Cannon balls and Coffin nails

Cannon balls and Coffin nails, who knows the truth behind ole wives tales. I’ll be your crutch in the dark night, I’ll be your man when the world isn’t right, but something is wrong with me, I see things that shouldn’t be.

Cannon balls are made of lead, Coffin nails pound you to bed. To lay you to rest six feet deep, the ground now holds you to sleep. I’m a cannon ball that shoots to high, up into the mythos and away I fly, but the return home is always misery. I fall lower than I fly, then pound my head and ask why, I’ll strike coffin nails till I die.

I stir my whiskey with a coffin nail, I pack around a cannon ball to see how it feels, the weight is right, if I get too light I cause myself freight. I don’t want to be the one who weighs you down, causes you to wear a thorny crown. I can’t be your everything, my personalities masquerade and even to my dismay I can’t control them. I’m a pawn in my own life, at the center I’m a man by the river, this is my sphere where everything else spins around, but we all get dizzy and sometimes fall down.

I’d like to hold you forever more, I’d like to know where your thoughts became warm. I hang to you like a cannon ball, lit to flight, you’ve always been my powder in the dark night. I feel like a burden or weight, the truth takes an ugly shape, I grab planks of pine and twisted nails and enclose myself into a finely built coffin, crafted with these hands and rusted bitter nails.

I’ve been many things and parts of great people, I believe like many things this is our pinnacle. What is stronger, a cannon ball or a coffin nail, which one is bound to fail, one weighs a soul down and the other houses a form to be lowered into the ground.

Stars and strips, to the stars at night, this country was formed by both of them, we dig and scratch, search and scavenge wondering what is our passage. The guiding light be our sun, the moon shines bright on a canvas of our next days, but we are the brush who paints what we want to see. I’ve seen too much in thirty four years, in my highest form I’ve always been marked by tragedy, it’s a humbling feeling to be helpless in thought and emotion. With lively eyes and tired skin, I hope to see and live again, I’m built to endure pain so you don’t have to, I’ve built coffins and fired cannons in life’s past.

One aimed at an enemy and others built for friends, cannon balls and coffin nails sometimes is all I’ve been. Built for war, but labored for love, I’m torn between the moons and tides

The pettit~Files, A thousand times, its a ditty really.

A thousand times I spoke your name, a thousand times I heard the same, nothing echoing back from the dark. I crawled neath the covers and bared my soul, I walked upon this earth alone, your name always like a vapor on my lips. Parts of you kept me here, the wanting and craving at times I felt you near, but as I turned to look you’d gone away. I had seen you once in books I’ve read and stories I’d written, but the pen couldn’t do justice for what was hidden.

A fleeting heart marked with desire, affections unknown never to expire, I kept looking under any stone. I had found the haunts that draw me in, the dark and shady recesses where men had been, but never return. I drank you up in my hometown, I kissed unseen lips at the dawn of a new year, when I felt alone I whispered your name a thousand times, the warmth of a thousand sunrises came to my surprise, then, I knew I was getting close. I had seen your face against the pale ocean, then and there I got the notion, come hell or high water I would set out to find you. Waves of water looked like a body under blankets, your hips rounded neath thread count shared with me, it was a vision of madness, or better yet a crush.

Over time I grew bitter not being able to find you, I became haunted by something better than me, the smell, taste and touch now followed me everywhere. I tried to loose you in bottles I drank and times I shared, in the less desirable you where never nearer. A path of light that caused flight, I again set foot to find. In painted landscapes, I came to find the death of some near the end of their time, through grief and miles I closed the gap. In fits of sleep you awakened me, caused me to dream who I was meant to be, in rage and fear I fell in love. I was boldend to look where never before, in a country I had yet to explore, then in a wash of easiness you came to me.

I had fallen in love by the time you sat down, when I heard your voice I ordered another round, this was going to hurt. I knew then my life would change, I no longer had to whisper a name a thousand times and wonder why I couldn’t find the person I had seen for decades. It felt like a cruel mystery all those years, through the pain and tears I had to bend to be a better person. I tried to break myself a thousand times and in the agony of their ryms I picked myself up and spoke to you, though far too early.

You have been everywhere, and when I thought I was alone, I saw your face a thousand times and spoke aloud of ways I would make you mine, but now I just like to kiss you.

 

Post Script; just cause I’m writing some sonnets doesn’t mean I’m getting slow!

The Pettit~Files, From the tour divide to commercial Fishing

Thirty four years and burning the torch at both ends, my life shoots out in spirals like a clydiscope twisting and forming new colors, and images shattered by adventure, failure and the need to see more. Paralled by the two paths that seem to be my life then only to be brought back together to form these days, like a yo yo stretching from the end of my string then coiled back up. From the 2,800 mile expedition of the tour divide spanning from Banff to Mexico. I again headed north, but without a bike. Back to my old haunts, chasing halibut through the ocean, looking for 18,000 pounds to bring from the depths of Alaskan waters, to the shores and stores in Bellingham.

Its 1,106 miles from my new southern home in Phoenix to Seattle. I was picked up by the two B’s, one who moved from Phoenix so I introduced her to my other friend Beth, who arrived from Denver many years ago, I was comforted by their friendship and happy that I could introduce two great people. I had a night layover and only got to see a handful of friends, my next flight was at 6:00 the following morning, so the Rainier’s had to be cut short and so did my time in the Seattle nightlife. We had beers on a patio along the Lake Washington shoreline, in great views of volcanoes and the mountains my home state is known for. The weather was perfect and I was comforted by the breezes lifting off the lake and covering me with a chill.

I crashed on B Steen’s couch, she was gracious enough to wake before four am to haul my sorry ass back to the airport. From Seattle to Juneau its 909 miles, arriving before eight am I was eagerly looking forward to a bloody marry while peering out to the glaciers outside the airport windows. I was surprised to find I couldn’t get booze in Alaska on this morning, very unusual. Instead I loaded up with caffeine and chugged it before passing through the armed TSA agents. I had a three hour layover and scammed the WIFI, and did some people watching, next stop Yakutat.

　

　

Once airborne the winged jet liner lifted off above the mountains and glaciers pooled around inlets of salt water and rarely explored. The spiny mountain ridges expose themselves skyward like the spine of an anemic child. Knobs of higher peaks protrude like the vertebra of our history and the smashing force of plate tectonics. The ocean laps at their bases below the water, kelp forest sweep side to side with currents and tides. Islands trapped alone and separated from mainland’s arms of earth, finger like in form stretch out disappearing into our greatest natural abundance.

Ten years after Aaron first brought me to Yakutat, I’ve returned a seasoned deckhand with years of experience. Maybe a little rusty but I know it’ll return fast. Perhaps a bit scrawny too, my old ways of making money, pouring concrete, building stuff and commercial fishing left me with the same amount of body fat, but about 200-215 pounds on the same frame. A little different to the 170-190 I carry around now. In the pressurized cabin above the earth, clouds take on an appearance of oil in water, little circles of cumulous hovering the sky sporadically held together by whisp of white vapor.

it’s a short 199 mile hop to Yak, I haven’t been here in probably five years, and progress had been made. Pavement all the way to the harbor, I even heard word that there getting cell phones in September, strange times indeed. I was met by Aaron Davenport, owner of the Pelican and John Morris, high school buddy. He’d been up with Aaron most of the summer and they needed some experienced help catching the remaining balance of their quota, then haul the goods south. A Seven day adventure running day and night, its zombie land on the high seas.

We made our way to the boat, tied to the dock in the calm waters, there was the vessel that gets me a little nostalgic, also something I’ve cursed in vain for days, weeks and months at a time. I use to spend on average over 120 straight days on her wooden planks, but with the quota getting cut down, the fishing now last only 45 days or so. We had planned for me to fish the entire year, but this little thing called the tour divide got in the way.

Financially we needed it. The cost of the divide and hospital bills where high, not to mention Amber and I had moved into our new place and I’m still paying two rents for another two months. The shop and I parted ways, hopefully for the better. I had left with eight dollars in my checking account and was flying on borrowed miles from a good friend. A hundred and fifteen bucks crammed in my wallet, not enough to buy a deck hands license, I didn’t want to use my credit card, the idea of spending borrowed money at an interest turned me off, but I knew if I needed to I could get an advance from Aaron, but that would require me asking for help, something still to this day is usually a muted phrase.

The VHF crackles to life with a computer animated voice telling us of the weather that lay ahead, so we holed up in town for a couple days. It was good to see some old faces and this land that captures my imagination. There is actually good surfing in Yakutat, Aaron went up early to catch a minus tide. So the morning after we all got acquainted and the whiskey was poured at length we hopped in the truck with surfboards on the hunt for waves, but everything was washed out and running confused, like my frontal lobes blushing with Kentucky whiskey. The next day we boarded a friends skiff and jetted out of the bay again looking to surf but the swell wasn’t nearly big enough, maybe for Aarons paddle board but not for ours.

There is only two bars in town, and we happened to get there a couple days before Fairweather days, a town celebration filled with native rituals, food and families fly in from all over to reminisce. We attended each bar on different nights, although the same band had played in both bars, they did manage to change up their set though. Smoking is allowed, so a thick air hung of wasted tobacco, sitting in between the lofts of people, being re-breathed and reeking clothes. The days where spent running around, doing some gear work and watching it rain.

They say the population of Yak it just over 650, and now complete with two cops, both a little on the abrasive side. A couple of stores, ice house, big dock and really that’s about it. Back during the war the U.S military used the protective inlet to get ready to pounce on Japan if needed. Old quancets, tanks, and even some towers mark the shoreline.

The Pelican, built in 1929 in Seattle, is a long for the day of 54 feet, and maybe 14 feet wide, and draws about 7 feet. The rough hewn lumber has withstood all Aaron has thrown at her, and a couple before him, Aaron has owned it now for over 30 years. Once, it sank off the coast of Washington when the old skipper tried to run in between a tug and barge. She sank in about a 100 feet, the hole in the port side sucked out a deckhand never to be seen again, and not too long after, Davenport bought her. There is a town in Alaska named after her, the boat hauled all the materials to build the old ice house and storage.

S

 

eptember 26, 1938 is the day the F/V “Pelican” arrived in Lisianski Inlet to begin construction of a cold storage. The timing of this event coincided with the movement of the salmon troll fleet westward from Sitka and on up the coast to Yakobi Island. Before the arrival of the “Pelican” the Lisianski area had witnessed developments by miners and a government navigation site at Soapstone Cove. From the Pelican, Alaska website. A cool piece of history I’m proud to be a part of.

 

I’ve been to Pelican before only one summer, its location is far down the Lisianski inlet, we got blown off due to weather and the run time to anywhere else was too long. Pulling up to the docks the tiny town sticks out along the tall green mountains all around it. Everything is on a boardwalk, built on stilts. There was only one car I noticed there, to haul the trash out to the dump, everything else was four wheelers and gators. There is a couple good rowdy bars, Rosie’s has to be the most well known. Let us not forget the boardwalk boogie, its on my bucket list. Everyone wanders around the boardwalk, cooking, drinking, smoking whatever feels right, then after a spell at Rosie’s listening to music everyone gets naked and runs down the boardwalk and launches off the dock into the chilly inlet, defenatly my kind of party.

We headed up to the little library and looked at old pictures, back then wheelhouse’s where the sizes of phone booths, they served only one perpas, to navigate. They where uncomfortable, so you wouldn’t fall asleep. The bunks, galley and everything else was down stairs away from the elements.

 

Back to Yakutat and the catch we needed. The wait for weather was longer than expected, causing anxiety in some, but if you’ve had your ass handed to you in the middle of the ocean, a couple days in town isn’t going to kill you. Needing 18,000 pounds is not as easy as it use to be, so you need up to five days if the fishing is slow, and it wasn’t a quick easy catch for us. We loaded up with Pollack, bait for the catch, about 4 tons or more of ice, each fish has to be “poke” iced, once cleaned it leaves the chest cavity open and must be filled with ice, the head and layer ice as well. It’s a long run to Bellingham, so the better their iced, the better they look. You don’t want to be looking like a lazy deckhand once the hatch is popped off and your fish are revealed to the buyer and your captain, both people that write your checks. My fish came out at a nice and chilly 30.4 degrees, even after nearly eight days after they where caught.

 

Finally we headed out of town and towards the fishing grounds, its about a day or so of running to get out there. I was nervous about getting sea sick since my hiatus, as soon as we passed the break water the boat rolled into the smooth ocean. The old tradition of lowering the poles and getting the stabilizers ready, I asked who wanted first watch, I was turned down and headed for my bunk. I’ve always slept good on the boat, your insides roll around and your head spins until you fall into a slumber like drug induced coma. I woke up some hours later, after dinner and during the movie, I was heckled by the fellas and not too long after we fired out or fist set.

 

I’ve gone up on a trip or two since I’ve stopped going full time, nowadays the old stuck gear is out, and tub gear is in. The old way, dating back to the Norwegians, or at least that’s what I’m told, called for rolling over the gear that was “stuck” through the rope with a beckets. Attached to that was your hand tied Gagnon then your hook. The spacing varied between the fish we chased, typically halibut gear was 12 feet or so and black cod around 6. The old way is a dying trade, like so many labor/time intensive trades, I’m proud to still know how to do it, but with snap on gear, baiting takes hours instead of days, along with gear work. No more standing in the stern going over miles of gear with rotting bait waiting for you to fix.

 

Firing out the gear and snapping the baited hooks to the outgoing line, usually deploying the bird bag to ward off the albatross, we use to set two strings, but without knowing how hot the fishing was we chose one to see what was around. The amount of work and smell was incredibly easier, we use to have a 500 gallon tote of bait, typically near rotting and marinating in a brine of heavy sea salt and weather, then you would load up a five gallon bucket of slope and bait away, not for the faint of stomach, and I lost mine many times.

 

It felt good to be working, back out on the ocean and spending time with a man who’s taught me so much. The salt air swirled around my chin and cooled my chest, clumps of my spent air stayed above my head, then carried away by the wind. Staring out to the abyss of water, land is something you can’t see, furthing sealing your fate till your job is done. Back to sleep for awhile then eat, and start picking.

 

I would like to think I fished in the pseudo heyday, working with men who wanted to be commercial fisherman, honing their craft and honoring their boat and captain. Aaron has always had quality deckhands and has built a reputation of a good paying, fun owner who knows how to fish and treats his guys and boat well. So many relics are near sunk, rotting next to the docks their tied to. We haul our boat out, paint and maintain it yearly, others however don’t do it at all. Its expensive, time consuming and generally a pain in the ass, but the Pelican, even after over 80 still looks damn good, and I’m proud to have a little history with her.

 

A small string use to be anything under 3,000 pounds. We’ve had over 9,000 pounds on the deck from one string, this trip however wouldn’t be that easy. The first set netted us around 1,000 pounds. While we finished cleaning and icing the fish, Aaron heads to the wheel house to throw some food on, scour over the monitor and old logs to find more fish. It isn’t like the “Deadliest catch” crab show you see on TV. Long lining is more labor intensive, but in typically calmer waters, and on noticeably smaller boats. The man running the roller is in charge of steering the boat while bringing the catch on board. With a gaff in your hand you peer into the water and look for the twisting grey and white of halibut rising from the ocean floor.

 

Gaffing them, then bleed them. Running a knife in a particular gill area to spill the red fluid so they don’t blush. Aaron has an eye for quality and we’ve always had high marks for our fish. Running the boat isn’t easy, you have to stay ahead of the gear while making sure the line is clear of the boat and certainly not in the propeller, all while dealing with the current, wind and the ever present whales. Once on board the fish are then hoisted up onto the table, measured then recorded. Each size is a certain weight so we know exactly how much we have, then cleaned. it’s the only thing boat wise Aaron didn’t teach me, he cleans them the old way, while I learned the “proper” way. Running a long sharp knife on top of the gills to the base of the skull you cut away the sweet meat, then cutting the bottom of the gill plate from the mouth, next you slice the membrane of the stomach liner from the spine, you should be able to pull the gill and guts all out together, then chuck it overboard to the noisy hoards of birds.

 

Next you yank the balls, yes all halibut have balls, then you scrap the blood veins and sweet meat, you should then be left with a white, clean gullet, ready for ice. You sling the fish down the hatch to the ice hole. Once stacked up, or the deck is clear you head down to the ice. The fish must be properly iced, there is a mattock to hack away at the frozen wall of ice, shovels and scoopers. Icing them in place and once the fish take up an area always white side up you layer ice, making sure the boat rides well and your balanced, usually towards the end of my icing Aaron has taken the tally board and counted up our catch, while we usually argue over what we got. If it’s a good catch he’s happy with the announcement poking his head through the hatch, my personal favorite words, “We got what we need” meaning we can get the fuck off the ocean and head home, or at least closer to land, where the water is calmer and the running faster.

 

It would take us nearly five days of fishing to get what we needed, a long time to round up the fishies. Waking at all hours of the day to pull the lines, you have to be careful not to let the sand fleas get to your catch. The nights and mornings become a blur, your body aches from bouncing around on the ocean, and your hands swell up from gutting and icing the fish. A constant habit of re-baiting, firing out strings, waiting, cleaning and icing. Not to mention running around the ocean burning fuel and food looking for the nomadic sable fish. The old stuck way of fishing would’ve been impossible, the snap on gear is the way to go, making the deckhands job easier, then you have to just stay out of the way of the captain. Don’t piss off the guy who writes your checks.

 

The weather actually held out for the most part, we got beat up a little heading towards Sitka, but otherwise not too shabby. The next leg is long, slow and beautiful. We pulled into Sitka, fueled up and took on more top ice so they would stay cold for the journey to Bellingham. Stocked up on groceries and I wondered down to the Pioneer bar, better known as the P-bar, the local rowdy establishment. I chugged back a tall Rainier beer longneck, took in some sights I hadn’t seen in awhile then walked back to the boat.

 

The inside passage is a glorious series of channels carved out from islands and massive water ways. It reads like a fallopian tube protected from the vast pacific ocean connecting Alaska, British Columbia and my home state of Washington. You steer the wooden vessel through herds of kelp islands, narrow causeways and multiple islands some tiny and nameless and others huge with their own character and people to match. The ever present “dead heads” are a danger. Huge stumps and trees hiding just below the water line, if hit properly it would jar a rib loose and all the work and boat could be lost.

 

The inside passage is a popular water way for the incredibly large cruise ships, yachters, tug boats and barges. Averaging 8-10 knots the land masses and trees move by at a snail pace, running 24-7 it’s a shift work of wheel watch, sugary foods and cups of coffee and tea to keep you awake in the pitch black nights. You have your noble Tec gps and radar telling you where you are, and who’s in front or behind you. Two VHF’s one always on 16 the coast guard station, and one on the traffic station, so you know when the massive cruise ships and long tugs and barges will come by.

 

The three of us are not up too often at the same time. The deckhands have work to do, organizing gear, mending lines and of course doing what ever the boss says. If its flat and sunny I like to paint the rails and running boards, so when we pull into town we don’t look like we’ve been at war. We pass by many world class whale watching sights, sometimes I sit on the bow and watch the dolphins cruise in our wake, crest out of the water and cross each other, amazingly fast animals. Scrub the ever present green off the deck and hiding in all areas and straighten up. In the old days with the old gear if it were just Aaron and I it would take me most if not all the trip to finish the gear work, these days you have more hammock time, and also a chance to improve your culinary skills, it was on the boat, learning from the guys how I learned what to cook, something now I actually like doing.

 

Popping down every so often to check on the catch and reapply when and where needed, it begins to look more like a tomb of ice than anything, so long as their cold I’m not too concerned how it looks. Movies are played, hours are spent reading, swinging in the hammock or looking at the beauty of the rugged inlets known as the inside passage. Small towns dot the coastline, navigation buoys, and the antique lighthouses, some lived in and taken care of by tenders. Logging camps, yachters anchored up and trollers clog the water. The scenery, gorgeous, I’m thankful to Aaron for taking me up all those years ago, working to make a living, working to live together in a confined area and working to keep the boat going have taught me many things I use daily in life. Patience to bend, not break, until you can change things for the better, I thought a lot about fishing while on the tour divide and believe I was more prepared than most with my days spent on the ocean.

 

I’ve long been self reliant, but you need help, and good help is hard to come by. Over the years some of what Aaron’s tried to teach me is just now settling in and being used, back then I thought his advice was sometimes frustrating, spoken in languages I didn’t fully understand, but I find myself hearing him and doing things naturally that he warned, or told me I might do in situations I didn‘t know would arise. It is a unique relationship, no longer anchored by my relationship with his daughter but now as respected friends, there will always remain aspects of a teacher/student bond as well, our characters are similar and he was the first elder I’d known I wouldn’t mind being like, if I ever where to age. I respect the change of our relationship, no longer the tough love, protective father to his daughter, now we could talk as friends and develop new aspects of who we are. No doubt being out on the ocean, hundreds of miles from shore, you develop a kindred bond, nearly unbreakable.

 

Closer to home the excitement builds, the TV starts to work, cell phones come in and out of range, the thought of going home with a fist full of cash and money in the bank makes whatever hell you went through seem like it was all worth it. We caught the currents right and made good time, if you don’t catch the slack and flood tides right you can squander hours and sometimes days, gliding past Vancouver island the sensation becomes even more real. The lights of the big city, the first you’ve seen in quite a while, ferries criss cross the sound and sailboats run in your lanes. Usually the sun is high in the late summer sky, there is a warmth after many cold, wet days spent bouncing around the ocean. We off load in Bellingham, we use to sometimes off load in Everett just a few miles away from my hometown, but like many things of yester year, the fishing sheds, cranes and the capacity to off-load there are gone, further remembering that this trade, some centuries old is becoming more archaic, and perhaps less in demand.

 

The bright spot with a shortened quota is it typically drives the price of the fish up, I think the most I’ve ever been paid was a little over 4 dollars a pound, but this time the prices where nearly double. We tied up after midnight, a long run with the main diesel engine running both day and night, finally quite. It will be noisy soon enough, we pour a large drink and have a quick toast, talk briefly about the run with tired eyes and anxious nerves. Aaron has spent years running up and down the inside passage, while I’ve probably spent a month or more, you get to know the towns, sights and history of all you pass by. We use to deliver all halibut to Bellingham, the price usually over 25 cents a pound more, spend a little time at home, recharge then head back north. But the cost of fuel and the days spent running took its toll, and a lot of those trips where just two guys on board, arriving home near exhaustion, but with a fat wallet.

 

The morning came early, and so did the noise. Fork lifts bounce on the deck just above you, crews hustle to get organize to offload. There where a couple other boats not too far behind us, but we beat them to the dock, and got first dibs on off-loading, and also perhaps a little better price. Down in the belly of the ship, two nets are dropped down, the fish are stacked up, then hoisted out. It takes a little while to off load, after all the fish are off the boat, next we began the task of shoveling off the ice, its all pretty labor intensive as your half standing in the insulated hull.

 

John Morris and I had to head home, he had acres to tend to and a family back in Montana and I had to get back to Amber and a potential job opportunity that required me home ASAP. Keith our fish buyer was able to give us a lift back to Snohomish, there at city hall where my mom works I snagged the keys and took John to the train station. I spent a little time driving around my beloved roads I grew up on, so much had changed. After that it was time to eat and check on flights back to Phoenix. I had a couple beers and saw some familiar faces. The cost of tickets where apauling so I waited a day and they dropped 800 bucks. Aaron was nice enough to give me a wad of cash and a check that Chase bank needed badly.

 

I didn’t like leaving Aaron alone to take the boat back to Everett, a journey that takes the better part of a day. He’s done it before, but its always better when you have help with the poles and guys on the dock to help you tie up. Also I don’t like getting paid then feeling like theirs more work to do, it bothered me a great deal actually, but walking down the sidewalks on a sunny afternoon, back in my hometown with a belly of food and good sights in my eyes it eased the pain a little. I took my parents, brother, sister and her family out to diner, in the meantime I bounced from old haunts to haunts on 1^st street. I spent the night at my folks place, scratching my old dog “Chubbs” it felt damn good to be back in my three lakes area, so much had changed and I had two in the years since I’ve been gone.

 

I had a flight later in the afternoon the next day, I made some stops to see friends and to say hi to my uncle Jim who suffered a stroke since I’d been gone but he wasn’t home, so I loafed around town, did some banking and got caught up on bills. I walked down to the Snohomish river and watched it for awhile, lines of people threw out lines hoping to snag a humpy headed up stream, I loved it. I also grabbed a huge bag of clothes and more project bikes to bring back south. I had wished to see more friends and spend time with them in Seattle, but I was pulled tightly south, and the timeline was urgent. My mom took me the distance to the airport, we got caught up on chatter, saying goodbye then hefting the large bag and 200 dollars over the counter, my dad had agreed to send the bike box loaded with goodies via UPS.

 

I like airports but I’m not a huge flyer, little metropolises spread off in different wings. I bought some shitty magazines and bellied up to the bar waiting for my ride to come. I arrived late in the evening and already it was hot, the jeep pulled up and my girl stepped out. So much had happened since I’d left. I had been gone most of the summer, 24 days for the divide and now well over two weeks for this trip. We had just moved into our new place, she held it down with our two dogs and waited for me to get home so she could put me to work.

 

My first day home I attempted like always to get organized, I had some obligations to attend to, I also wanted to relax and be comfortable. It was the first time I had a surplus of cash in years, the bills where caught up, I was home and it almost seemed too good to be true. I had dropped the girl off at the airport when my phone buzzed to life, it was my mom telling me my cousin Eddy had passed away after a lengthy fight with cancer, just after his mid thirties. I hung up the phone and called my aunt, then made my way to a misted patio. It was over a 100 degrees so I got a couple icebergs, beer mixed with margarita mix, a potently strong cure for the heat and death.

 

It all seemed surreal to me, he was in Arizona for awhile at the Mayo clinic, I’d seen him a time or two and the last time he looked healthy and full of life. He had started to ride and we made a deal with my bike, he wanted to go back to Alaska and back to work. He had sent me a couple messages from time to time and a quick email while I was on the divide, I had talked to my family about it while I was briefly in Washington, and now I had gotten the news nobody wanted.

 

The days the followed didn’t mean a whole bunch, I still had to pay two rents and two utilities all while getting our new place turned into our place. It was too hot to ride, and my motivation to do so wasn’t there. We got out of town for a couple days, I wasn’t sure what my next moves would be, back to a shop? Back to school? I had a couple job opportunities but they where both out of state and not realistic where Amber and I are at currently, but they where good offers, making me realize that I’m moving in the right direction.

 

Eventually though time heals, more like a bridge than a scab over a wound. I eventually got back to riding and writing, and once the money ran out, back to work. Even in tight times I feel as though I’m doing the right things, which for me, mean everything, I live by the song “running on faith” my faith though not in religion but in the idea of myself and my future. I’m surrounded by great people I’m learning to rely on, while picking up more things about myself along the way, sometimes you have to dream limitless, keeping a part of you in the clouds and equal parts in the day to day. it’s a line I’m attempting to walk, to live a life less ordinary is a bit scary, but the reward is that much greater.

 

The Pettit~Files, Aww yeah he’s back, well….sort of.

Hang the mistletoe tow, and unlock the backdoor, Jonny P’s coming back in the house. The miss-adventures are back at ya, all up in your grill, as grammatically defunct as ever, but truer words haven’t been laid in quite awhile, and either has one of my friends.

Back to racing and back to writing, however on a jalopy laptop, who’s keyboard decided to take a shit, so now I plug in an external board, use the keyboard mouse and generally look like a broke joke typing away, but fuck it, it still gets written. If the inner walls of this contraption could speak, who knows what it would say, it’s been too many places, across the ocean and god only knows how many porn sites, but alas, its near death and at this point its just the final formalities of replacement and proper burial or murder, pre meditated no doubt, but its life is being eked out till chase bank says I may have a new one, behind one of the many wants on that list.

So, I’ve gotten plenty of stories stowed away, many ramblings and rants, and damn near a novel it seems, my apologizes to any of my literate friends for my lack of skill and the absence of the Pettit~files. Back to the bike and my first entry since May of last summer, excluding of course the Divide. Dawn to Dusk, a DCD adventure staple, ushering in winter in the desert and the last endurance event of the year, who knows perhaps the last one ever if the Mayans have their calendar correct.

It took a little finagling to get into the event, at first I was going to ride a duo, but when I went to register it was closed, missed it by a day. So I made a couple calls and Dave Benjes was nice enough to let my tardy ass in, although for my first race back, perhaps I should’ve picked a less attended and or at least a less fast race. The Pemberton Loop out at McDowell isn’t known to be technically hard, its mainly a double track long climb, some rolling fun desert open single track, a little rocky descent, couple washes and loose causeways.

I haven’t done any intensity on the regular since April, and really only in the last month have I put some time on the bike. Rehabbing injuries, personal dilemma’s and coming to grips with my own futility, not to mention the mountain bike was in dire straights component wise, and while I’ll been chasing a couple leads, its still a polished turd, but its mine, I usually rely on the engine, but at this point the horse power might rip the wheels off the nickel and dime ride. But I feel a new bike soon, so I can limp and fake with the best.

Personally whoever I may be in the best scenario of my life. While I miss those close friends in Washington the ones I’ve accumulated here are amazing, and as my own days transpire to years, I learn to lean, talk and share with people. Opening my doors and fears, becoming closer to people, which was never really important to me, now though, with a phone call, I can talk to respected friends and shine light where once I was dark and alone. My relationship with the girl is the bridge that crosses all troubled water, through out our short comings, misunderstanding, personal pride, our own egos and thoughts what this relationship should be, we can talk, work out and try to begin to understand each other’s wants and needs. Harboring dreams, and rounding the edges, its both everything I wanted in a love and need as a person, all rolled into one smoking hot chick, lucky me I know. So I would call the co-habitation a success, a couple rough patches, but overall a win, no doubt.

Shit, this was a race report of some kind right? The draw back of not having your own car is the reliance on others, not my strong suite at all, but I’ve grown patience along with some grays. Running the race solo, and knowing the weather, not to mention some pre-trials to Old Pueblo 24, I wanted to be organized, smooth and rolling through the pits. The affable Clinton Sparks swung by the night before to load up my prized belongings, and enough gear to outfit a small village. Labeled bags, tools, food coolers, drink mixers, don’t forget the PBR custom made hat and a costume.

The next day I rode into Scottsdale, a quick 15 or so miles to the offices of Sparks, snatched his keys and jerked the borrowed Tacoma around town looking for my necessities, filled up with some subway, topped off the huge PowerAde cooler, and whatever what not’s. Next we where off closer towards the venue. The weather turning gnarly, we parusesed the isles of Target looking for a pop up of some kind, a must have. Instead however we where greeted with the cheap, shitty imitations of a suitable structure, you know the kind where in the first serious wind, it becomes a tattered shell, exposing cheaply made coverings and the limbs it once housed. While I lined up the fellas with one during the week to avoid such last minute details, it went un noticed till we needed one, friends, you need em right?

Crises somewhat diverted, we payed the ass hurting fee of 17 dollars to camp overnight, then wait inline to find a place to park, a little inconvenient but appropriate I suppose. We found a spot close to friends of friends and began the shit show of three guys un-packing, under one tent, Chris and Clint running duo, me, the loner. I went off to packet pick up, look for Dave and thank him for getting me in beyond last minute. There I saw good friends I hadn’t seen since they picked me up on the Mexico boarder, fed and housed me in Sierra Vista, Beto and Paula. The best of the best as far as people go. As I began to gaze around, I noticed many fast names and the cars and campers that bring them here, I knew it was going to hurt even more.

Back at the campsite I began to erect my borrowed tent to only find out, the center pole is broken, a momento from friend and fellow cohort Travis McMaster who is currently using some of my bike camping supplies while on a fat bike excursion in Mexico. While a little gorilla tape got me through the night, in all honesty the tent seemed like the Hilton after spending nearly a month in a bivvy for the divide. Dinner was re-heated, plans where hatched, the girls where called and organization was aloof in the cold, wet night. Amber was planning on arriving around 6:30 or so, having to camp a couple miles away due to the packed starting/main area, she pedaled a cruiser to the start, I briefly saw her as I made the chilly ride down the hill.

The rain came in during the night, throwing down enough drops to make the course a tacky dream, however around 4:30 in the morning the monsoons and re-organizing took over, a heavy cold rain dumped from the darken sky, but let up before the start. The sleep was awful and uncomfortable, cars rolling in till well after midnight, people drinking and carrying on, I wanted to thump some heads but instead extracted a little revenge while they where passed out. I unzipped the tent earlier than anticipated, began the jet boil and the makings up instant coffee and oatmeal.

Learning from friend/landlord/and 24 hour extraordinaire Mike Melley, I tried to organize my bags into numbers and things I would need most, followed by cold/rain gear/ night riding bags and then miscellaneous things needed. This being really only my 4^th endurance race, excluding the tour divide, I wanted to learn more about what I need to eat, dress and go through the motions, so I made some sandwiches in the morning, mixed drinks and tried to figure out what to wear, the weather was calling for storms from 10-4, as it turned out I was over dressed till the weather hit for a half a lap.

Under the start banner, my first in many months I looked around at the faces and rides of those around me. I laughed a little at the sight of so many 6-10,000 dollar bikes, not that I won’t take one, but really, come on man, good for you though, you probably went to collage or something and have a career, a high fico score and a small unit. I’ll stick with shit I know works, but I would love a lighter ride, right now its not in the cards.

The man counts down the numbers, my mind wonders what the fuck I’m doing here, how fit am I? How fast do I want to go, what do I want to accomplish. I wanted to roll top ten, hoping of course for a top five, pipe dreams would’ve landed me on the podium, however this was more of a test for me, a training ride really. I haven’t stacked myself up against these guys since February, so I was scared and interested to see where I would rank. I also wanted to see if I cured some of those ailments of last year.

A long uphill pavement climb, patches of guys grab wheels, random disk breaks squeal, shifting, miss-fires, chatter and nerves pump through the bunch. The quads and duo’s are on the front, I was in the back of the first group hanging on a wheel listening to Tom Petty’s new album, thinking I’m already overdressed. A right hand turn takes you around the transition area and the finish, then out to some rolling track then the monotonous double track climb. Looking down at my heart rate I knew I should back off, but my legs felt alright, I was riding with guys I knew would win or podium and I wanted to measure myself a little.

I focused on my breathing and brought it back under 170, I looked over my shoulder and no one behind us, I was riding with a friends team mate and Brian Bennett, the eventual 2^nd place, he rode an amazing race, each lap a blister pace. Towards the top of the climb I pulled back the reins, eased my rhythm a bit, rushing through the burms and multiple wash boards, I unzipped the wind breaker and cursed the vest I decided to put on. Looking down at the times I knew I would crush my first lap of last year, and I was on a quad team, sure enough I came through the transition, Amber was there with a bottle and off I was. One lap down, just over an hour, the 4:30 last lap cut off was a long way off, lap 2.

Again with the climb, I hung on wheels, unusual for me, but perhaps I’m learning. Still trying to calm my heart and prepare for the day at hand, my skills had diminished a little through the layoff, not nearly as flowy as I use to be. I ate part of a sandwich, thought about what I was doing and questioning why I picked perhaps the fasted 9-10 hour race possible for my first one back.

On the semi rocky decent, the stones cluttered the A line, probably from guys flying by trying to pass. I flicked one up straight into my 36 tooth single chain ring, the whole bike shook, I thought I’d killed my ride. I looked down, at first I didn’t see anything but as I pedaled it became apparent that I had indeed screwed something up. Coming through the pit area I looked for my crew but they weren’t where they were the first lap, I thought WTF. Cruised to the tent looked for a bottle and a new camelback. Clint saw me searching for something and told me where to find them, in my hast they moved to a new easier feed section, new supplies then off again.

On the climb again the ring became increasingly obvious it wasn’t working. Every time I stood to pedal, it sounded and felt like it was going to snap in half, I could see now that some teeth were bent causing the chain to come off. I limped though another lap, not too fast and on the short steep climb I bent two more teeth, so on the fourth, starting the fifth lap I pitted, hollered at some friends to see if they could either take the claw part of a hammer or pliers and make it usable, I certainly didn’t want to stop riding now, I was in the top ten and a big group of guys where right in front of me.

My bud Mike Rice had taken some pliers and broke off a tooth or two trying to straighten it, it worked enough to ride, skipped a little but at least I was moving. On the third lap I felt the twinge of cramps, someone had told me of my lap times, surprised, I knew I was going too fast and would toast myself if I didn’t slow it up, my mind wanted to go, my body however asked the question, “hey, aren’t we just a long slow body now, your killing me man!!” I was actually feeling alright, food was going down, I was a little preoccupied with my bike, but I was still somewhere in the mix.

My right eye was caked over, clouded like I was looking through plastic, in the mess of the tent I couldn’t find my eye drops, so riding mainly one eyed though out the course I tried to remedy the problem, but no dice. We hit a 100 miles fast, well under 7 hours, I thought this was pretty quick for an endurance race, I hope these fuckers slow down soon. If these dudes could roll this pace for 12 and 24 hour events I might as well hang up my cleats now. But my crew where telling me they where slowing down, minus my mechanical I’d be close to fifth but the quality of the riders was too great for where I’m at right now.

After the climb on the fun back sections the dark purple clouds finally unleashed the hell it promised. A thick heavy cold rain covered everything, after the brief climb towards the descent it hailed hard enough to hurt, the smallest dent in the earth quickly became a puddle, mud flung up, I was covered in grim and I was happy. Back at the pit, I asked how much longer it was going to last, no one knew for sure, so without any warm or rain clothes I mozzied off. I knew a couple of my friends where up in front, I was also slowed by the constant urge to pee, like All the time. I got tired of stopping nearly two times a lap, finally in the rain I just let it rip in the bibs, who cares, right?

I came up to good friend LaRoche, having a bit of trouble with a tire, I always carry plenty of co2, pump, tube and tools in all my packs. I said “just reach in there and take out the big air” he replied by “Jonny, could u do it? I’m a little retarted right now” I said of course, it was his valve more than anything, together though we figured it out and got the man up and rolling, crushing the single speed youngsters, P-Roch turns 50 this month!!

The rain had stopped but the damage done, the sun flirted for a minute, my hands where cold and hurt with every bump, breaking was nearly impossible, I was reeling them in now quicker, in the shit, I usually shine. Back at the pit I tried to take off my gloves and put on winter, cross-country ski gloves, Mike ripped them off, the effort was starting to take its toll, Amber asked what I wanted, I didn’t know, something I thought, my crooked fingers and frozen hands couldn’t get inside the safety and warmth of fresh, dry, warm mittens. Fuck it, give me those sock, and put them over my hands, a little something was better than nothing.

I was blind in my right eye, I looked at my watch and new another lap or two, so I motored up the climb, tried to eat and think warm happy thoughts, like whiskey and boobs, it did take the edge off. Now well over 120 miles, I thought what the hell am I doing in my first race back? Really Jon, off the couch and go race a 150 miles, boy you are dumb. My legs didn’t hurt too bad, the cold had taken their feeling, my triceps hurt the most, still rolling, not super competitive but still going. My hands had warmed a bit from the sock, but shifting and slowing where hindered by their shape, so off they went.

One more lap, shivering, gloveless, and a tad hungry I thought 14 or so miles wont kill me, I should’ve gone faster, I’m never really ever happy with myself I guess. I rode with a kid doing a duo, he was glued to my back wheel, I asked how many laps had he done, “four” he said. I told him to give me a pull, what’s the matter with you, your going to make the solo old guy do all the work? Get your ass up here. He did, he put his head down, I got enjoyment watching his shoulders sink in pain and effort trying to tug me up the hill, it didn’t last too long, a mile or so and he pulled to the side, I patted him on the back and thanked him for a job done and rode past, now just a shell of his former self.

I no longer steered past the puddles but just plowed through them, I was passed with maybe a quarter mile to go, he got me on my right, I couldn’t see if his number plate was orange, meaning solo, my right eye now worthless, he ended up being a solo dude, knocking me out of 7^th place by 6 or so seconds. I came through satisfied with my effort, not too shabby for a dude just coming back I thought. I was handed a beer and a couple pats on the back, ushered to a camper and shower, I stripped naked, my manhood shrunken in a strangers belongings, Amber guided me to the shower and tried her best to find my belongs in the malay of rain and other peoples stuff, now thrown together to get out of the elements. I sat on a plastic toilet, the scolding hot water mainly on my hands and feet.

I was happy, I raced for the first time in months, rode well, despite mechanicals and food/feed issues, tested myself against some of the best and didn’t come up too short. The rain pelted the top of the camper, the hot water ran out and I was left to dress in the cold air. I bundled up and made my way into the night, my right eye useless and painful, I saw all the bikes muddy and suddenly wanted a 10,000 dollar 20 pound bike, badly.

We stayed and celebrated friends podiums, then hastily packed, headed for food and eventually bed. We stopped and had dinner in Fountain Hills, I was grumpy with tiredness and a shitty eye. On the way home I reclined the seat and felt the heat on exposed body parts. Back at home another shower, then under the covers and off to sleep. I curled next to the girl and was happy the dog pinned the covers close to my still cold body. It had been a long day, but a good one.

In the morning I made concrete pancakes, copious amounts of coffee and actually watched a bit of TV before I was off to work at my part time big box store, guiding the hordes to the proper isles and answering the most mundane and sometime dumbest questions you could hear, but at least it’s a couple bucks, close to home and makes me realize and understand what I want and don’t want.

I was surprised my legs didn’t hurt too bad actually, my back was fine, just my triceps were sore, a good sign I thought. Now its time to clean up the mess, replace or repair broken already mended parts, do some laundry and see if I can get the urine smell out of the shoes, already planning the next chance to toe the line and see friends I don’t get to see often enough

Eddie would Ride

There’s angles in the outfield and dead ball players in the corn. Hollywood mocks poets and writers of the past, taking their lyrics and twisting them into slotted screen plays that over paid thespians act out to the world munching on huge tubs of popcorn and downing coca-cola classic, adding girth to their asses and idolizing shallow pretty people whom live and spend without a clue.

Adaptations equal death to scribers, the money however is needed, true words get lost in their signature as they cash checks and spend unholy deeming repents for crimes against words. Worlds end, nights fall, a still silent before the rupture of the world burst with the morning sun. To those who can no longer feel the warmth of a new day, I will never loose the majesty of plain beauty that caused our forefathers to harvest this land for themselves, pushing and scraping those before us out of the way, room was needed for the new marauders, the Americans. Cast away immigrants looking to redeem their names in a new and un marked land, off to live a new life. I guess we have always been a dramatic colony.

I have started nearly seven stories or rants, worked endlessly on the divide, but I’m afraid no one will like it or understand my version of it, also I don’t think I can do justice for all that I saw, or what people did for me. Maybe that’s a lone bright spot for not being totally sponsored, my words are still my own and no deadline falls before me, unless you count the ones I bequeath upon myself.

I lost a job, returned to the pacific ocean hauling tons of halibut from her stomach to fill our boats belly, and bank accounts. Spent time with a great man, and took in a lot of sights my sore eyes longed to see. I walked the uneven sidewalks and some I even poured in my hometown, ducked the cops and spent the night with my folks and dog. I was eager to return to my new home in Arizona, one filled with a girl I love and a life were piecing together, like a thrift store Norman Rockwell puzzle the edges are bent and some pieces are missing, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t taking shape.

My first day back under the blazing Arizona sun, long before noon I sat at a bar not far from my house, listened to a friend bitch about his life while drinking a double makers and 7 up, along with an iceberg. My heart had broken, my soul was washed with grief, at 36 my cousin Eddy had passed away from cancer. Words have been written since then but their elusive and sometimes filled with anger. I’ve scene and done so many beautiful crazy things it doesn’t seem right to not share them with you all, but some times in the words I get sad and angry.

It feels like I don’t have the control to write well, then just want to disappear. Back to when I was just a blip on a screen, back when I had no faults anyone could see, sometimes I think I’m at my greatest is when I’m in a desperate way and I think of those I love and the wrongs I want to right before its my time. In a painful sense of gratitude I gather myself in a brilliant light of self recognition, then to only return home a little reclusive and a tad selfish. I hope in ways this will become my Berlin wall and knock down the barricade I’ve built around my stories, some are strange and dark, and I’m a little un nerved to share them. Then I think that my cousin will never see the light of a new day, he’ll never get that renewed sense of hope men like me survive by.

He was tall and slender when he walked into the shop, the last time I had seen him he was heavier, it was the day my grandfather passed away. I walked outside after carrying my paternal elder, the only one I’ve know into a hospice bed, in a house I shared with my dementia grandmother. I had to pick up a bike and get to a race, a couple hours later my mom had called and said he waited till she got there. I rode like shit and spent a great number of hours in a hospital getting stitches in Show Low, but like always I finished.

He walked in, with his wife and was bursting with life and things he wanted to do. He had started to ride and found the soul of it quickly, the freedom, the sights and sounds you hear when you move under your own power. I told him I’d give him my bike, I had some connections anyway, so for me it was a good thing.

After the divide I only rode five times, Amebic Dysentery apparently isn’t anything to fuck around with. On the boat I was anxious to get back to a routine of training and eating, preparing myself for the rest of the calendar of races. But on the first day home I got the news, and the bike sat motionless on a hook in the garage. I would stare at it, thinking it was my cousins bike, the bike I rode the divide, the bike that meant so much to me, I was afraid to build it, until my friend Robert LaRoche came up with a bike/car camping trip to the grand canyon, along trails perhaps nobody has ever ridden.

I thought I would never ride it again, but the idea of the steed that was to be my cousins purveying the cliffs and sights of the Grand Canyon while riding some single track that may have never been ridden seems like the best way for me to celebrate his life, doing something unique to me, in honor of him. Going over some old work stuff from when I cleaned out my locker, I found a note that mentioned the day my cousin stopped in, it just said “EDDIE WOULD RIDE” meaning whenever I or anyone else doesn’t feel like it, he was laying in a hospital bed slowly dying wishing he could turn the cranks and fill his lungs and eyes with all he saw.

Its poignant now, after his passing. One of the most kindest souls I have been around, always in a good mood, we got along easily and made the most of our time together. Through all the family adversity we’d find another way to pass the time and dodge the negativity. Its in rough shape, battered components and having ridden nearly 3,000 miles in a month but yet I’m eager to swing a leg over it, see some amazing sights, fill my lungs and eyes with all the beauty and just take my time for someone who can’t.

Along the trails of one of natures most explosive gifts, I’ll reflect on what I’ve done this summer, the life of my cousin and remember the freedom bikes give us, the simple joy of moving forward, under our own power in whatever direction we deem the best for us, I wish you all the same every time you ride or do whatever it is you do, its spectacular what these days give us, and those that come into our lives, I’m thankful, humbled and gracious for those that have come into mine. So now, I think I’ll grab another beer, wipe these damn tears out of my eyes and head to the garage and finish building the bike, LaRoche will be here at 7 am, thanks for reading, Jonny P.

The Pettit files, a little appitizer from the adventure

 

the long walk from Sryker to Whitefish nearly 16 miles of this

Eureka bound, broken bike and soul

Once back on the road and again loaded with food I headed out towards Stryker, and the infamous snow section. Coasting down a small incline wondering how far up was Norb and the others I had the cranks parallel, my right foot back. Next thing I know I’m picking myself up off the deck. I was doing about twenty and the awkwardness even now escapes me. My face slammed against the aero bars knocking off my GPS, my balls slammed the top tube and the wheel shot sideways out from under me, flipping me and the bike over.

I laid on the ground and watched my ride and thousands of dollars worth of equipment and gear bounce down the road thinking, “we’ll this ain’t any fucking good” I stood up to retrieve the yard sale that was my life when I fell again. The pedal was still clipped into my shoe, with the drive side crank attached. I was confused, I sat down again on the ground and twisted the arm sideways until it came off. Still some 20 feet away from the bike I sat and stared at the shape in my hand perplexed as ever.

The sram x7 cranks I had, use a bolt from the left side that snug’s the right side “drive side” arms together. Tightened down to a specific torque setting this shouldn’t/can’t happen. I picked up the bike and leaned it against a fence post, a little bloody and banged up I began my investigation. What in the? How in the? HUH? I am certainly no mechanic, but the fundamentals I understand, but this I didn’t comprehend. I pulled out the left crank from the bottom bracket housing, put it into the drive side but it just spun around the spindle, like it was missing a c clamp or something. It wouldn’t bind together to hold anything, the weight of the drive side just caused it to drop freely, I was swimming in shit creek with nothing to float down with.

I coasted the bike for a bit, found my missing pieces before it got too dark and slowly made my way back to Eureka. I didn’t know if they had a bike shop, it was Saturday night and I had no idea on what to do. It was a nine or so mile walk back to town, still confused the pain of the crash begin to set in my soggy bones. I absolutely despise walking, and now my feet hurt from the carbon cycling shoes, I could feel the goose egg bump develop on my knee and the burn of melted skin shredded open in the night air.

I placed the broken steed outside a “sports” bar in town. Ordered a double markers and sprite, and a tall Rainier. I had walked for a couple hours in the darkness until I reached the metropolis of all that is Eureka. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be or even what the appropriate decision was. There is no outside help on the tour divide, any help you do get has to be commercial available to all participants. So I had a few drinks, knocked back some ibuprofen and collected a good stack of rainier tops then slept in the park.

In the morning I called some bike shops all where 90 plus miles away and of course not open on Sunday. I settled into the Ksanka Motel Inn. A lovely establishment where you can get gas, groceries, load up on subway and check into a hotel all at once. The room was stank smelling with two queen beds and a small TV bolted to the block wall. I laid out all of my wet stuff, took a shower and chowed down and a foot and a half of subway. By this time news of my plight were streaming across the internet, everyone was trying to get me up and running. My phone was out of range and of course, at the Ksanka, there is no internet.

Like the good ole days, I bought a calling card and called Amber, I was down in the dumps and looking for answers. Seemed Matthew Lee got word of me looking for parts and he made sure I didn’t break any rules, or accept outside help. He informed me of what I could and couldn’t do. If I got a ride to whitefish which was forward on the route I had to be dropped off where I was picked up. On my way to the hotel a car stopped me while I was pushing my bike and asked if I was a tour divide rider, I said “yes” and he was all pumped up to finally meet one of the riders.

His wife was from Eureka and they lived in Kalispell, he was an avid rider and followed the blue dot nation, our GPS transponders leave a blue dot with your initials letting everyone know a see just how badly were suffering. He informed me he knew one of the owners of the bike shops in town, left me his number then dropped me off at the hotel. Amber had somehow conference in a call from Matthew Lee to me and we talked for a while, I told him of the guy with cranks out in Kalispell and he said a barter or payment is fine. Other than that it was 70 some odd miles to Whitefish, not to mention an over six hour snow walk.

I called Jerrod the guy out in Kalispell and told him I’m interested in the cranks, the shop had the same ones I had so they could warranty mine. He said he could meet me at the flying J out of town. So I made a sign that read, “Tour divide racer in need of ride to Kalispell, 50 dollars cash to whomever can give me a lift” I placed my hotel number on the paper and left it out on the door of the gas station. Five hours later my phone rang and a nice couple agreed to give me a lift, along the awkward way there they asked all sorts of questions, mainly why anyone would want to do such things.

I met Jerrod and we swapped cranks and I gave him 50 bucks for his troubles, the people who gave me a lift didn’t charge me, good Christian people couldn’t take money from a down and out guy, even if he was baptized Lutheran they said. So now outside of the Flying J truck stop in Kalispell I flagged down everyone I could with a 50 dollar bill waved in front of their face saying “50 dollars for a ride to Eureka” All my clothes were just riding clothes so I had a beanie, rain pants, windbreaker and riding shoes; must say I looked a little odd even by Montana standards.

It had been well over a couple hours before a couple of rough looking rednecks snatched up my 50 bucks and I crawled into the extended cab of an older f-250. I forget their names, but it was one hell of a ride, at the time I was thinking “shit, why didn’t I at least bring my bear spray?” Every time I tried to get in their conversation they would shut up and both turn around and stare at me, I stared back not wanting to give them a notion I’m some pussy. So from there on out I kept my mouth shut. At a Y in the road they slowed to a stop and said this is a far as your going, I said another 20 if you get me to my hotel, they said no, where going this way, pointing right and your agoin that way, pointing left.

I had known this road because I’d already walked part of this piece of shit before. It was nearly 2 am and I couldn’t even get a night cap beer, so I walked along the side of the road, new x7 cranks in hand dressed in all black cycling gear, about 5 more miles to my hotel a cop rolled up and asked what the hell I was doing. After debriefing the peace maker and going over my id, I asked for a lift and he told me he had a call to check up on. As his tail lights faded in the rain, now almost 3 in the morning I thought to myself out load that’s why nobody likes the police.

I passed out onto my bed at 3:45 and slept for four hours. I installed the new cranks and had some shifting issues, the front derailleur was all jacked up, maybe from me mix and matching different brands and parts, and also because of my lack of mechanical skills. I stopped off downstairs, got some goodies and checked the hell out of the Ksanka motel. I rolled downtown and saw Justin Simoni’s bike, he’s doing the original route, a massive effort and one with miles upon miles of snow hikes. He too was bugging the same lady for internet usage. It took me awhile to get the bike right so I was pushing off later than I wanted. It was Monday mid morning and I was itching to go.

I was making good time once up and running, that is until Stryker pass. First it starts out as blotchy random snow covered roads, before becoming just a vast expanse of sheer snow. Completely alone in the pouring rain I began a trudge of nearly 16 miles of snow hiking, all while pushing your bike. The temperature was hovering around 48 and spitting rain and snow, there was no dryness left of equipment or skin.

During this time I began a divide ritual of cursing out loud. Curving around a bend thinking its going to get easier, its got to get easier and when it didn’t I let out a “FUUUUUCKKK!!!!?” So loud any grizzly or sasquatch wouldn’t want any piece of me. So completely frustrated and alone, but I just kept walking. Once near the peak, or what I thought was the peak stood a small “danger, avalanche area sign” With only about 3 feet of it visible. I played jokes with my mind, I would look down at my computer and say okay lets do 3 mph for 1 hour straight. I would think up songs and sing while I marched to a military like cadence, but these tunes turned sadistic quickly and the language was well beyond pg 13. Then my mind would go, weren’t we just at mile forty, I thought we were at mile 43, how come I’ve walked for a half hour without the tenths of a mile moving on my computer? Every once in awhile I would stop and have a long look behind me, making sure no grizzly was eye balling me for dinner.

The snow started to break up and the road began to decline. I was nearly orgasmic, I threw a leg over the bike and finally was going over 5 mph. Gaining speed I would throw all my weight behind my seat, plowing through up to two feet of slushy goodness. I quit worrying about getting wet or muddy long ago. Clipping along at a pretty good pace I hit one section at terminal velocity and instead of cutting my way through it the front wheel just stopped and I was shot over the bars and slid for along time on my belly, this was the most fun I had in two days.

The road eventually bowed into a soupy, muddy, icy mess with a low layer of condensation hovering just above the road but at least ridable. I flew through the forest section knowing if I don’t get out of here before sheer darkness my attitude and condition will worsen immensely, not to mention a couple old creepy vans parked along side of the road filled with who knows what. Whitefish was still a ways to go, but I at least I was moving.

Dear Montana; why you do you hate me so much?

As far as I know I’ve never done anything to Montana, I don’t think I’ve committed crimes of adultery, I haven’t robbed people of their social security, bombed a federal building, stolen any of her natural bounty, been charged with a crime or even littered as far as I‘m aware of, but it would take me seven days to get through all of her misery. Showing me no where near a good time, or the sun as it turned out.

A couple miles from town the rains stopped. The outskirts had a couple restaurants but our trek was to go through near downtown. Passing Flathead lake at dusk was gorgeous, a heavy grey clung to everything but patches of blue eked out, all around the rim filtered in green, the lake twinkled with azure skies infused with a petunia like color of light pink with almost purple. I had never been to Whitefish so I thought lets see this town. It was after 10 pm when I rolled through the main streets, I settled on the great northern bar or something. It had an emblem that resemble that of the railroad and I could smell the cooking of meat and see the taps of beer, so in I went.

Once again I got a double bacon cheeseburger, fries and salad. Seems it has the right amount of fat, salt and protein not to mention a couple of one dollar MGD’s. I asked the barmaid where a fella could lay his head for free and she informed me of a dog park a couple blocks out of town. So with a belly full of goodness I set out towards the park and instead found a field with a large lot sign on it, and tall grass slick with raindrops. I laid out my bivy and readied myself for some sleep. I propped the bike up behind the sign and soon passed out. Around 1 am the rain started and by 3 it turned into a full on Montana mother F-ing monsoon. It was so heavy it pressed the bivy and sleeping bag down onto my face, I laid huffing gobs of air through the synthetic fibers I was both nearly suffocating and drowning all at once.

Rain soaked for well over 48 hours, here along side Stryker

I waited for a lull in what I’m sure Noah himself had been waiting for. Finally around 3:45 it softened to just a heavy downpour, I hastily packed up my shit and b lined for town. Shivering beyond control I walked into a gas station and sat by the dryer in the men’s room and drank a hot chocolate nearly naked in the stall. Stumbling around town in complete bewilderment I met the Sheila’s, two women with the same name. Both from Texas there where heading to a place called the Pin and Cue. A magical laundry mat open 24 hours with a restaurant attached. I took this as a sign from the mountain bike heavens I was to continue on to fight another day.

I threw everything I owned in one big commercial dryer. Sleeping bag, backpack, clothes, socks, riding clothes, if it was wet, it went in. I was still beyond cold. It rained so long and hard it ruined “water proof” maps. I hopped into the restaurant and listen to the old timers talk about the town. Logging, quarries and some nut that’s running from the sheriff after squeezing off a couple rounds at a deputy. Seems he’s a militia man, last I checked, they still haven’t found him. I wolfed down some steak and eggs, oatmeal, pancakes, fruit and once the lady got tired of bringing me coffee she said “honey, I think I’ll just bring you a pot on a plate”

A solid three hours went by, I tried to take a nap in the laundry mat but the proprietor came by and said “I can see your hurting buddy, but if I let one guy sleep in here, then I have to let them all sleep in here” Seems Whitefish has a homeless problem too. Next door was a Safeway and I stocked up and by then after two dry cycles, my goods were warm enough for me to head out.

　

Whitefish to Owl creek; here a bear, there a bear, every god damn were a bear

I was tired, my eyelids where heavy not to mention my body hated me, and it was only eight in the morning. I got maybe an hour of sleep, and now here I was shoving myself out of town and towards Seeley Lake, a destination I was deeply looking forward to. My favorite author Norman MacLean, had a family cabin along the shores of the lake, if you don’t know he wrote a river run’s through it. But it’s his short stories I read over and over. Logging and pimping, the ranger the cook and a hole in the sky, along with Young men and fire recounting the tragedies of a forest fire in 1949 where 12 men of a 15 man smoke jumper unit died while battling the flames. I imagined him in the 20’s and 30’s roaming these same roads in an old ford pickup truck. I could also imagine him turning in his grave at the sight of the town and what they call progress.

As I was rolling out of town a guy on a cannondale lefty started shouting for me. I had seen him before, he to was holed up in town after having some rear wheel problems and having to walk some 35 miles into Whitefish, we crossed the boarder together and he must have carried on. Paul Jobling was his name, a good guy from England who lives in Germany now and designs cars. Even spent a good bit of time living in the US doing the same. He as experience bike packing in the Alps and was looking to push into Seeley lake a 150 or so mile ride. I wasn’t feeling all too chipper. Running on minimal sleep and an extremely wet night I was just looking for miles of any kind.

As it turned out Paul was the bloke who had to go back for his mobile as he calls it some six miles into the start of the race. His knee was bothering him a bit to, and sooner or later he dropped me and I was left to ride alone until I caught up to the South Africans. Luke and Marianne, I first met them at the farewell dinner in Banff, we all sat together and as we looked around the room we where at the time, the only table eating meat and drinking beers. Super nice people, Luke is an ER doc and immediately Amber looked at me and said, “you get hurt, just ride backwards” Life was simple. There were in good spirits as usual, we stayed together for awhile then on the long and sometimes steep climbs towards Seeley Lake I lost them. But together we went pass signs that read do not enter, grizzly catch and release area. But sure enough our path was straight on threw.

The climbing was tough and monotonous, over your left shoulder glorious views of the

It doesn't suck when you have to look at these all day when your suffering

Montana mountains where every where. Later on however it was another beast all together. Once you were done with the climbs the road carves around like a maze. Tall trees shun out the light and make you feel nearly clostophobic and to my surprise there where black bears absolutely every where. Shooting down the decent they would just be mozing up the road and scurry off when they saw me. I lost count at ten, when I saw one in the brush behind a large stump, then all of a sudden the stump moved and so did the other smaller bear, they turned almost directly into me. We made eye contact as I went flying by. I will not lie, I really didn’t want to sleep outside that night. The dirt road finally ended giving you three miles of pavement along the sight of the Mission Mountain range. Then another left towards owl creek campground. The hour was getting late and I knew I just had to keep going to matter how unsettling.

Past some lodge a couple miles the other way you begin to climb again. I looked over to my right and saw a nice little picnic table in part of a campground, must be lower owl creek I thought. I saw a spigot and new I was in a good place. I was still packing the jet boil at this time so I whipped up some ramen and a little tea. After having only slept for a couple hours the night before I feel asleep on top of the picnic table with remnants of ramen in my mouth and cup.

In the early morning hours I rolled over and looked out unto a new day, and not thirty feet away from me where three black bears, just grazing on some grass. As soon as I chimmied in the bivy they took for the hills. Un nerved I fell back asleep for another hour.

　

Owl Creek to Lincoln, nothing like bear in the morning and family reunions.

The Pettit Files, the most Excellent miss adventures of Jonny P~My mind is rambling

 

Was it all a dream? Banff, Elkford, Roosevelt, Eureka, white fish, Seeley lake, Butte. Polaris, Lima, Idaho, Jackson, Atlantic city. The great basin, Rawlings, Steamboat Springs, Frisco, Platoro. El Rito, Cuba, Grants, Pie Town, Silver City. Sepa, Hachita and the boarder? SHUT THE FRONT DOOR.

 

Endless miles of snow walks, mud runs. Rain showers that last for weeks with icy winds. Forrest fires with smoke so thick it burns your eyes and snows ash so heavy you cant see anything, total darkness, pitch black in daylight.

 

 

 

Sun stroke, heat exhaustion, boredom, clinically insane. Cursing aloud for hours alone to only the woodland creatures. Fears, doubts, tears and elation. Physical peaks, amazing people. Two wheels, two pedals, two legs, one chain, no brain, over 2,000 miles. Sitting alone in complete doubt to only push on to the unknown.

 

Love hate, fire and rain. Countries, counties, provinces, states. Statues, plates, food and insomnia. Beer floats, friends and complete randomness. Allies, bike shops, bars and saloons. Sunsets pain, regret and cows. Frost mornings and 50 miles for coffee, hands so frozen you cant brake, but at least you go faster. Phone calls, internet, familiar faces and voices. King of the road with a vagabond soul. Bald tires, worn out pedals, broken cranks, wounded pride and a snapped shifters.

 

It starts to end, a woman’s touch and Beto’s voice, a stop sign in Antelope Wells Mexico. Purified water and stale food, hunger knocks and brilliant moments. Moon dust, mud soaked. Push, carry, cringe. No we don’t take Debit. Hot showers and nasty chamois, 1500 to go. Friends help like a strong wind on the back, I dreamed of a loud night in Prescott surrounded by great friends and wake up to bears in the dusk, alone in deep frost.

 

Left knee, right knee we knee. It all hurts, ankles twisted in posthole snow, I think of you all and feel warmth on my face in sheer ice. Town closed, don’t drink that water and stay away from that food, to late, I ate and drank 5 pounds of it. This road will never end or bend, don’t sleep on the reservation, I wonder if that gun was really loaded?

 

I’m embarrassed by the sheer amount of support and fight to keep composure, I bow gracefully allowing the adulations to mirror those that gave a piece of themselves for me to carry, not just for this trip but where ever I roam. Lithium batteries, snickers and cokes. All your socks are ruined, what happened to your hands? Asked the waitress, I don’t see anything wrong with them.

 

An Element is finally in the Elements and it thrived. Star light, star bright, I wonder what Taylor is doing tonight, it feels weird to be inside and in a car. Large beds and clean sheets are foreign like an easy mile, this shit is 18 percent grade hike a bike. Passport, grassroots, hostels. That’s not dirt under my finger nails, its life~just get back in your car and I won’t hurt you.

 

I’ll take two large pizzas, a pitcher of beer, a pitcher of water and two maker’s oh and one sprite. How many? Does it look like anybody is with me?

 

A Titanium taint, 20 dollar bill and jonny p walk in the door.

 

I showered 12oo miles ago, I’m good. Jet boil, back pack, spare chain, cassette, all things you really don’t need to bring, but I sure as hell did.

 

I thank you all, and I couldn’t do it enough, this by no means is my story of the great divide mountain bike race, but it’s currently marinating in a fine brine and gaining a swell, like a wine and tide it will roll to me and come of age when its ready and me as well. My mind wonders like my soul and body did down the mountains south to Mexico, funny both times I’ve ever been to Mexico is on two wheels.

 

None of these mountains look the same, nor will I ever be. Dirt roads, gravel roads, little did the divide now I grew up on em. Come for 24 days but stay for a life time. Is that your bike? Ask two fat Harley riders, and I’m the only dude in spandex. What? I thought this was a biker bar, listen fuckers unless you want to get your ass beat by a dude is spandex, talk shit about me out of ear shot, I’m in no mood, I haven’t eaten or drank in 78 miles and I’m feeling froggy.

 

Gratitude is shown on a computer screen, but felt in the tears that run down a salty, dust covered cheek, without the words or the followers this first divide would’ve been worthless. What? Your buddy couldn’t hack it? So I dropped that asshole so bad he hasn’t finished yet, you say anything more about my friend and you won’t ride you bike again.

 

I hate riding railroad grades, but what’s 140 miles out of 2700? True grit and friends come out of the thicket and cover me in kindness and praise I never felt before. I didn’t ride the divide, we all did.

The Pettit files~The most excellent miss adventures of Jonny P~BANFF

“Shit Boy Howdy!” A term us Snohomish folk know well, in fact all Washingtonians should have engrained in their urban slang, and if you don’t, well your no friend of mine.

Shit Boy Howdy~3 days.

　The king of mellow, Jack Johnson himself sang, “in times like these, in times like those, what will be will be and so it goes, on and on, on and on it goes”

While without the smoothness of the Hawaiian son, I’ve been leaning more towards rougher, brasher lyrics. The honest tunes of blue collar guys grabbing their lunch box and heading towards the salt mines, singing ’bout whiskey, women, work and beer. That’s how I’m looking at the Tour Divide. The scenery is what sets the race apart, and will either cause further insanity or calm the insane you came in with. But the days are more akin to grabbing the pail and heading to work. I myself have been a melting pot of emotion. The tour, work, my dad’s health, money, and of course the ever prevalent question, “is this what I really want to do?” It’s all thrown in the mix like jambalaya, stirred together and left to smolder in its own broth to a fine boil. In short-I’m slowly going insane. I need June 10^th, more to escape myself, than anything.

I’m rested, stir crazy and anxious. I’ve alienated some, distanced other’s and managed to even perturb myself. Still short on cash, but hey, aren’t we all? I’m extremely confident once we start. The hardest part about fishing was untying from your home dock. Getting all your ducks in a row, just making time for time to stop. Once your on the boat and waving goodbye to those that love you, one world stops and another begins, and I could think of no more better analogy to fishing, than the Great Divide. One I have successfully done , the other may prove just how successful I may be, the largest doors might just open in Antelope Wells.

Taylor’s ready, still bike tweaking and skinny as a pole, but the kid is leaping with excitement, I’m both a little jealous and looking forward to watch his struggles and be a part of his growth. Jealous in the fact that what burdens me doesn’t register on his scale, and it’s more of an independence issue with me. He’s only 21 and still firmly on the family teet. No matter the stature of him however, I doubt there is a more enthusiastic participant than my good friend.

My bike? Solid but heavy. Today I rode some anger off and racked up an easy 70 miles. It’s tipping in just under 40 pounds with water. My pack is sweet, I’ll only haul 12-15 pounds on my shoulders, so that is a relief. But now under the misted patio in downtown phoenix on a disciplinary day off I’m left with a countdown; I think of how much the airlines will gouge me for my bike box further depleting my stack of monies. The ride to our condo in Banff and the couple days off we’ll have there, hopefully some of these qualms that are swelling to tsunami proportions will disperse and the seas will calm before the real storm hits… then again I wouldn’t mind a stormy 20 plus days to make me grateful for all that maybe I don’t realize currently.

Two Tuesdays ago, while at the nightly races I chatted with friends, and the lot asked many questions I haven’t before. I boarded the light rail heading to Amber’s with a lot on my mind. I woke her up and asked “is this crazy?’ It was the first time that the ‘crazy’ idea about the divide had crossed my mind. To me it seems natural to compete against yourself and the elements. The miles are extraordinary, the elements as real as you can get, the straight audacity mildly arousing- like a hot chick grabbing you by the collar saying, “lets do this.” That’s how the divide comes to me in my thoughts and dreams.

 

 Merle Haggard said, “I’ve always been crazy but it kept me from going insane.” I’ve felt a connection and bond with these words since as long as I can remember, and now in my 4th year of three decades I’m more unstable and stable as ever. More open and honest, but kinder with a knack to kill. It’s a cavern inside my head where I watch a man walk slowly and despite himself, flips a large light switch that says “kill” on it. I see his body fumble almost with regret as it gets turned to on. My only regret this year is that it never got flicked in a marathon race, my competitiveness was held to injury, allergies, and not wanting to get hurt for the divide. If I feel as well as I do, then I apologize for what I’ll do in the second week of the divide. I’ve already made up my mind, taking from those that achieved before me. The first week is like any tour, roll easy with the pack, feel at ease with yourself but never get comfortable. Comfortableness breeds complacency. I want to push myself as far as I’ve gone, and knowing where that is, will make this race interesting. The truth is I’m tired of what I’ve been doing and seeing, I’m ready to be on the alert all day everyday. I’m ready to go.

Perhaps like any good pyromaniac I’ve attempted to burn what good bridges I have. Anger is always the strongest switch, and my inner rebellion to show everyone wrong lends me strength, even if it be wrong- as has been my path since a child. However not towards the woman, or friends but those who refuse the larger picture, the one that’s produced by the greater good. Vision is not what’s directly in front of you, never has been. Not in life or on a bike, you always have to be looking ahead, reading, reacting. Mine, at times as been misplaced, misused or beat with a walking stick, till I’m forced on my hands and knees reading the earth like brail. But I’ve refused to quit, always pursuing in some form a greater picture, and not for myself but for all parties involved.

In typical Jonny P fashion we got to the airport by alternate routes. We drove to the light rail dropped the bike off with Amber and our gear. Then I ran to catch the train from her house. Once on the light rail we made people in the early morning dance around a big cardboard bike box, then heft it across the street to catch a shuttle. Even had a chance to see Kurt Warner directly in front of me at the airport dealing with the same issues while his kids were being kids. When we landed in Calgary it seemed our quest was blessed, we found our new shuttle easily and where entertained by our driver Bill Bower, a man whom know doubts loves his provinces and his job. On the route my face was glued to the window looking at amazing mountains, even though the hem of cumulous clouds hung low the sights where still rewarding and building my inner drive. He hooked us up with a tour of the town and told us the inns and outs of the non-tourist cool Banff, and I’ll be forever grateful.

On the flight here I saw the spine of great mountains covered in snow, looked for the smoke of the Greer fire, and let my eyes take in all that my body will in the coming weeks. We landed in the damp air and green of Calgary, made it through customs without a scratch and found the bikes. They on the other hand were treated poorly, large holes punched through and a note from TSA telling me they’ve been here and took my matches, jetboil fuel and a couple small items fell out of the ripped box, nothing major. The bikes are built and today we pick up our spot trackers, get acquainted with the town and take in all this beautiful place has to offer. Although rainy it’s spectacular, it has risen my spirits by just the lone sight of her. I’m not a valley boy so being up near swelling rivers, pines and mountain people feels like a weight has been lifted off of me.

Banff has been on my radar since I was a small boy, now with receding hairline and speckles of grey in my beard I’ve achieved a childhood dream and will soon begin an expedition south and hopefully realize another dream. Everyone who helped me get here you are amazing, compassionate, and dreamers too. You’ve realized the chance to see and do great things with me and allow me to be your medium, I’ll search for ways to repay you for 2,800 miles. But for now I’m going to slowly enjoy this town and the people I meet and those I’m with, just letting it all soak in, this is one part of a major dream come true and I’m on a cloud. My body is a little beat up, but I’m in BANFF, so life don’t suck.

Today will be spectacular, enjoyed with great people, the thoughts of great friends and those I’m about to meet. I promise another story before I leave but for now I’ve got to go see my muse.

The Pettit files~New ways to track us on the divide

Folks, For those of you carrying smart phones during TD, or with family and friends who like to follow the action from smart phones, a free Tour Divide mobile race tracker app is ready for upload here: http://bluedot.mobi/blog/ Read all about it. The app is currently configured for last year’s info, but as soon as Trackleaders gets this year’s start list finalized / plugged in, the app will be updated to reflect 2011 riders. This web app for smart phones is really freaking cool. As if we aren’t already blue dot junkies enough, Bluedot.mobi is here to deliver more fix. There’s numerous layers to this app so read up. Its tracker base maps even work offline, so when cell coverage is spotty, grab your update in a town and view the full tracking map features later that night from the comfort of your burrito-n-bivy under Doug Fir-n-starry skies. Thanks to class woodsman and future TD racer Dave Harris for sinking countless hours into this important project…and he calls it a hobby! If you ask us, there’s a donate button conspicuously missing from the website. Enjoy.

The most excellent miss adventures of Jonny P~The drifter

 

I am a drifter, a peddler, a poet, certainly no saint.

 

I wander, I roam, making excuses for not building homes. Family ties form knots loosened by years, I distance myself from all these peers.

 

Audacious, crafty, peeling like an orange, in love I am yours till morning, gone with the tide, pulled away by earth, shared by everyone.

 

I ride miles of endless banners ‘neath star dotted sky, skin newly wrinkled by life and times, my throat parched, eyes heavy with burden of all I’ve seen and done.

 

Rocks and trees are the keepers of time, rivers form the veins, stomachs made of lakes, the mountains and peaks make the brows, everything under them be our eyes.

 

I saw you in dusk for the first, of many dreams. A twisted shape made of fates I attach myself to, burning with relevance I reached to touch but the mirage faded until just the cusp of sunlight plumed above the earth.