Nearly Missed Connections

Speeding and swerving to the beat of Pacific Highway 1, Marty led the way toward north toward Mendocino in her sleek new Saab as my stomach groaned and quivered as it lurched to the left and right through the tight coastal turns. Ever since a winding bus ride hungover from pulque in the highlands of Chiapas I have become disposed to a wretched motion sickness. Jonas, my housemate who sat shotgun, talked on and on about the mushroom bonanza we would encounter when we took to the hills in search of King Belotus and Black Chanterelles. "Heavenly Lord when will this hell ride end," I thought as I panned down to go over another one of my dusty S.A.T. vocabulary cards that I had so casually dismissed as a capricious youth. Soporific: adj. sleep-causing. This short jaunt was anything but. Turbulence: n. state of violent agitation. A fitting word for my current situation. Just as I looked up to commit another flash card to memory, maybe this time fortuitous, I glimpsed a passing touring cyclist on the other side of the road. First I quickly locked on to a pair of intense, deep blue eyes. Seconds later a visual image in my brain flashed a freckled complexion. Before I couldn't even think of the cyclist's name I blurted out to Marty and Jonas, "HOLY SHIT, I know that girl!"

"You what?" the couple simultaneously asked confused, but equally amused.

"I know that lady! That's Ms. Speedie Ellie K. I cycled with her in Chile! Can we turn around," I asked politely but shaking slightly with a nervous jitter. Had my eyes deceived me? This wasn't a completely coincidental occurrence after all as I knew my old pal Joey Bulldozer was making his way down the West coast on his beloved one ton Trek 720 at the very moment we as we were turning the car around. Pulling alongside Ms. SEK I mused "Fancy seeing you in this neck of the woods lady?" Also, bewildered she asked if we could pull over which we did, precariously parking the car on the shoulder less road. Flinging the car door open I ran over and gave my friend a hug. After all when you are as far away from home as I am seeing someone you know or are close to means everything in the world.

This was anything but expected. Hell, I was supposed to be at the winery on Saturday cleaning up after a day of crushing reds and whites. However, afternoon showers on Friday were sure to lower the grapes' Brix(sugar) levels, which in affect pushed back the arrival of new fruit. As a result the cellar crew was given the entire weekend off. Did somebody say "PARTY TIME! EXCELLENT!" Friday night I decided I would use Saturday to focus on serious endeavors and set out a series of goals: drink copious amounts of coffee, take pulls off of a fifth of Irish whiskey, walk with the Humboldt Wizard and somewhere in between polish off a can or two of my favorite sweetened energy beverage all while banging away on a keypad. What ridiculous diarrhea that was set in motion to be shat out was not to be as last minute coercions from the German-Carolina duo convinced me to jump on board the day trip. Happy, I was.

En route to the battered Mendocino coastline, we followed local highway 128 at we breezed by lush rows of Dijon and Martini Pinot clones, their canes flopping over the top vine wire leaving them to flap wildly in the breeze. Jonas mused curiously at the heavy traffic in the Navarro tasting room while other local business's boasted only a "few crappy rentals." Tossing around the thought of tasting in my unusually dry skull I suggested we stop by Standish, as the owner's daughter told us she normally pours on Saturday. The suggestion was too alluring for the Davis grads to pass up and so we abruptly took a sharp turn off the main road. Standish is a relatively small producer in Anderson Valley(making around 500 cases a year) and sells much of their Chardonnay and Pinot Noir to sparkling wine producers in Sonoma and Napa. Quite possibly the most interesting part about our visit was the tasting room building, the Day Ranch, which double as a smoke house for Anderson Valley apples in the early Twentieth-century. Our host took us through a serious of Chardonnays and Pinots all with nearly 50 case production. The standouts were an off dry Chardonnay whose fruit came from a clone originally developed for ice wine in downstate New York. The Chard gave off a fruity/perfumy nose with an off dry mouth feel balanced by equally crisp acidity which would certainly make any soccer mom scream out in elation. The 2006 Standish Merlot was a surprising standout in the group with an olive and dark fruit nose and plenty of dark fruit and mocha in the mouth. Incredibly palatable. The Standish Mayflower Pinot took the cake though with dark cherries, spice and a fragrant spearmint nose and a delectably smooth and velvety body. At eighty bucks a pop though this beauty is not on the affordable side for your average day-laborer.

Working our way north we(as stated earlier) bumped into my cycling buds. After making loose plans to meet up with Ellie and crew later in the night we journeyed on up the coast for Van Damme State Park. Jonas at this point was pissing his pants to forage for wild mushrooms but a 6 dollar day fee forced us around the backside of the park leading us serendipitously to a back entrance. Bingo! The trail head began at the foot of the Pygmy forest, an ancient ecosystem of pines, huckleberry shrubs and manzinita trees stunted by the one million year old heavily acidic soil. Marching along the boardwalk Jonas boasted that he felt like a giant and stopped a number of times to add a bit of his own nitrogen back to the soil, snottily daring the shrubs to grow a few more centimeters. With the nutrient deficient soils of the Pygmy Forest shrooms were no where to be found so we continued to trudge down into the Fern Canyon, another ecosystem that was formerly populated with old growth Redwood. While all that remained of the oldgrowth was decaying stumps the size of a small lake cottage new Redwoods had sprouted up in the last 100 years, renewing my faith in humanity at least a little bit. Marching along the path I envisioned myself as the cheeky Wicket in the Ewok adventure, with my faithful sidekick Cindel(Marty) and an out of place German Chewbacca at my side. The mushroom bonanza however, was a bust but to our credit we uncovered a beastly black newt and a slinking banana slug that could have doubled for one of the decaying Doles sitting in our fruit basket at the house.


Reaching Mendocino by late afternoon we soothed our parched throats at the local watering hole Dick's, a colorful bar that was bombarded with stickers from a failed 80s flower power revival. With Buena Vista Social Club pumping from the jukebox I ordered a Lagunitas IPA and sank into a bar stool pondering the lifestyle of a Mendocinite. You quite honestly have everything you need at your doorstep. Fresh coastal waters and abalone hunting in spring, the redwoods a stones throw away and a high influx of tourists in peak season. The village after all might be a lined with boutiquey galleries exhibiting colorful images of Indian shamans and exotic organic knitwear but the locals need to make a living somehow. On top of that this quaint seaside town has an archaic character with giant watertowers made of redwoods protruding above the Western shop facades and well worn paths along the coast giving off an aura of contemplative strolls and unrequited young love. The winter certainly must be chilly, but the town has a beating heart that makes it so appealing. I could definitely envision myself living here.

***

Close to nine o'clock I pulled into Manchester Beach State Park, my headlights poised and positioned to look for a few crusty kids and a group of antiquated lugged frames with high end componentry. Across from the ranger station I spotted my prey along with two tents erect under the foliage of windswept pines. Getting to the coast wasn't easy, as one must cross the Mendocino ridge, which can take up to an hour when allowing time to avoid small woodland creatures doubling as moving road obstacles and a thick ubiquitous fog that blankets the coast. Stepping out of the car my lower limbs were rigid and I ambled over to an EMS tent, my lights still shooting an authoritative beam on the temporary shelter. Adam the mathematician popped his head out from a synthetic shelter that looked quite similar to "the womb." "Can I help you?" he brusquely inquired, surely non-plussed that my motor vehicle was interrupting quiet time. After my non-response he repeated his question, this time with a bit more irritation behind his delivery. Creeping up behind the double tent I quietly offer up my services to my old pals, "House-keeping. Housekeeping. You need new towels?" The joke might be beat to death but it still warranted a giggle from Mr. Bulldozer. Adam, satisfied that I was harmless, popped his head back into his tent door like a prairie dog and Joey and Ellie joined me to catch up over a couple bottles from the Anderson Valley AVA.

Needless to say I am really proud of these kids. The trio started bicycling in Seattle nearly a month ago and have come some 1,300 miles down the coast on the way to San Francisco for the Bike! Bike! conference. These kids have stuck to their guns; they love bikes and they are whole-heartily into promoting cycling in their communities and making their knowledge of bike mechanics available to everyone. The three hours in their company were quite sublime. As the ocean played its never ending ballad in the background we chatted on about the Buffalo we miss, camping catholic school girls singing to the rhythm of a roving gypsy act, fresh organic cheese and fresh tulips of Old Rasputin, mass consumption of cookies and memories of past roads traveled. The next morning I bid my friends adieu after a robust cup of coffee in Point Arena. The kids jetted off toward San Francisco while I got behind the wheel stuck in a strange purgatory of yearning to return to my transient, irresponsible early twenties and my current trajectory, a rocket set to launch myself into the skies of total yuppiedom.