak" to be standing amongst these 350' Redwoods to welcome me, and of course, Mozi, so close to the Pacific Coast. Pacific? Would I really see the Pacific Ocean today? Wow! I mean, I started back in September by riding a ferryboat across Vineyard Sound from Martha's Vineyard Island to Woods Hole, Massachusetts on the first leg of my travels across this beautiful country. That was about as close to the Atlantic Ocean as you can get, right? And here I am, just a few short twisty miles away from the white sandy beaches and jagged rocky cliffs of the Pacific. Like every state line I have crossed so far, I pulled over to take a picture of the welcome sign. Here’s how this scene unfolds:

1. Pull over, or turn around if I missed the pull off because of heavy traffic following close behind me.

2. Get off of Mozi and stretch my legs. Walk up to the sign and actually touch it with my bare hands, both of them. (If someone stops, I just might have to explain that I am not under arrest, nor am I attempting to make the Earth move, under my feet.)

3. Read some of the scribblings and stickers left behind by someone who passed this way long before this moment.

4. Get out my camera and snap a few pictures of the sign, Mozi with the sign, Mozi and the road in our past and a few pictures of totally useless subjects in the area which I will, no doubt, delete as I lay me down to sleep in my tent later in the evening.

5. Assume the position of a rider on a mission and in search of something. Anything seems possible, because I am in California for the first time in my life, not counting the brief layover in LAX en route to Hawaii a few years ago. This is different. I am riding a motorcycle south from the Avenue of the Giants. My immediate destination is the salty beaches and Ventura Highway. US 101 sounds like a college course in National Pride. Soon, I will be on this famed path, leaving a trail of memories with others as I cherish the stories, laughter and conversations with as many I have left behind.

6. Wake Mozi from her nap and test the gears, one at a time, leaning hard around each curve in the pavement with unobstructed views of at least 1000 feet. That’s my buffer zone. Doing the math in my head is a good past time. My speedometer quit a long time ago and I am planning on ordering one as soon as I see one on the web using the WiFi of whatever coffee shop I may stop in for a caffeine fix. For now, I can count the yellow or white dashes in the road; multiply each that I pass in the time it takes my Blackberry to change from 5:21PM to 5:22PM, exactly. Now, if the distance between a set of dashed lines is 30 feet, as it is in most states, and I have passed 176 in one minute, I am doing around 60 MPH. Of course, I get my mind in the dashed-line counting mode and what happens is a no passing zone takes away the dashes and solidifies the separation of lanes with double solid lines. After doing this so many times to keep my mind entertained, I know, by the steady hum of the exhaust pulsating from the right pipe, then the left, at a frequency I can only subliminally calculate, about how fast or slow I am going.

After riding deep into this state by three quarters of a mile or so, a sign caught my eye and announced that there is an agricultural inspection station ahead. I doubt Arnold was going to be there either. Reading the signs on my approach to this government installation, I realized, even though I was not some huge, noisy, diesel fume spewing transporter of potentially hazardous veggies, crates of fruit tainted with the larvae of the dreaded Arctonotus lucidus, known to the locals as the Bear Sphinx Moth, I still had to stop for an inspection. What would they find? Would I be searched? Does Mozi harness anything illegal? "No drugs, alcohol or anything out of the ordinary has been in my possession on any leg of this trip, officer." I was practicing, just incase I am asked.

I put on my right turn signal and also raised my left hand as if I were swearing on a Bible (with the wrong hand), I wanted to dot all each "I" and cross every "T" because I wasn't really sure what I was carrying. Mozi was the only vehicle in sight or in ear shot of this rustic wooden shed with a drive-through feature similar to the DUI starter kits I rode through in Ohio, where you can drive in, order a bottle of Vodka, a carton of Orange Juice and a pack of cigarettes all from the comfort of your own car, or truck, hippie van or vintage Italian Motorcycle with no questions asked.

Obviously, I would not be purchasing any of these items here. I was the intruder, here. Arnold did not invite me and the absence of crowds assured me the San Francisco Tribune didn't run a full page story on "The Solo Freedom Rider, coming to a laid back town or city near you, dude".

Mozi knew the drill. I shut her down as soon as I entered the empty shelter and put her kickstand down. I had made eye contact with the uniformed officer before stopping, so I felt, in just a few seconds; he and I had become buds. He asked for my license and registration and politely asked me to dismount. With my bulky luggage strapped down behind me, this might not impress the French judge as much as I would hope it would, but here-goes....

Actually not that bad! The way I swung my right leg across the gas tank without letting my harness boot come within an inch of the tank pack, was impressive and made me feel like the Marlboro Man.

“1970? Cool!” was the extent of our conversation. Oh, he did finish with, “Have a nice day.” Heck no, I thought. I am the Lone Ranger. The one and only Solo Freedom Rider and this guy, Cal, might be able to relate if he knew the whole story. Calvin, or California, as I have secretly named him, must have an inquiring mind. He might appreciate the troubles I’ve seen. Nobody knows, like me.

I had to re-open negotiations to assure the welcoming committee of one will welcome this party of one with open arms and a map of the local attractions and hidden gems, famous restaurants and waterfalls which can’t be passed by. Mozi and I have been riding all day without human contact until now. We are passing into the longest state in the continental US without fanfare, bells or whistles. The least we could get was a few minutes of adoration from a governmental official, who is stuck in a remote location, which has a stench of boredom. Is this the off-season? Could it be the lack of tourists due to fact that the fall foliage does not include Redwoods, Sequoias and smaller evergreens in this forest primeval?

I put my helmet on, zipped up my jacket and proceeded to crank Mozi after the right sparkplug wire mysteriously falling off, causing the engine to miss every other ignition opportunity and forcing me to shrug my shoulders and shut her down once again. Cal asked me what was wrong. My response included a casual comment, “This hasn’t happened through the last 20 states, why now?”

“Twenty States? Where are you headed?” Cal’s eyes lit up.

I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of the trip. He listened with an enthusiasm I have enjoyed on so many occasions along the back roads of America. Cal asked where I was headed next. This one question runs through my mind on a daily basis, if not hourly. “Where am I headed?” I ask myself so often. “What am I running from?” is what I refuse to answer.

Cal lives on a dirt road in the Redwoods and by the description of his surroundings and lifestyle, he could pass for the Hobbit. He visits the beaches of the Pacific about once a month just to see it.

Riding along the Smith River, on US 199, behind a wrecker with license plates from Crescent City, California gave me the opportunity to ride fast and lean Mozi around every curve as long as I kept about 100 to 200 feet between me and the truck. His familiarity of these roads and curves that I would never attempt at these speeds was like a Get Out of Jail Free card. Or better yet, a Stay out of Jail and Emergency Room card. I was feeling pretty good about my newly acquired mobile buffer zone. The weatherman must have forecast cloudy skies and cool temps for the day and his prediction was true to form. It wasn’t dark yet, but it would be soon. My field of vision was filled from left to right with huge brown tree trunks passing by at a high rate of speed, an occasional glimpse of the Smith River flowing along in my intended direction within 50 feet of the highway, a narrow shoulder that I can’t see, anyway, because it drops off at a steep angle from the edge of the smoothest pavement I have been able to scrape my foot pegs on in weeks. This pavement, no doubt, was laid down by some sophisticated yellow machine, under the watchful eye and hand coordination of a man known for his abilities to wipe away potholes with the same precision of the Bridgeport Milling machine that matched Mozi’s heads and cylinders together, eliminating the possibility for any leakage of combustion. I appreciate, at moments like this, the care he took to give me the opportunity to open the throttle of a vintage Italian motorcycle at the midpoint of each curve and accelerate until I feel deep down inside that braking is in my immediate future and is necessary, now, for my survival. I repeat these steps over and over, once to the left, next to the right, sometimes I have to throw the handlebars over from one side to the other without even thinking about it. Countersteering is the action of pushing forward on the right handlebar if you want to head towards the right, which may sound completely opposite of how you learned how to ride your first bicycle. But, in doing so, the bottom of the motorcycle front wheel is forced to travel left at a higher rate of speed than the top of the wheel is able to, thus, causing the entire motorcycle frame, engine, electrical and various mechanical components, along with the rider to lean to the right and automatically head in that direction with the ease and finesse of those ducks, flying about 5 feet above the Smith River on their journey south. Once again, all is well in towns of Idlewild, Patrick Creek and Adams Station, California on the 20th of October, 2010.

US 199 was my path of least resistance for the first 37 miles of California soil. It was now getting dark and I turned south onto US 101 in a thick fog with no chance of seeing the ocean. I stopped somewhere along the coast to get coffee and gas. It appeared to be a sad little community with nothing to offer but gas, coffee and an assortment of snacks fit for a somewhat disappointed biker who seriously was anticipating a beautiful sunset over the Pacific with red, pink, violet and yellow clouds hovering just above the horizon with my Nikon Digital camera snapping a shot every second with polarized lenses spinning and an 8-point star filter capturing this magical moment in my life, the ride across thousands of miles between the Atlantic and Pacific was complete without too much of a struggle and most of all, I had arrived!

I rode on…

Clam Beach is a small strip of land just off of US 101 about 70 miles south of Crescent Beach. I wasn’t expecting anything magical or wonderful tonight; I just needed to stop and sleep. I was running low on money and would force myself to set up the tent and fill the air mattress up to keep my body off of the cold ground. I could estimate by the sound of the engine that I was doing about 45MPH and didn’t feel like pushing my luck. There were Elk walking across the road and God knows what else I may run into. I could go on to Eureka and pay for a warm hotel room, but I was warned at the convenient store that with my motorcycle left all alone, with or without a cover in such a drug-infested community, chances are, it would be gone before the sunrise with little possibility of ever recovering it. “Those guys are pros and they’ll do anything for a fix!” sometimes the late-night clerks are a wealth of useful information.

I pulled into the Clam Beach entrance and rode around the parking lot, using Mozi’s headlight to get a sense of the whole dynamic of California beach camping. My best bet would be parking near other vehicles on the north end of the lot, which is also adjacent to building that houses the rustic hole in the ground with a raised seat and a few rolls of moist toilet paper, stacked on the wet floor. I only saw this at 10PM with my LED headlamp shining in places they don’t talk about in the country clubs of Carmel, Monterey or Pebble Beach.

Several people were sitting around a bonfire of old wooden crates which they busted apart and added to the pile on an as-need basis. I spent a few minutes reading the rules and regulations of beach camping on a bulletin board near Mozi’s personalized parking spot. I read that I should pick a camping spot, identified by the number painted on the picnic tabletop. I was to write this number on the registration envelope and place $14.00 inside of the envelope for cars, $5.00 for walk-on camping. Dang, which would I be? I am not a car and definitely would walk to this place at night. There must be an in between. So, I walked off into the vast sandy area, past the pallet fire and the folks gathered around it in praise of the heat radiating from it’s flames and the sparks which were flying into the sky, triggering a chorus of “Ah, oohhhh” from my soon-to-be new neighbors. One young man turned to greet me as I walked by, “Heyyyy. You want a burger?”

“No, but thanks, man. I’ve got to set up my tent. It’s freezing!” I was shivering at this point.

“You want to get high?” he was turning into such a friendly soul and neighborly stranger.

He went on to the next step and with somewhat skillful thought, he put it all together, “If you get high, you might want a burger.” I thought at this moment of shivering cold and his comment that I was going to pee in my pants!

“Maybe so.” I was polite in my response and continued to a suitable spot in the sand for my tent, table #4, party of one!

I filled out the envelope and put it in my pants pocket for future completion and payment, once I could determine what this was really going to cost me. I set up “Camp Ken” and put the cover on Mozi, securing the under-belly strap tight to deter others from taking a peek in my absence. I looked around in the garbage pile and found a couple of scraps of charred firewood and carried them over to the fire as an offering. My piece I give you. I give you my peace. I suddenly learned a new hand shake. No, several progressively different handshakes as I met each new hippie around this blazing focal point. Hippie was not written here by me as a derogatory labeling of these people. I found a group of people who have only met each other in the recent past on this same beach. Each one of them, drawn to the beach, the ocean and the Freedom to be found without the constraints of the rigors of modern society as we know it. The rules forced upon the citizens of this country, this state and Humbolt County were not to be discussed or considered on this evening. Perhaps, this body of bodies would govern itself with friendship, sharing, listening to every single person’s views of the stars which could now be seen through the thinning fog and cloudless night sky of the Northern California Coast.

I did not get high on any drugs that were offered to me. I also did not have a burger. The beef jerky and huge bag of M&Ms which I pulled out of my tent brought smiles to everyone’s face and for a while, I was a part of this tiny community or travelers, gypsies and free-spirited individuals. The fire felt good on the backs of my hands as I faced outwards to imagine what the ocean looked like, just a hundred feet or so away. I decided not to attempt an interview or record any conversations, but the talk was great. So many stories of where we have each come from, but not so much on where we were heading.

This had been a long day. I could have gone to sleep around 10:15PM, but I would have missed it all. I finally hit the wall and said my goodnights, did my best to walk from table #2 to table #4 without tracking a ton of sand into my tent… again. After a few moments of reflecting on this day’s events, the $8.00 spent for a ride through a huge tree on private property. There was that fast, peg scraping, grit my teeth, should I really be going this fast for the next 22 miles behind this flatbed wrecker, ride on US 199.

Before I had a chance to open my eyes and greet the morning fog, I heard voices. One of them sounded just like the guy who offered me some pot and a burger the night before. But, the other voice sounded like that of authority. You know the kind, to the point, not in a mean way, but in the way that makes sense in a court room filled with a jury of your peers. I opened my tent door with a steady downward zipper action until I could see, standing about 30 feet away from me, at camp site #2, an official park ranger. He appeared to be in his late 20s and well dressed and greeted me with a simple “Good Morning.”

Of course, I responded, “Good Morning, indeed. Did you bring coffee?” I was hoping he had a sense of humor. And it appeared he did. He answered no, and went right into the conversation containing the questioning my mode of transportation, car or walk in.

“I rode in on my motorcycle. By the way, what is the fee for a motorcycle? I filled out the envelope, but wasn’t sure about the cost and was hoping to run into you today.”

“Motorcycle? Cool. Can I see it?” He was serious, so I pulled to cover off and exposed Mozi to sunny California fog and a curious ranger. “Really cool. Wow. It’s Italian?” I couldn’t tell if he was kidding me or what.

“For a motorcycle, it’s a couple of bucks”

“Couple, as in two?” I wanted to verify the numbers.

“Like five.” He continued, “Say, I’m going for coffee in a few minutes, what do you want in yours?”

OK, this guy has to be pulling my leg, now. I never answered, but went off on a tangent about some Freedom Tour across America, in search for answers to questions I can’t even ask myself, but have no problem quizzing other folks about.

I did have a Diet Mountain Dew on Mozi and proceeded to sip it as we continued this discussion of a non-political mission I was on. This gesture served nicely to bow out of the coffee offer, although I really would have loved a little hazelnut latte with the frothed skim milk topping.

The ranger left and I began the AM process all over again; Dry off the tent in layers, starting with the shell, then moving onto the interior contents, one at a time and packing the individual parts on Mozi in an orderly fashion. There were still a few people sleeping and I did my best to keep quiet and allow them to wake on their own schedule and brush the sand out of their dreadlocks. Imagine this, a couple was sleeping on the open sand, with no tent, sleeping bag, blanket or any sort of barrier between their clothes and the moist sand. Just the vision of this made me itch. Oh yeah, they had a cat with them that wondered around this beach in search of food or someone to rub it’s back. I took a few pictures of Beach Cat just because.

Another couple speaking softly as they lit a camping stove and made a good attempt to boil water and make coffee. They were doing this on a makeshift camping kitchen counter in the trunk of a Cadillac. This Cadillac still had the dealer sticker on the window. When my eye caught the guy’s attention, I said hello. Asked how they were, they both responded with “Great” and as if they had practiced this maneuver time and time again, they moved closer towards each other as they spoke and held hands. I mean, it was so cute. These people were in love! They ended up telling me they were from a families and were just “Out There, finding themselves”.

As I packed the last few items on Mozi and made a few careful trips to the luxurious restroom in hopes of finding it available, this guy was standing near Mozi and began asking the same questions everyone before him on that morning had asked. Where am I headed next? Am I riding alone? Have I been to a plantation to ask about Freedom?

“Plantation, as in Way down yonder in the Land of Cotton?” I asked.

“A Cannabis plantation.” He spoke with confidence, more than I had at this minute.

“No, not in my plans. How would one attempt such a visit?” I was almost kidding.

He asked me if I was serious. If I really wanted to. “Are you cool with this?”

“Sure. Do you know someone that can get me in?” I was curious, now.

But then, I had questions to ask myself. What the hell was I getting myself into? I didn’t know if I could really do this. Was it dangerous? Is this a legal farm or a plantation run by the Mexican Mafia?

“Which way are you heading from here?” He went on to explain that the fastest route to Carmel and Monterey was to get on US 101 and just stay on it into San Rafael; then take the I-580, I-880 through Oakland…. He went on, but he lost me at 580.”

“I don’t do interstates.” I stated rule #2 and explained the other 2 rules of engagement in my battle against the shackles of society.

“Wait, what happened to the plantation visit?” I may have sounded a little eager at this point, but what the heck? I don’t have to go. No one is forcing me, but my mind was racing with the idea of going over the border, pushing the envelope a bit and seeing what 99.99999% of law abiding American citizens will never see, even if Marijuana was legalized.

I listened as he poured out details of the location of a gas station in a town about 45 miles away in the Trinity National Forest. The station is on the right, just past…. He gave me the name of the place and said, “When you get there, park right in front and go inside to ask for Doug.”

“Who’s Doug?”

“There is no Doug. Just ask for him?”

Mozi cranked up after another 15 minutes of discussion on the insanity of Marijuana Laws vs. Drinking and Driving along with the thousands of deaths caused by, as he put it, “Stupidity in Political Offices”.

I only stopped for a cup of decaf coffee to avoid tensions which may be caused my the jitters of a legal drug, hidden in the rich brown beverage I love so dearly.

With breakfast out of the way, I went over my pre-flight check list to verify I had somewhat of an escape plan, with all the provisions needed to end up in a soft, warm bed in Carmel, California later tonight.
Northern California is beautiful! My timing and route could be the reason for this sudden desire to just run away into the rolling hills, the Eucalyptus forests and Redwoods. The endless miles of winding roads, along side of streams which are flowing freely with somewhat warm waters attract me like no place before this moment. The waters are green. Is this algae or just the reflection of the thick forest canopies nestled between spots of blue skies? There is a mysterious place waiting for me right around this next curve in the road. It has been like this in every county of each state I have left my footprints in. Mozi and me, we are pals on a magical tour of life. I must admit there have been times and will be many more when I find boredom in the music playing in my headphones and the volume is extinguished with the slightest flick of my fingertip on the Scala Rider communication device which normally serves as my lifeline to noises other than a twin cylinder engine under my seat and just forward of my legs. Greg Allman’s voice is silenced and the sound in my ears is now purely that of an internal combustion engine running around 2200RPMs. I can’t help it; my mouth opens. My lungs are filled with air. Traces of oceanic foam, fog and salty mist are present. I exhale with my vocal cords adjusted to produce a resonating sound to match Mozi. Perfecting this pitch and we are a duet. I go down an octave and lean into the next curve around the rocky formation on my left. The river is on my right, about 200 feet below. Someone, with a college degree in mountainous transportation safety and guard rail etiquette must have taken the day off when this passage was designed and installed. The only thing between me and the river bed is 200 feet of vertical air, paired with two pieces of spinning rubber about, and I am guessing as we lean left, 1.5 inches wide where it grips the pavement at 50MPH. We are still climbing with each pair of turns between straight sections of road which are never longer that a football field. I ask myself if I have been on the road too long. I am humming at a steady pitch even though I am shifting from 4th gear to 3rd as the road become steeper. It seems like a silly game, but I try to stay on pitch from the time I downshift until I reach the crest of the next hill and can finally shift back up on the decent into the next valley. “What in the hell are you doing, Ken?” I am managing to play both sides of this discussion in silence. No one can hear me or read my mind, where I am. The full face helmet and tinted lens gives me anonymity. I am the man in the bubble. As if someone could read my lips, with each word I sound out loud inside of my brain bucket. Not a chance. I am constantly scanning my surrounding to keep tabs on the number of vehicles which are going to attempt to hit me. I feel it is the safest way to travel, being alert and never letting my defenses down.

I did let my defenses down long ago and if I were to hit a patch of sand or a handful of pine needles on this seemingly clean asphalt, the damage wouldn’t appear to be as severe as my past. A stronger man would not take this trip and a weaker man would not understand why.

The city limit sign just pops out at me at the same time I can see building appear. The roofs are all low, but not only in comparison to the surrounding tree tops. Now, I am looking for a gas station, a convenient store. The question I asked myself on what I would call Main Street is “Do I really need to do this? Should I be scared? Do I honestly care what could happen?” My answers run through me head; Yes. Yes. No…

The man in the bubble, solo freedom rider, ex-electrician, writer-wantabe put his left turn signal on, downshifted to third, then second and finally coasted into the parking space along side of the glass store front. Once again, my landing gear is clicked into it’s fully locked position and I lean Mozi over onto solid ground, verifying the angle of lean leaves a comfortable feeling in my stomach.

It seems like it took me about 5 minutes to stand next to Mozi and do a wardrobe change for the next scene in this play. Riding gear off. Casual meet-n-greet attire on and there is nothing left to do but walk inside and mill around a bit as if I am looking for a special brand of candy bar, beef jerky, Diet Mountain Dew and maybe a pack of gum. When, in fact, what I am really doing is stalling until the other customers have paid and gathered their junk food and exited through the double glass doors. I glance over to watch the door close before I walk up to the clerk to ask for Doug and what catches my eye is the strip of tape on the door frame which allows the clerk to gauge the height of the would-be robber. “Damn, I look like that guy!” I tell myself, since I was casing this joint in a textbook manner.

“Hey”, my eyes met his and as the register began to ring up every item with a simple scan of the bar code, “Where can I find Doug?” He immediately stopped scanning and completely covered my pack of gum with his right hand. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Ken. I am writing a story about Freedom in the US and….” My words were boring me at this point. Same old same old, like I have told possibly thousands of people. The accurate number of listeners is maybe in the 300-450 range.

“You got some ID?”
“Sure” I already had my wallet out to pay for my junk food. I showed him my official Massachusetts Motorcycle Riders License and also handed him one of the Solo Freedom Rider calling cards.

He asked if I was riding the black motorcycle. I said yes. He rang up the gum and I paid for my nourishment.

“Wait here.” He locked the register and walked outside with his cell phone. I could see him talking but he was turned and I couldn’t read his lips. But, his head nodded a couple of times and I translated that to mean this might happen.
As he walked back towards the door, I glanced around to see not a single security camera, thinking I might have been taped and later viewed as one of my final moments.

“Just hang tight for 20 minutes.” He went right behind the counter and started restocking the cigarette shelf with his back to me.

I put the Mountain Dew in it’s dedicated bungee cord harness behind the windshield. I tucked the beef jerky into the tank bag and opened the pack of gum to freshen my breath.

Right on time, 20 minutes after the phone call, a black Monte Carlo with tinted windows pulled in right next to me. This guy that got out of the driver side looked like a throwback from Bob Marley’s time. Light brown dreadlocks past his shoulders. More than a few tattoo sessions have left their mark on his bare chest and right arm. “You Ken?” walking around Mozi. “You got some ID?”

This all seems so routine for everyone in this parking lot but me. He quickly scanned my motorcycle license and pointed it towards Mozi,” You can’t take anything with you.” The second guy opened the rear passenger door and motioned me to get in. “The bike will be ok here. Randy will take care of it ‘til we get back. You got a cell phone?”

“Yep.” I pulled my Blackberry out of my jeans pocket and showed him the screen go black as I pushed the key lock button, as it does. The phone gave the impression that it was dead, but it was actually still on and the ringer was already set to “Silence”.

Randy? I thought of this mental note to myself.
“Ok.” I stepped into the car and guy #2 also got in the same side as I slid over. We were off and running and the conversation automatically went right into the subject of Freedom. I sat out of the first few lines exchanged from the rear seat to the driver. The dynamics between these two appeared to be life-long. The floor mat was missing on my side and there was a thick coat of rust on the exposed metal. As my feet moved about, there was a scraping sound, so I did my best to not show any sign of nervousness. The questions began and I spoke without the slightest hesitation. “Freedom can’t be explained to me by so many people, so far. I was hoping you guys could change that. So, what does the word, Freedom, mean to you?”

“You’re looking at it. We are the envy of the Socialist Republic of America.” The driver pulled off of the road about 5 miles west on 299 and adjusted the mirror so we were now looking at each other. “I hope you’re Ok with this.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but my mind was racing through a handful of options, Open the door and run, sit there and see what happens, or open my mouth and gather my senses long enough to act as if nothing were suspicious in these guys actions and, well, this happens to me almost everyday.

“OK, with what?”

“We gotta blindfold you. You OK?”

“Yeah, I kind of expected this."

Guy #2 (and I really wish they had names to share) placed the blindfold around my head and pulled the elastic band down over my ears to insure the front would not ride up like those small tee shirts I had packed on day one of the trip. There is an application available to Blackberry users called Latitude. It is a GPS tracking program which sends out the user’s location, sometimes within 3 meters accuracy. It can be tracked by individuals who log onto google.com/IG and who also have a user name and password to pull up a map and see a square icon with my name inside. The icon also has a short arrow pointing to the Solo Freedom Rider, blindfolded or not!

To take my mind off of the situation, I began explaining what I have been up against since the beginning. I told of the Catskill Mountain Thunder Biker Rally back in September and how the main building burned to the ground under the watchful lens of my camera. I could feel the car turning right, left, back right again, but it was not giving me any indication as to our actual location. All I know is we are going to stop somewhere and I may be able to remove the padded cloth from my face to see daylight again. My mind could not calculate time or distance. All I could feel were the curves and hear the engine slow, then speed up with each hill we went over.
The last time I wrote was about being blindfolded in the back of a Chevy Monte Carlo as we rode through the Trinity National Forest of Northern California. It was understood that I was being taken in through some backroads to a "Plantation". I had no idea what I would see or experience. No clue as to what this place would look like. I was hoping they would allow me to remove the blindfold soon and get out of this car. I mean, it stinks. Wreaking of old motor oil and an ashtray filled with the remains of many cheap cigarette butts and God only knows what else. While we are on the subject of odors, a bar of soap shared between these two guys wouldn't hurt a thing. Are they alergic to deodorant? They may be totally clueless in the fine art of cleanliness and personal hygene.
Dear Mom,


I am having a great time at summer camp. We don't shower because we are swimming all the time. And the counselors don't want to kill any fish in the lake, so we can't bathe there either. We don't mind, as we all smell ok. Please send me more money so I can buy postcards and stamps to send to all my friends back home (this money will be used to buy a pack of cigarettes to share with my new friends here).
Yeah, I am pretty sure this letter made it's way to the home of the guy sitting next to me in this pimped out Chevy from the early 1970's.
I've driven with a passenger next to me, on curvy roads and didn't realize they were car sick until I had to pull over for them to heave their guts out on the side of the road. I never felt like I was driving too fast or that I was taking the curves agressively. I felt that these people we weaklings, absolutely not able to spend time with me on my sailboat due to the seasickness that would surely take over their minds and bodies like a salty demon. I need to appologize the next time I see them, because, back in this car, with my eyes covered so completely and my mental status is questionable and several putrid smells are mixing with the warm sunshine hitting my left arm, I am doing my best to avoid that same illness that once plagued my own passengers. Yes, I am definately getting sick, dizzy and I am beginning to taste beef jerky again. Feeling, as my Dad would say, "Like Death eating a Cracker". I am miserable. Just before I hurl, the car's accelerator is easing up and we are coasting up a hill. It's the feeling you get when you are in a boat on a lake and you are slowing down to greet a dock or beach, everything feels smooth and there comes a calmness all over you. I wonder what it would be like, on that beach; Sticking my toes deep under the warm sand and sitting on a hill of coquina shells and my brother is out past the breakers, waiting for the next set of waves. My sisters are running down into the foamy surf and running right back out as if the waves were attacking them. Our parents are sitting on the tailgate of the old black Chevy truck and they must be talking about something important. Or they are telling a secret. Grandma is standing in the shallow surf with her fishing pole held high and the monofilament line followed the lead sinker and baited hook, somewhere out in the surf. She always went with us to the beach, when that was something we were able to do. The beach bears our family name to this day. The sign at the entrance of it ends up missing from time to time, but the county never fails to make another and replace the broken post of the old one with a new steel post and sink it deep into a freshly poured concrete base. "Mickler's Beach" is once again visible to all who pass by the place which will forever hold a place in my heart.
The car's engine has stopped and a door opens. I feel a hand pull the back of the cloth up and over my head and I can see a clear blue sky, more majestic Redwoods and what appears to be a junkyard. As my eyes struggle to adjust to the light, the visions of various junk pieces are transforming into old refrigerators, lawn mowers, a big rusty panel truck and two mobile homes. The exterior light on the small trailer home is on and the door is open. Without asking, I opened my door and got out. The driver motioned me to follow him across the gravel road and through a gate between two of the Redwoods. There is not a fence to be seen, but we had to walk through the gate as if this were the only route available. He lead; I followed and in about 5 minutes, he stopped in a clearing.
"There it is." he waved his right arm around as if to acknowledge the other performers on this stage and asking them to take a bow.
I was speechless. There, under the canopy of the Redwoods, was a camouflage netting stretching maybe 300 feet long, but setting back under the giant trees some 50 feet from the edge of the clearing. The net was strung up on a large rope between the trees maybe 15 feet above the ground. It extended farther back into the forest than I could see. There were voices coming from under the net. We walked over and picked the edge of the net up just enough to squat down and enter the hidden chamber.
When Dorothy skipped along with the Tinman, Cowardly Lyon and Scarecrow, over the poppy covered hill and saw the Emerald City for the first time, she had this look on her face which I will never forget. It was like the first time Forrest Gump saw Jenny on the bus. Like a 4 years old peeking around the corner of the stairs on Christmas morning. It was at this point, in the forest, that my eyes bugged out and my mouth would only shut in an attempt to swallow and moisten my lips with my tongue. I was not told how many Marijuana plants with there, but I did hear that this was field #1 and there were more in another place. Most of the bushes, shrubs, trees or whatever they are called, were between 6 and 7 feet tall. The voices became louder with every step I took. Suddenly, the outline of men and women became clear and they stopped talking with our approach.
The nameless introductions were as rehearsed. After shaking hands with a few of the Creamers, I walked along through the hidden field of the devil weed with my hands in my pocket. With my right hand, I carefully found the face of my Blackberry cell phone and slid my fingers down and across the screen until I could tell my fingertip was directly over the red power button. I pressed the button down firmly for about 6 seconds, then released it. The phone was now turned off and the Lattitude application would remain locked onto this position until I would power it back up at a later time, I hope...
Lattitude is an application that transmits my GPS location, within 3 meters accuracy, to www.Google.com/IC. Any registered Google user with an authorization from me, earlier on this ride, could log on at this moment and see exactly where I was last logged onto Verizon Wireless. "Can you see me, now?" My wife, my dad and my brother all have the user name and password to view me at this moment and for the next hour or so.
"Can I ask you a question or five?" This was evolving into the perfect moment to engage in a conversation about Freedom.
"Maybe. It depends on..." He stopped talking and turned his head as if he heard something, someone. "Go ahead. Ask."
We began talking about the Marijuana business and why these people were called "Creamers". The most valuable part of the harvest is the buds. Rich in THC and fetching a hefty price on the streets, the cream of the crop is carefully picked first, then the remaining leaves are raped from the tree branches at a faster pace without taking care not to damage them. The main objective is to get the crop out of these woods and out of the plantation owner's possession as quickly as possible.
"There's a potential scheduling problem this year. Napa is ready to harvest in two weeks and most of our pickers are going south for safe work in the valley. We promised to pay them $200.00 for each pound of Cream they pick, if they stay until the Cream is in. They are paid $120.00 per pound at the end of the day and the balance when the entire Cream Crop is harvested. So far, this is working out well for all of us."
"How long will it take to pick the rest, after the Creamers are gone?"
"Some will stay and just keep picking. The Cream should be bagged up in three weeks and the remains can be harvested in another week with a few more travelers stopping by."
"Can I ask you about Freedom?"
"You want to stay and pick for a while? You can stay with us."

Even though I opted not to stay and pick an illegal substance for large, immediate cash profits in Northern California, under the shade and protection of old camo netting and huge Redwoods, I knew there would be more adventures and exciting places to visit. For now, I have no regrets and no second chances to go back.

Mozi on...