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While riding through Sequoia NP yesterday, approaching 7000′ and well into the snow zone, I started getting pretty chilly. I kept my eyes peeled for a safe place to pull off the road that also offered an opportunity to bask in the copious sunshine. After a few minutes of twists, a spot appeared that fit the bill perfectly: full western exposure, a nice little granite slab on which I might relax.
I sat, munched some peanuts, and relaxed. Given how much I have to rely on vision as I ride, I released my other senses, allowing them to pick up the little signals we so often miss: the shrill of a jay, throaty rat-a-tat cough of a raven (I first thought this was a woodpecker), numerous unidentified birdsongs, solo and conversational. The crystalline trickle of snowmelt splishing down the rock face across the road, in contrast to the distant sibilant thunder of the rushing river in the valley below. The whisper and caress of the breeze across my earlobes. The warm blanket of sunshine, the simultaneously smooth and rough granite beneath me. Salt crystals melting on my tongue as I ate the peanuts. The scent of old snow, and older forest.
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I’ve had a whirlwind couple of days! I left San Francisco on Tuesday – after a lovely visit with one of my favoritest of the BM staff – and pointed eastward – destination: Camp 4, Yosemite Valley. I rolled into the valley about an hour before sunset, and almost immediately felt at peace. I’ve only been to Yosemite once before, more than 20 years ago, and have wanted to return ever since. Yosemite is one of the most magically beautiful places I’ve seen on this big blue ball, and it felt wonderful to be back there after far too long.
My plan had been to stay one night and then on to King’s Canyon and Sequoia National Parks, but even as I was setting up camp I decided to stay in the valley another day. It was so the right thing to do. After the crazy cold hustle to get to the Bay Area and the busy bustling about for the four days I was there, I wanted to spin down. Being in Yosemite – and in the friendly intimacy of Camp 4 – served that desire perfectly. I spent yesterday wandering through the valley – taking some photos, roaming the visitor center, talking to various people about various things. It felt great to be free from agenda.
I woke very early this morning – as a result of going to sleep before 10pm – with the goal of morning light photographs in the Valley. After coffee and a quick breakfast, I rode out to the trailhead for El Capitan and hiked up about .3 miles, close to the base, camera bag in tow. After finding a nice spot to recline with great view, I reached for my camera, only to discover that I only had lenses with me – my camera body was back in the tent, where I put it last night after downloading the day’s shots. Oops. Oh well, might as well enjoy it. So I did.
Back to camp, to break down and hit the road. Hwy 41 – the Wawona Road – up, over and down, out of the Valley, and on to Fresno. Left turn, back toward the mountains for an incredible ride through Sequoia National Park. Hwy 198 is without a doubt the twistiest road I’ve ever ridden; the stretch south of Giant Forest all the way to Lemoncove is filled with twist and turns, starting with enormous trees and dropping steadily down into a river valley, first lush then progressively more arid – yuccas in bloom on the side of the road. At this moment, I can safely say that the Sierras – parks, foothills, valley and ridge – are the best place I’ve ever ridden.
Then, into the citrus groves. The scent of orange and lemon blossoms filled the air for miles. Heavenly!
Today was filled with extremes. I started at about 4000′ and 35°, climbed to about 6000′ and into the low 50s, then dropped into Fresno (300′ and almost 80°). Up again into Sequoia, crossing a high point for the day and trip at 7335′ with 8-10′ snow drifts and temps dipping briefly back into the upper 30s. Then down into the Central Valley again for my day’s rest in Porterville CA. When I rolled in to my motel just before 8pm, it was 72° at 456′. At almost 250 miles it was my second longest day thus far on the trip, and almost certainly the greatest total elevation change I’ve ever ridden in a day.
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As I spent the last days before embarking on the formidable task of boxing up my life and ridding myself of very many things, a thought began to form: we each have a shadow of history which trails along behind us. When moving from one home to the next, it’s far too easy to just put our history in a box and trail it along behind like a shadow that perhaps we no longer recognize; maybe to reopen on arrival, maybe to go on a shelf.
In my case, that shadow manifests itself in large part in *stuff*. I have a hard time letting go of the physical reminders of my past. Books I’ll never read again, old tattered clothes that maybe someday I’ll get around to repairing, collections of memorabilia from various aspects of my past, all of which have contributed to who I am today but are no longer essential to me.
Preparing for this adventure provided a much-needed incentive to let some of that past go, to pare away parts of my shadow that have become hazy and unrecognizable with time. I gave away half of my clothes, a third of my books. I spent time – but not to0 much, due to Julie’s stopwatch – going through those old memories, remembering the stories they crystallize for me, and letting them go. I felt such a sense of relief when I pitched my 25 year old bought-for-college footlocker, crusted with Greenpeace and Grateful Dead stickers, into the pit at the transfer station. Watching the ancient futon frame collapse on impact was cathartic and liberating. Giving old blankets and shoes and socks to the folks at the local homeless encampment felt like a best highest use, much better than yet another shelf.
Despite this, I kept too much – I have bags with stickers and concert ticket stubs. Burning Man memories have superseded those from the distant hippie / outdoor bum days of my twenties, and I kept pendants and patches and, yes, tickets. But I even let go a lot of these things. Not enough, but some. More shadows coalesce in boxes, on shelves.
Trimming the shadow of one’s own history proved a far greater challenge than I anticipated. I can only hope that in 18 months when I return to the life I’ve put on a shelf with all those boxes, I am able to look at the minimalism I’ve lived during that period and make another set of hard decisions, and trim more of the shadow.