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Figbuck Chronicles...


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#41 Figbuck

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Posted 17 December 2008 - 09:58 AM

I wrote a book but it's not a happy story. Nobody wants to read it. It's a true story titled "Expensive Lessons". You could read it for free... You would only pay if you don't learn the lessons.

Just a few more days until the winter solstice. There are a couple weeks there in October where you really notice the days getting shorter and then the weather here really changes. Living in California, I never paid too much attention to the length of the days. I mean, I don't ever remember it having the effect that the it does on me now. I get pretty sad and introspective. Not depressed, but I don't really feel like jumping up and down, clapping my hands either. I guess it's just depressing.

Time runs down into this time of year and I start thinking, another one shot down the tubes. What the heck happened to this year? It's a glass half empty or half full kinda deal. I had a few times when things went great and there was joy and happiness, but precious few. I know better than to say it could have been worse, or dumber... It can't get much worse! Yeah it could.

I can't wait for the days to get longer. It still isn't going to get warmer or drier anytime soon, but just knowing that the potential or opportunity for long sunny warm days helps cheer me up.

It's hard for me to be optimistic, but even though a bunch of booby traps blew up in my face this year, really it could have been worse. In a few weeks or a month, I won't have these doubts and misgivings. The days will start getting longer and we will have another shot at it. I have to remember to be grateful for what I have. I have to remember to remember my personal mythology. Who am I, what am I about here, what the fuck... over?

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Ahh, V-4 Liquid cooled, four valve heads, chain driven cam train, six speeds and brakes that made your eyeballs flat. I'm felling better already thinking about all of the fun I have had riding motorcycles.

Near ecstasy, on the gas in the middle of the Corkscrew at Laguna.

Posted Image

In the summer of '90, the motor of the FVR was just getting broken in and I was on a long Sunday ride out in the middle of nowhere in Central California. It was a spectacular day and there is no better feeling than to be on a modern superbike with a full tank of gas and fresh tires. It's possibly better than sex or playing music.

I decided that I hadn't really explored the horsepower in sixth gear since it was a new bike. I crested this hill onto a five mile long straight through a long valley. With nothing around, I started to roll it on in fourth gear. I let fourth go at about a hundred and ten, then fifth at about a hundred and thirty-five. It was pulling strong at nine and a half or ten grand in sixth. I was trying relax, keep my head and body down behind the windshield and fairing. I wasn't able to look at the tach or speedo because at that rate of speed you must focus as far ahead as you can see. Just as I felt the vibration of the intake and the exhaust valves get to a point where they were howling in unison, I knew there must only be a few hundred RPM left to redline. I saw something come at me from the right side.

It happened in an instant. A small bird flew at me from the side and hit the corner of the visor on my helmet. It felt like I got hit in the head with a baseball bat. At something like a hundred and forty five miles per hour, you don't do anything very quickly, especially chop the throttle or hit the brakes. I tensed up for a second but realized that it was over before I could even process what had happened. I rolled off the throttle slowly and started to sit up at like ninety miles per hour.

I slowed down and turned around. I was way out in the middle of this huge desert like, arid valley with not too much around but barbed wire fences on each side of the road. I spotted the bird, lifeless in the middle of the asphalt. I got off and picked it up in my gloves. My blood was still racing. My heart pounding in my ears and the mechanical tick of the cooling engine were the only noises around. I felt so devastated. It was such a beautiful little creature. I couldn't understand why I had just taken it's life. I was out there fucking around and I had killed this innocent animal.

I kept trying to think and sort out what had happened. I felt so guilty. There had to be some cosmic message or lesson here. I wanted to bury the bird, but I didn't have any tools and there wasn't a twig or stick around. The ground was hard and dry as a bone. I decided to cover him with rocks. As I made a little pile of stones as a monument, I spotted a piece of brilliant white quartz like rock. It didn't look like anything else anywhere around. I don't think that it came from that valley. It had to have come from somewhere high in the mountains I believe. For a second, I was going to use it to top the little pyramid that I was building, but instead, I put it into my motorcycle jacket pocket.

That rock has been in my jacket every time I put my hand into the pocket for eighteen years. It is something to remind me how fragile life is. It could have been me that was gone in an instant.

"What ever you do, don't add up what you are spending! :D
J2eDeYe

 

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#42 510rob

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Posted 23 December 2008 - 11:29 AM

Figbuck,

I've had a few experiences where things have happened to slow me down or to somehow force me to pull over (and/or otherwise at the time felt like something was simply "in my way"), only to find that potential doom/peril/serious injury was laying in wait only one or two corners/hills ahead. I always like to see those events as the hand of the great unknown supreme force intervening and letting me know that today was too early for me to go.

It would be neat to see a picture of the brilliant white quartz like rock because it sounds as if that neat rock has helped to keep you safe and alive, in one piece, for 18+ years. If you think that posting a picture of it might jinx things, I understand - I don't like to mess with the balance of some things.

Oh yeah, your stories are really interesting to read. Thanks for writing them and posting them.

#43 agentalpha

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Posted 24 December 2008 - 05:56 PM

AWESOME stories, Sir.
Thanks for sharing a glimpse into your past with us.
I can almost imagine you chillin' with Hunter S. Thompson.
I remember a small bit of that flavor you described during the 70's.
I was a child, but I still clearly recall it.
I guess all those weird metallic greens and browns were pretty appropriate for the times.
I moved away from Cali (SF East Bay) when I was 17.
Lived all over the country, and just recently moved back, from Ohio.
I miss it back there. So much more chill, much more greener, old forests...

And now, Cali is just lame, expensive, over-rated.
And I was told by an illegal at my last job I "Need" to learn Spanish.

Wow.

Cherry old cars though.

Can't wait to get the hell outta here.
[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
The TRUTH about Our Once Great Country, and Our World:
http://www.zeitgeistmovie.com
Not much to argue with here:

#44 Figbuck

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 08:53 AM

I have a friend named Ted, that I have known since 7th grade. We spent many summer days riding skateboards and learning tricks. We were pretty tight.

We grew up and went off to do what we did. 35 years later, I get a phone call from him. In the passing years, Ted had been a very sucessful painting contractor, bought property in a remote part of the Northern California Coast and built a very special house that took him many years to construct.

The reason for his call, was that his house had suffered some leaks in the harsh coastal environment and he needed a carpentry contractor with advanced remodeling skills and the capability of setting up a small woodworking shop onsite to restore his house.

Eight years ago, he was diagnosed with emphysema and he ran up some huge medical bills. He needed to fix the water damage and put the property on the market. No way he could do any kind of work. He is rarely able to even go outside.

Ted calls his house the exquisite prison. He gets up with the sunrise and goes into the kitchen to make coffee. He watches the the pair of Ravens that live on the property, as well as the flock of crows, quail, 65 chip monks, two different spiecies of rabbit families, herd of deer, bobcats, skunks and an occasional black bear that travels through the back patio.

Emyphasema is an insidious disease. Ted is on oxygen but only to allow his heart to work less. He has less that one percent or normal lung capacity. Getting oxygen is not the problem, but his lungs getting rid of CO2 is the problem. If he exerts himself too much, the result is much like drowning. Ted is a fantastic artist, designer, painter & cartoonists. Mostly his day is spent on maintenance. Eating, taking medications, washing dishes, but just relaxing and taking it easy, listening to music and reading.

Mostly he sits in the dining room, with its huge picture windows on three walls, watching the sun travel across the sky and his animal neighbors. He likes to draw, but can't get too into it, or his heart rate will rise and cause his lungs to spasm. Just listening and grooving on music can cause him breathing problems. He told me that even thinking too hard or worrying about things will cause him real problems.

Ted sent me this e-mail earlier in the year.

Lime Forrest Celedon Hunter Asparagus Heather Pea Pine Olive Chartruese
Deep Light Warm Dark Bright Cool.

Blue Grey and Yellow.

GREEN

the show was just begining on the tips of the tallest firs and in the
shadows of oaks, redwoods and madrones. the beauty of this cloudless
sunrise would be on the ground in the colors of needles, leaves and on the
blades of fresh new grasses.

i had forgotton about spring. but spring had
not forgotton about me. it reached deep inside to rescue me from my wintery gloom.

later i would stay outside and stare as the textures of bark changed with
the slow shifting of shadows. witness a few brave flowers bloom early on
this warm spring-like day in early february. i'd watch light pierce dense
green canopies and walls of forrest to spotlight grey decaying logs,
blankets of dead needles, and hollowed stumps.

i listened to the sounds of surf coming up the canyon and pictured the greens change to tan then white then Sky Powder Navy Berry Slate Royal Ice Gingham Midnight Deep Light Dark Pale Bright Cool.

Green Grey and Purple.

BLUE.

once i watched as scattered diamonds on windswept water turned to embers of burning driftwood. between the stars and the deep water below tangerine and gold dragons battled to stay afloat.

http://gualalaproper...om/default.html

"What ever you do, don't add up what you are spending! :D
J2eDeYe

 

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#45 Figbuck

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 09:07 AM

I packed up my tools and spent the summer of 2006 in Southern Mendocino County, high in the Redwoods over looking the Pacific Ocean. Ted's wife Debby, told me that she had to go feed her neighbor's cats each night and would walk down the road to the ridge overlooking the ocean. This went on for weeks, until I ask if the neighbors were ever coming back. Debby looked at Ted and they smiled at each other. Ted said, "Why don't you show him the place?". She said, Ok let's walk over there.

Slowly, Debby told me about all the years that they lived on the ridge property. They could have bought this other property out on the cliffs, but they thought that the 37 acres they ended up with had a more sheltered home site, trading a direct ocean view for protection from storms. They shared a common road through the ridge property and so, when... let's call them the Jones, bought the cliff property, they had many common dealings.

Ted described Jones as a survivalist wing nut. The Joneses wanted to move out into the sticks and be self sufficient, so when the end of civilization came, they would be able to live in paradise.

Wow, this was a pretty mind blowing location I thought, as we got to the end of the narrow gravel road and spotted the ocean through the forest. The house was not visible until you got right to the edge of the cliffs. I could see a narrow wooden stairway between two boulders about 40 ft. in diameter. The stairs were set into pockets chipped out of these huge boulders. At the top, the stairs connected to a weather beaten deck that wrapped around to a similar looking, three bedroom house perched like an eagle's nest on the side of this thousand foot mountain.

The inside of the house was beautifully decorated, modern, and had picture windows all across the western elevation with sweeping vistas of the Pacific. Sure enough, here were the cats. They didn't go outside. Debby said Mrs. Jones spends most of the year in San Diego. Debby fed the cats and said, let's go look at the house site.

I was confused. We walked out, back down the stairs, down a path to a big flat area. It too had a sweeping views of the coast. There was a big building that reminded me of a county or state road maintenance facility. It had three big commercial style roll up doors with glass transoms as wide as the doors. It had a standing seam, metal, shed roof that went from two stories on the ocean side to three stories on the eastern side. There was a big 6' thick concrete driveway with a Case 580 back hoe/loader, a little Ford dump truck and a Ditch Witch, all in new condition, parked in front of each door.

I'm taking all this in as Debby unlocks a man door on the side and lets us in. I find that we are in someone's dream garage. There are big Snap-On rollaway chests on each side of two big work benches all strewn with tools. There are lockers chock full of every kind of mechanics tool you can think of. There are book shelves with repair manuals and a desk. On the floor, is a built-in hydraulic auto lift, with all the goodies you would expect in a auto shop. There were welders, plasma cutters, transmission jacks and rolling oil drain pans.

I'm stunned. This was the last thing I would expect to find way out here in the boondocks. Debbie walked away to check on something while I took it all in. On the ocean side of the building was a big furnished office with picture window so you could see into the shop area. In back of the auto repair area was a staircase going up to a mezzanine over looking the shop and a furnished apartment with a full kitchen.

The thing that struck me as odd, was the tractors and truck being parked outside. In the bays, were row upon row thousands of used books in eight foot tall book cases, cobbled together out of #2 1x12 pine boards. I start looking at this "library" and realize that they are all how-to kind of books. How to make Stained Glass, how to can vegetables, how to make whatever.

Debbie comes back and motions to me to follow her. I'm not really putting two and two together, and ask what all this stuff is. I ask what does Mr. Jones do?

Do? She replies. He doesnít do anything he died two years ago. Iím stunned. Whatís happening with all this stuff I ask? Nothing, she says, and points to the far end of the building.

She leads me to a big bright space partially walled off from the garage area. It is a full woodworking shop. It was like somebody leafed through the Delta and Powermatic catalogs and said, give me the big planer, jointer, shaper table and dust collection system... oh and throw in one of those Hitachi 2 1/4Ē band saws too. It was just ridiculous, all the brand new hand and small power tools, crazy as the garage setup.

My heart skipped a beat. I had just packed up my shop in the Bay Area two summers before and all my tools and machinery were still in storage in Portland. I was dumbfounded and ask, what is this all about?

Debbie motions me out another exterior door opening, out towards the most spectacular view of the coast in both directions. We walk down a narrow foot path in the middle of an overgrown gravel driveway that has been abandoned. We were at the edge of the old redwood forest that had grown wild right up to the rock outcroppings at the top the cliffs. Around a turn, is another area, not very big or very level. Here was a concrete perimeter foundation and piers that describe the building line for a large residence.

Off to the side, is a what is left of a pile of dimensional framing lumber melted in the rain and sun. Debby said they were building this new house to live in, when Mr. Jones had a heart attack and died. Everything was pretty much left where it was. Mrs. Jones spent the summers here, but then went to live in San Diego to be near her kids. That is why Debby fed the cats.

We walked back up to the road. Debbie wanted to double check the doors and I stood looking at the maintenance station, when my gaze fell on what looked like a mobile home trailer with no windows. There was a big door in the middle and some kind of air conditioning system on top. When debbie catches up, I point, afraid to ask. She says, its a lumber dry kiln, they they wanted to mill all their own lumber for the house. I said, can I look? She says, I think there was some redwood from downed logs that had fallen where they graded the driveway.

The doors creak and light reveals a huge pile of thick, wide, flitches from different trees. Itís dusty and my woodworkers curiosity is in full throttle. I wipe some boards and there is the most exotic madrone, oak, black walnut as well as monster planks of old growth redwood at the back.

Iím incredulous. Whatís going to happen to all of this material I bleat out? Debbie says, I donít know, nothing. Iím over come with envy or wood lust or something. I want this material in the worst way. My little brain is thinking of all the tables, chairs, bookcases, that I have designs for. Oh man, what a rocking chair I could build with that Madrone! I could come down here with a rental truck and steal all this lumber! And then I realize how stupid that all sounds.

That evening we talked about the Joneses and life in general. Ted said that when he was diagnosed, they told him he would only live two years. That was eight years ago. He has been through some really rough times. Somebody came to the property in Ď03 that had a cold and Ted caught it. His immune system is so compromised that he became very ill, very fast and Debbie had to call 911.

They had to life flight Ted to the hospital. His heart stopped en route and they revived him. There was fog and so they couldnít land at the hospital where his doctors were, and had to take him to another. Now his insurance company wont pay for a half million dollars worth of bills. His heart stopped in the ER, but they revived him and he spent six weeks in ICU.


Ted is a tough guy. We talk on the phone all the time. Sometimes he canít talk and so I say, well just listen then.

We have hashed over so much philosophical stuff in the last few years. Ted gave almost everything he owned away. He had three nice guitars. He gave me one of them because he canít play them any more. The medication that he is on gives him osteoporoses. The last time he tried to play he broke two ribs. He keeps his guitars, a stereo and some CDs. Nothing else in the house is his anymore. The house is on the market. When he dies, Debbie will have a laundry basket full of cloths to give away, and thatís it. Ted told me that Iím going to get the other two guitars. I protested, saying I have more instruments than I have time to play. He said we are only caretakers. I have been the caretaker for this land and my house to the best of my abilities and somebody else will have to take care of this stuff. You will find somebody that needs to play them.

Thatís it boys and girls. Itís all just stuff. We are just taking care of it. Itís not who we are.

Merry Christmas

"What ever you do, don't add up what you are spending! :D
J2eDeYe

 

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#46 AtomChurch

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 11:37 AM

Well said.
Built not bought.
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#47 ]2eDeYe

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 12:24 PM

Merry Christmas :)

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Whenever I think that I'm out of my mind for putting this much time and money into an old Datsun, all I have to do is look some of your threads to know that I'm not nearly as whack as you are.

You're going to skin a few knuckles, stand up too fast and bump your head, hunt around the floor for the nuts and bolts you dropped, invent a few new cuss words and when you're finished you'll say "That wasn't so hard after all!"


#48 datzenmike

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 01:38 PM

When I was reading this, I was reminded that the greatest possession you will ever have is not what you collect or amass, what you buy or earn or are given. It is priceless beyond the imaginings of those that daily take it for granted. If you have good health and know it's true value, all the problems in life are truly put into perspective.

Merry Christmas
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#49 510rob

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 04:05 PM

Merry Christmas

#50 Skib

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 05:13 PM

great storys figbuck :D

"your wrong like sex in a crib and someone needs to slap the shit out of you!"

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#51 mklotz70

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Posted 25 December 2008 - 08:10 PM

WOW! The story, the house and property....WOW!
Don't have to be too bright to be me!! :D
Sadly, I prove this nearly everyday!!! :(
www.bluehandsinc.com
youtube.com/bluehandsvideo

#52 Figbuck

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Posted 01 January 2009 - 10:50 AM

This is one of those episodes that occurred during a transitional time. It was the end of one period and the beginning of another. I didnít understand a lot of things then. I still donít understand much more now. Through the passage of time, I do have a bit better view of things that happened to me in the past. This story is out of the hindsight is 20/20 file.

In 1970, I had just graduated from High School and late in June, my Dad gave my younger brother and me his Ď67 520 pickup to share. We had heard about this place called Indian Creek or Table Rock Canyon. It is just north of Santa Cruz on Highway 1, the Cabrillo Highway. We used to surf at a place called Four Mile. It was a beach just four miles north of the Santa Cruz city limit. Some local kids told us about a secluded Redwood forest in the hills back across the highway.

We were told the way to find it was to go north on Highway 1, until you got to the Red White & Blue mailbox. There was a short, dead end road, traveling west to where there were farm houses and artichoke fields, that ran to the edge of the cliffs above the beaches. Surfers used to park at the end of the dead end and hump their boards through the fields to some really nice secluded breaks.

What we heard, was to park down there and walk back to the highway. On the other side was a gated driveway. It ran up a steep hill and disappeared into the rolling hay fields. If you drove another quarter mile north, you would see a huge rock faced canyon to the east, with a large creek that emptied under the road bed and out to the Pacific Ocean. I had driven past it hundreds of times and unless you knew to look, it would go by in a blip. Here were big rock outcroppings at the top of the rolling hills. It looked like the edge of a monster table sticking out sideways from the landscape. They said you could sit up there and see the waves break on that whole section of coast line. Looking up through the canyon, you could see a gorge cut through the rock by Indian Creek. None of this was very impressive or even noticeable, driving up and down the coast looking for surf.

The first time, we hopped the fence and hiked up the road, until it crested the hill and turned down into the canyon. There it stopped at a USGS monitoring station, where they housed automated measuring devices used to record creek levels and other weather data. Past that, the road turned into a trail and then a foot path, back into the narrow gorge. It was a deserted and really beautiful place.

We spent a couple hours up there, had some lunch and walked back out. On the way out a farmer came driving out from the hills to the south. He ask us what we were doing. We said, just hiking. He didnít seem upset at all, but told us that we were trespassing on private property. We said that there werenít any signs posted. He said that the signs would get swiped soon as they got put up. We said we were just leaving. He kept going down and out the gate.

Later we understood that the whole chunk of property, was owned by the University of California Santa Cruz and some of the grazing land was leased to farmers. A couple weeks later, one of us had an idea to backpack up into the gorge and spend the night.

Well, it was more like, we had found a supplier of LSD. We bought a few hundred doses and sent doses in two different letters to a testing lab. You could send the samples with fifteen bucks and a password. In a few weeks you could call and get the results back. Both samples came back pure. My memory was that they were 250 microgram hits. The idea was to find a secluded place to trip.

So, five of us piled into the Datsun on a friday afternoon and parked down on the dead end road. We took our ratty off road bikes, threw them over the fence, and pedaled like crazy, so no farmers or anybody else would see us. Way past the monitoring station where the trail faded out, we put our bikes off in the forest and covered them up.

The days were long and we hiked up and up into the gorge along side the creek. We noticed that there were no signs of human activity. No empty beer cans or broken bottles, no trash, no trails, no broken branches and no footprints. It was like a fantasy world. No animal sounds, or birds, no wind or breezes, just the hypnotic sound of the creek. We found a spectacular place under a huge waterfall emptying into a lagoon, with a beach like sand bar that was the perfect place to have a fire and camp. We knew if we got caught building a fire, we would be screwed and were very careful. There were towering primeval Redwood trees at least a thousand years old . Probably the only thing that saved them from getting logged around the turn of the century, was that they were so big, loggers couldnít get them out of the canyon.

After dinner, we sat around the little fire talking for a while and then went to sleep.

"What ever you do, don't add up what you are spending! :D
J2eDeYe

 

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#53 Figbuck

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Posted 01 January 2009 - 10:58 AM

Just after the first light penetrated the canyon, my brother got up and administered a dose to each of us, then we turned over and went back to sleep. In about forty-five minutes it was like a two hundred amp circuit breaker switched on in our nervous systems. I sat right up and we were all sitting up in our sleeping bags looking at each other. It seemed so absurd, that we all started laughing uncontrollably. The trip had started.

I knew from past experience that staying hydrated and having food ready to eat through the day was necessary. I got up and fired up my little gas stove to make some tea. Little rays of morning light found their way through the canopy. As I dunked my tea bag in the hot water, I noticed oils from the tea on the surface of the liquid, creating swirling colored rainbows. I could see geometric patterns in the steam coming out of the cup and visual aberrations in the light from the exchange of heat. I watched that phenomenon until the tea was cool enough to drink. The sensations of drinking were at once foreign and familiar.

It was like every sensation and perception was rich with fresh experience. I could write at length about psychedelic trips. It is not the focus of this story. I wonít advocate or discourage these activities. I think that except for this heightened awareness, I might not have remembered the events of this day. Yes, we were totally blasted on powerful drugs, but our intent was to gain spiritual understanding and we felt these experiences to be useful for promoting the intuition, which is ultimately necessary in understanding the relationship of God and the World. Iím not trying to explain any of this or make a point. Iím just trying to tell the story.

After a couple of hours of alternately laughing so hard that we couldnít breath, to paranoid silence where we were sure that because we could hear colors and see sounds, the trees, ferns and creek were alive and watching us. The sun was starting to spill into the canyon and we decided to take lunch and explore up stream for a sunny place to swim, and sit in in formal meditation. First we had to climb up onto the gigantic log jam that dammed off the creek, creating this wonderful waterfall. At the base were big redwoods, many feet thick, that had fallen across the gorge. Then many years accumulation of leaves, rocks, and branches, retained the creek in a huge shallow lake up behind the jumbled chaos of materials.

At the front lip of the water fall, were two perfectly placed logs creating a picturesque spillway funneling water in a frothy spout into the deep clear pond below. I made it up on top and sat at the edge looking out at the creek flowing down the tree lined gorge with glimpses of the ocean fog through the trees.

My perceptions were flooded by the intense wonderland of the surrounding natural beauty. I had been having thoughts about how we were so lucky to be in this place and how horrible it might be to be discovered by some authority. I looked at where we had come from and could see boot prints in the sand, mud banks and a trail of broken ferns. While we were messing up this pristine environment, I rationalized that all it would take, was one good winter storm to erase our presence and restore the natural surroundings. I felt at once guilt and innocence for intruding into this paradise.

While sitting on this fantastic perch, I noticed that there was a leaf half buried in the silt and half exposed, with its stem sticking up out of the water. It was right in the middle of the spillway, partly distorting what would have otherwise been a perfect column of water. For a brief moment I wondered what would happen if I pulled the leaf out, but decided not to touch it. I remember thinking that curiosity killed the cat. A second later, without a further deliberation, I tugged at the stem and pulled the leaf out of the mud. I dropped it into the waterfall and watched it float back to the top and down the creek.

The others had climbed up and were starting to pick their way through the boulders and debris at the back of the shallow lake onto the next level. I looked at the spot where I had dislodged the leaf and there was a miniature whirlpool in the silt, where water started draining down behind the logs. I watched this in amazement for a minute, until I realized that the little drain was cavitating the hole and more and more water was draining through it, causing even more water and erosion.

In a moment of ignorance, confidence, stupidity and arrogance, I reached out and scooped a handful of mud and silt from the bottom of the little lake and plugged the hole. I watched as the surface of the water rippled all the way out until the waves had decayed. For a few seconds I was proud of myself, until I looked at the lagoon below starting to become fouled with muddy runoff. Just as my exhilaration turned to consternation, PLONK!, a hole as big as the mud plug broke through behind the log. I was in a panic now. I started to dig furiously trying to plug the ever enlarging hole. I started to use mud from the bank as not to further disturb the fragile silt at the edge of the spillway.

The others were calling me to come along and it looked like I had ďfixedĒ the problem. We spent a glorious day exploring the upper reaches of the creek and forest. We experienced fleeting moments of ďwhite lightĒ states of consciousness through our meditation exercises, that lasted many lifetimes. As the day progressed, we made our way back to the camp. To our horror, the upper lake was mostly drained and the silt behind the log was completely blown away with the water now rushing down through the middle of the log jam! The lagoon was a disaster.

That was it. I broke the waterfall.

I remember this from time to time, when Iím trying to make sense of events in life. My human tendency is to be the curious cat, but there is a reason that cats have nine lives. What have I done? What little leaves have I pulled on? I try to monitor the ideas that I should fix things or that what I think or do, doesnít have any effect on what happens. I try to accept the way things are and try not to change them to fit my view of how I think they should be. This is a tall order. It is difficult to beleive how very small thoughts or actions effect lifes realities. It is a never ending game of passing judgment on oneís intentions.

We made it out of the canyon and as we coasted our bikes down the hill to the gate, the rest of the world had been going on about itís own processes. Driving the Datsun up the coast, I watched the setting sun on the horizon with a new set of eyes. Another day brought to a close and the cycles of life continue.

Happy New Year...

"What ever you do, don't add up what you are spending! :D
J2eDeYe

 

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#54 agentalpha

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Posted 01 January 2009 - 12:34 PM

I wonít advocate or discourage these activities.

:lol:

I love Uncle Sid...
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#55 Bandit240

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Posted 01 January 2009 - 03:22 PM

That last story was great. It is amazing how such a little thing can have such a big impact on the way things are. There are times that i wish i could have been around back in the 60's and 70's.

#56 Farmer Joe

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Posted 02 January 2009 - 06:36 PM

man i love reading your stories!! you have a way of writing that keeps me intrigued. i read fear and loathing in las vegas, and when i read your stories it reminds me of how hunter s. thomas writes.

keep the stores comin!!

"but its that gut feeling of you're drawn to what feels right for yourself and what you're passionate about..."

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#57 Figbuck

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Posted 24 March 2009 - 09:05 AM

It was a rainy sunny Portland day Sunday, not to cold not that warm. I went out to the garage to pull some Datsun maintenance and noticed that the Daffodils were starting to bloom. It made me think about my old girlfriend Susan. Her birthday usually fell on the first day of Spring. She lives in Eugene and has a family and a pretty mellow existence. We still keep in touch. I called her and left a message on her cell phone. In a way, Iím glad I didnít talk to her. I have never liked people reminding me of my birthday and am glad when it slips by and nobody notices.

I was thinking that the five years we lived together were pretty fantastic. We didnít have much but we sure had some great adventures. When we were about twenty-five years old, we bought a green Datsun 1200 Deluxe with a tan interior. I donít remember what year but it was older than my Ď73 620 by a year or two. We must have got it cheap. It was pretty clean, that little push rod engine never missed a stroke and got great gas milage.

I began to work for a retired couple that were building their dream house on 83 acres of Redwood forest up in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I worked for them for a year and a half. The property overlooked the Pacific Ocean at a place called Star Hill. Susan worked as a manager for the great grand daddy of all Natural food stores called Earth Beam, in Burlingame California. A lady she worked with lived on a dead end road off of Skyline Drive on Kings Mountain, not far from where I was building this house. Her neighbor was a professor and moved to the Netherlands to teach and we ended up renting his great house for a few years.

There were only five residences on this dead end and we knew everybody over time. We had a spectacular view of the Ocean over a lush carpet of redwood forest. It was really quiet up there and we could walk out our back door and hike fifteen miles through the forest, into Purisma Canyon, out to the Ocean, without seeing a road, building or person until we hit the Coast Highway. This place was too cool.

The only problem was that it was in a fairly remote location and you had to drive fifteen miles to get anything like gas or food. Susan commuted that little Datsun about eighty miles a day north, up and down Highway 35 the Skyline Drive. It was spectacular scenery and a fun road to drive, but to commute it got old really fast. I drove my truck south on 35, then onto deserted narrow winding county roads to the job site about a twenty mile round trip.

At that time, I was playing in a really hot band and we worked almost every night. It was crazy for a few years. I would get home about five-thirty, take a shower, start dinner, iron my clothes and put my instruments into the truck. Susan would be home, we would eat and maybe I could take a short nap. I would leave about eight and blast down off Kings Mountain to where ever we were playing that night. Many times I drove the Datsun 1200 to gigs because the truck was out of gas or full of tools.

We put a great Alpine stereo in that thing and I would crank up tapes of the tunes I was learning. Driving home at night, I would play tape I made of the sets on this little portable Marantz cassette machine. The band had a steady gig at a nice restaurant/lounge in Palo Alto every Thursday and Friday night for three and a half years. I would drive up and down Kings Mountain Road through Woodside. It had about a thousand foot elevation change in about four and a half miles. The road was like a narrow pretzel tied in knots with switch backs on the switch backs. I got to know every corner so well and could truly shred it. It went through a county park so that there were no houses, driveways or intersections. It was like a video game driving through the forest at the top and the woods at the bottom.

I had it down to the minute where I could walk in to the club, set up and start playing at the stroke of nine. After three sets and loading up, I would flog the little Datsun back up the mountain, burning gas and rubber, stereo cranked. At two oíclock in the morning, the road was deserted and I would use all the asphalt knowing that I could always see headlights coming at me. They never did until one night on my way down.

It was only about eight fifteen and I had plenty of time, I wasnít even going fast. It was pitch black and I was driving through these three sets of corners that I called the Three Blind Mice. They were tight, bumpy, hairpin corners that were connected by short shoots. Depending if you were going up or down they were either banked of off camber, totally blind and each one took you almost in a complete circle.

I had just exited the second one and a Porsche with six fog lamps, high beams and rally lights came ripping out of the corner all the way across the middle of the road. All I could do was yank the wheel to the right as hard and fast as I could to keep from hitting him. I went into a ditch and plowed hard into the embankment.

Some time later, I woke up in darkness, no sounds, with my left shoulder hurting. I reach out and there is no steering wheel in front of me. I feel something dripping off my nose and realize that the top of my head is bleeding and that Iím sitting in the passenger seat. I go to open the door but it wont budge. I start to roll down the window but dirt and rocks start to fall in.

The fucker in the Porsche left me. Maybe he didnít even know I crashed. :fu:

I make it over the gear shift and get out the drivers door. Iím thinking the guys are going to kill me if I donít make the gig. A second later, some locals in a 4x4 stop to see what happened. The Datsun is burrowed into the side of the hill and high centered on the edge of the ditch. These two guys donít even break stride. They pull out some rope, chain and proceed to pull it out.

I managed to tear the shoulder belt off, crack my head on the dome light and end up as the passenger, out cold. The little car fired right up! I was hurting but I made the gig on time. The car was scratched and a little dented but not to bad considering. I looked for that Porsche guy for years and never saw him again. :fu::fu:

We also had a steady gig at a nice place in Half Moon Bay called the Miramar Inn. We played every Tuesday night and two Saturday nights a month for a couple years. One Saturday night or I should say Sunday morning, we were loading up equipment and talking to some people that had come out to see us. The place had been packed and the whole night had been crazy fun. The Miramar was literally on the beach and it was really warm out, thick fog enveloped the parking lot and there was no breeze. It was really spooky , the lights from the restaurant were just a glow and the light from the light house at Pillar Point swept by every minute. It was really dead quiet, except for the muffled sound of the waves and a far away fog horn. (You surfer guys might know this area as Mavericks.)

I left about two thirty and took it really easy until I got through the town of Half Moon Bay and cleared the Hill Top Market on Highway 92, where the cops always sat waiting for drunks driving back over the hills into the SF Bay Area. Again, I knew this road so well.

At the top of the pass, I turned off south and started up Skyline, Highway 35. I noticed that I was way above the fog but that it had started to rain. I could see the light of the Bay Area off to the east and pitch blackness to the West. As I made my way up the exposed ridge line onto Kings Mountain, it began to rain really hard and the wind started to buffet the little Datsun. I was so burnt from working all week and gigging every night, I was just gassing it. I had the stereo cranked and cracked the window a little. It was eerily warm out and the rain started coming at me sideways. It was getting hard to see where I was going, even though I knew what corner to expect next. All I could do was look down at the double yellow line. The headlights only illuminated the pouring horizontal rain.

There are some long straights where I could hit about 85 in top gear charging up the mountain. The wind was blowing so hard across the road right to left that I was redlined in third gear just to plow through it at forty five maybe. right near the top a mile or so from the house, a monster gust of wind blown rain washed me across the center line and into a berm on the opposite side of the road. It stalled the car and freaked me out. My heart was pounding. Stuff was flying all over the place as I restarted the car and limped back onto the road.

I realized in a second that I had a front driverís side flat tire. I wasnít about to get out and mess with it. I selected first gear and limped it flat all the way home. The next morning we had no power. There wasnít much of the 1200ís front tire or wheel left. Sunday afternoon I took off for a gig in San Francisco. I got about two hundred yards before I turned the truck around to get my chain saw. There were trees down every where.

On the radio I heard the local news. I had driven through a freak tornado that came up through Purisma Canyon. It blew away three ranch houses, a couple of big barns and killed three people. About hundred fifty head of cattle and horses had disappeared right about three AM. :eek:

"What ever you do, don't add up what you are spending! :D
J2eDeYe

 

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#58 JFX001

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Posted 24 March 2009 - 09:13 AM

Great story!

I was wondering when you were going to update this thread.;)

#59 ]2eDeYe

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Posted 24 March 2009 - 03:22 PM

X2 :)

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Whenever I think that I'm out of my mind for putting this much time and money into an old Datsun, all I have to do is look some of your threads to know that I'm not nearly as whack as you are.

You're going to skin a few knuckles, stand up too fast and bump your head, hunt around the floor for the nuts and bolts you dropped, invent a few new cuss words and when you're finished you'll say "That wasn't so hard after all!"


#60 mklotz70

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Posted 24 March 2009 - 08:04 PM

:)
Don't have to be too bright to be me!! :D
Sadly, I prove this nearly everyday!!! :(
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