Tag Archives: Oregon

Solipsist’s Inward

Mount Hood, September 8, 2014; sunrise.

I remember the day clearly. “Happy birthday mom.” As I was leaving she said to me, “I know you’re worried about me, Tim. I’m OK, I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t OK, she wasn’t fine, and nothing went as planned. But what if this happened as it should have? Did things go as they were supposed to? Has she found peace? Is there more after this? Those are the default questions always asked. Are they worth asking now? No, they’re not.

I look for some deeper meaning, but all I come up with is how quickly, and violently, my mother left this world. Sweating after nine days of no liquid. She’d get tiny droplets squeezed from a minuscule sponge on a stick. A tiny orange porous thing soaked in a Dixie cup full of tap water. We’d wet her lips and then she’d chew on the sponge, mumbling incoherently. Afterwards, she’d reach up trying to grab the cup of liquid. No mom, you have to die. Every time I grunt and groan when bending down, I hear the sounds my mom would make laying on her death bed. She would grunt struggling to move, struggling to speak. There was no deeper meaning to it. She was stuck in a brain that broke, broke because it had to happen. The simple procedure: a lung biopsy with a needle had to happen. Not the stroke. That was simply bad luck. The doctor’s said that was the first known case, my mom’s case. It had to happen, because if it wasn’t for bad luck, my mom wouldn’t have any luck at all. An adult life full of surgeries, pain, and discomfort, leading to a mysterious world beyond ours.

She has to be an Angel now, has to be. My dearest mother protected me from a world I didn’t see. But she knew it, and she’d felt its wrath. I never saw it, never was let close to it. An only child left to the amusement of a world full of cousins that saw that wrath I was protected from. My cousins lived in it. I was the chosen child adopted into a large Irish family. My dad, an only child with few relatives of his own, also adopted into this large Irish family. Fresh-off-the-boat would describe this European family. My mom, the youngest. Burnt, beat up from a head on collision from a drunk driver, then suffering a devastating surgery due to a blockage of her aorta (doctors had to remove her stomach and intestines). She’d then suffer from debilitating pain the rest of her life following the aorta procedure. Then the stroke, and being removed from life support. My mom lived from pain med to pain med, day-in and day-out. She’d sweat after 9 days of no food or water, from pain. I couldn’t keep her comfortable. But, someone could.

The last day I’d see my mom with an ability to speak in quiet mumbles; her niece, a cousin of mine, would play “Hey Jude” on her phone, for my mom. My mom would sing along with the song word for word. My mom was in there, paralyzed from a procedure gone horribly wrong. Then she started sweating, so I’d call a nurse for pain meds, but she wouldn’t take the meds. “Mom are you in pain?” “Yes.” “If I get the nurse, will you take the meds.” “Yes.” “OK, I’ll get the nurse. I love you mom.” The morphine knocked her out, and she was gone.

It was an early morning phone call, dad went home with us the night before. My wife called, and then the hospital. We – my dad and I – we were already heading down to the medical center when the call came in: “We found your wife without a pulse this morning.” We ran to the room. I lifted the blanket off her still body. Nothing had moved from the night before. Her arm was in the same crooked position just under her chin. 14 days prior I was feeling guilty for not spending enough time with my mom on her birthday. And now, I was looking at her dead body. What the fuck just happened.

Three years ago, my extended family would bury a cousin of mine with whom I credited for saving my life. I never got to say goodbye in a traditional sense. I was left out of the “family” service. Just a service for the friends is what I got to attend. No graveside memorial for a person that told me to go home. I sat with her one afternoon while having a life crisis. I laid everything out on the table in front of this person, she said, “Go talk to your mom, she loves you. If you run, she won’t stop you, you need to accept responsibility and ask her honestly for help.” Two days later I was at my parent’s house; an hour after getting there I’d be at a hospital suffering another myocardial infarction. My cousin died while out on a bicycle journey.

I’m taking this same bicycle journey, albeit with a different route, to the same location where I believe my cousin communicated with me on the day she died. Mount Hood’s Timothy Lake. 3 years ago, I’d be up on Mount Hood the day my cousin died. This year’s ride, it’s going to clear my head rebooting my inner-self, a solipsist’s ride. Solipsism in the ride, living along with others, for others, post ride. My mom was first diagnosed with lung cancer three years ago. She was at the same hospital having the cancer removed, the very hospital she died in, she was sent home the very day my cousin died.

I won’t be looking for answers, I’ll be looking for peace and comfort in one’s own head, mine.

Timothy Lake, September 7, 2014.

Falling Pieces Falling Into Place

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My hobby of writing had been placed on hold for a while, and now I’m back – for a bit. Summer term is winding down with only three days left of class. Oh yeah, I got a new keyboard after months of despising the stock keyboard that came with my computer. Spending the last 6 months taking software-programming classes had me longing for the good old days of mechanical keyboards, and their tactile feel (I think I just dated myself here). Well, I finally broke down and got a new keyboard, and now I’m writing.

It’s getting to be that time of year again, where I feel the need to break free from the box I live in. This has really been a year, and I’m finally right where I want to be. I saw a quote on the inter-webs today, it said, “Sometimes when things are falling apart, they may be falling into place.” I believe that to true.

I last left this blog on a post about a bicycle trip with a friend, and that bicycling journey ended on a horrific note. My life, from that point forward, was in all sorts of turmoil. Life, surely, was not flowing down the path of least resistance, but I can’t complain, for I’m still alive. Life does have a way of working itself out (if one works hard enough). So now I’m sitting here feeling very satisfied for the first time in a long while.

I’m set to depart on another bicycle journey in a couple of weeks. That said, it’s not going to be a month long trek with a guitar, just a short weeklong journey through places I’ve already cycled. I’ll be joining two different trips taken in the past shortening them both then combining them together to make a good weeks long journey. Well, that’s the plan anyhow. With that plan in mind I started digging through my hiking, and bikebacking gear, which eventually found it’s way into my closet.

Digging into my panniers I soon discovered that I never cleaned my gear from last September. It went from sitting in my garage to being tossed into the closet, forgotten about. What’s happened since I returned from last September?

Life happened, and for some, it ended. Through those trials, and tribulations, of a year long journey that found me graveside, bedside, desk-side, drunk, stone cold sober, in and out of doctors offices, while being in school to out of school and to back in school; I’ve found myself learning more this past year about myself, life, and love, than in any other year I’ve been alive.

When things feel like they’re falling apart, they could actually be falling into place.

The one thing I’ve never done well is give up. I’ve always done things the hard way, but I guess that’s who I am. When I find a mountain I climb up it on a bike. I carry too much gear, and I hold on to too much baggage. Why, because I’m a thinker. I plan for the worst hoping for the best. I let my emotions get to me, and I display my feelings on my shoulder. I’m an open book. But I don’t quit, and I don’t let go easily. It’s probably why I like bicycling, because it’s honest.

Certain roads are deceitful, they’re optical illusions where you think you should be going downhill, but your actually gradually ascending, the term is called, false flats. Life’s that way too, but cycling is honest. You know you’re working. There are no secrets to going faster. If you want to go faster, work harder! And that’s how I’m learning to live a better life. After a year of ups, downs, highs, and lows, my life is falling into place just like the best bicycle journeys do. You can’t know what the best truly feels like, until you’ve experienced the worst.

My alarm sounded at 1:30am on July 3rd, 2014, in New Meadows, Idaho. The destination for the day was through another area titled Hells Canyon Recreation Area along the Salmon River, aka Rattlesnake River, where I’d plan on stopping for the night, in White Bird, Idaho. The daytime temperatures were forecasted to be the same as the depths of hell, one hundred plus degrees in the shade, if any shade could be found. Plus, the road was a windy twisted one-lane road for most of the days ride. Therefore, an early departure was needed to make the 70-mile ride before the heat melted everything on the roadway, including vulnerable cyclists. I loaded up the bike the evening before because of the planned 2:00am departure.

I crawled out of bed wanting more sleep, tired and stiff. I used the lavatory, washed my face, stowed my remaining items securely away in my panniers, and grabbed my bicycle. Just before leaving the sanctity of my warm, cozy, and minuscule motel room, I pulled back the curtains gazing out the window. The cars were wet, the ground black, the sky was dark with no stars visible. I thought to myself, “Oh, a shower must have come through last evening.” I grabbed my bike, opened the door leaving the door-key behind, and pushed out the door while closing the locked door behind.

Standing under the eve of the motel I secured my helmet over the skullcap warming my head, then slid my cycling gloves on, and zipped up my jacked, finally mounting my steed. As I pushed against the pedals in slow revolutions slowly warming my body, I began to notice that it was raining. And then it happened; I heard the loud smack of thunder rumbling in the distance. 30 minutes later after a handful of miles, I found myself riding towards a thunderstorm in the mountains. I had to stop; I couldn’t ride into a thunder and lightning storm, as that was unsafe and sure way to get struck by lightning, while sitting on steel bike.

So, at 2:30 in the morning I was standing on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere. No place to go, no motel room to hide in, and it was raining off and on; not to mention the series of thunderstorms passing me by in the direction I needed to go. Bicycle travel can be quite lonely. If only I had checked the forecast before leaving, I could’ve been laying in a warm bed sleeping, instead of standing in the pitch black darkness of the night, in the middle of nowhere cold and alone.

This day would wind up being the most memorable, and enjoyable, day of the last years trip to Montana. Everything always seems to work it’s way out.

Yellowstone Part 4 – Party Mitchell Style

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Prineville to Mitchell, Oregon – 58 Miles

Saturday the 21st of June came early as I began rubbing the sleep from my eyes, at four-thirty in the morning. I had packed my panniers fastening them securely to Black Magic (the bicycle) the night before. After taking a rest day, I was ready to leave Prineville, Oregon in my rearview mirror, or so I kept telling myself. Truthfully, I was apprehensive and my stomach knew it. I had visited the lavatory twice within the 10 minute period it took for me to awake and push my bicycle out the door, locking the motel key inside.

City Center Motel

Shutting the Motel door to room 31 of the City Center Motel in Prineville, Oregon, while it was still dark and freezing cold, was no simple task. Doing so meant moving on as I locked the door from the inside leaving the key on the table. I clipped into the pedals and began turning the crank over slowly letting Black Magic carry me to the Apple Peddler restaurant for my power breakfast: two Poached eggs, hash-browns, wheat toast, and a short stack of flapjacks, served with decaffeinated coffee and orange juice. After eating, I carried on a long debate upon whether to visit the restaurants facilities, or not. I declined, it was a decision I’d soon come to regret.

That 21st of June was a cold morning, the temps were hovering around the freezing mark. Traveling eastward via highway 26 on the edge of town, I found myself stopping often. First it was to adjust my shoes, then I was stopping to don yet another layer of clothing, and then it was to curse myself for not visiting a toilet when one was offered. No other businesses were open at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. My first destination would have to be Ochoco Reservoir. The first few miles to Ochoco Reservoir went by slowly. That’s to be expected after a rest day due to the fact that I’m constantly making adjustments to my gear, myself, and the bicycle. After all the clicks, creaks, and knocks, have been worked out the miles start to add up quickly.

Ochoco Reservoir, Prineville Oregon

Prineville was long behind me when I began coming upon what appeared to be a cyclist in front of me. This looked like it could be a fellow bicycle tourist. As I tried to get closer, the cyclist would follow a bend in the road disappearing from my sight-line. Finally, as I thought I was gaining ground on the tourist, the bicycle traveler vanished. Following a left hand bend in the road I saw the body of water on my right hand side, Ochoco Reservoir, and then I saw the bicycle traveler whom I was gaining upon resting in the gravel turn-out. I swung in to say hi. We chatted for a while sharing are our intended destination, Mitchell, Oregon, and then we continued eastward both at our own pace. But first, seeing as how I had made it to Ochoco State Park, I sought out a toilet. After visiting an outhouse at the state park, I mounted Black Magic for the long gradual ascent towards eastern Oregon with a much better outlook, I no longer felt alone.

Meeting the fellow cyclist was a mood booster, and something I had needed. I took meeting this fellow traveler as an encouraging omen, good things were going to happen. I recognized this traveler from the Subway in Sisters, Oregon. I recognized his flag and his mountain bike.

The day warmed up nicely and the miles kept adding up. It was a day of false flats, and constant elevation gain as the road ascended to Mitchell, Oregon. The day was made complete with a detour through Painted Hills, the tourist trap just west of Mitchell.

HWY 26 to Mitchell

As I was exiting the turn off from Painted Hills (Didn’t take any pictures due to the high heat of the day.), and back onto eastbound highway 26, I saw another fellow bicycle tourist cycling down the roadway, this fella would be another tourist heading east on the Trans-America bicycle route. As I pulled into Mitchell, Oregon, myself and the two other bicycle tourists would pull into town at the same time, Rob and Jim.

Rob, Jim, and I, looked for places to crash for the night. Jim decided upon staying at a hostel, while Rob and I both chose the city park, which doubled as the town’s campground. Deciding upon lodging options, we all dined at Little Pine Café. After a mediocre dinner of an overcooked burger, and a decent salad, the night would become awesome.

Mitchell, Oregon, a small zero stoplight town built off of a small barely noticeable turnoff exiting highway 26, is easy to miss if you blink at the right time while driving at 55 MPH. The town, built into the lumpy hillside next to highway 26, had the pulse a red-neck after drinking a couple of shots of whiskey. The town was buzzed on suds and shots of grandpa’s cough syrup. There was a band playing a private show on an outdoor stage that was supposed to be closed off with a black curtain, which wasn’t doing the job. There was a keg of beer just beyond the entrance into the show. Friendly motorcyclist out for a weekend joyride around Oregon were staying overnight in the town’s park where my tent was setup. And a group of about 30 car-topping cyclists were making Mitchell their overnight destination as well, all in the same park.

The town with a little over 100 residents, probably had the same amount of visitors on that night. Exiting the diner, the town felt like a party was erupting, and the tour to Yellowstone had just become awesome. Walking out of Little Pine Café after dinner, I began to set up my tent and secured my bicycle for the night. While doing that, 2 more bicycle tourists whom were heading east showed up at the city park slash campground. Seeger and Bob. Seeger was carrying a ukulele, and I was carrying a small travel guitar. We shared music, swapped stories, walked the town, and listened to Gordon Lightfoot songs having a great night. The next morning we all packed up heading east.