Zog's Blog

If you're more visual, I posted some more pictures on neonectar here. Otherwise:

"It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open... "

Rolling my own eye slowly upward, I could see shimmering glaciers hover above the pages of 'Frankenstein'. Pasted there by a giant decorator's trowel, the ice fields are magically suspended as the summer sun rains its friendly heat down upon the Cascade Mountains. Next time, I'll bring the ropes for sure. The scenery above the Skagit river valley is stunning in an in-your-face kind of a way, you remain aware that you are moving as a caricature in a picture book of sorts. And that the eagles above are watching.

From my perch I also watch as a rider slowly rocks his way up the pathway below, but he sees me first. "I take it that you are Zog !" he tries to shout with short breath. Of course, he must have met my fellow travelers down below. Yes Zog is me, and with Thag and Iga I've been singing the caveman's song these last few sun-lit days. Wendy has been putting up with us, I think, but let's face it: the life of a barbarian is not too bad. When Caesar wanted to describe the utter un-civilized nature of the Gauls that he observed during his Bello Gallico, he wrote "Et lavantur in fluminibus" (and they bathe in the rivers). This must have raised a few noses in the marble bath houses of Rome. But here we were, bathing barbarians all, without regrets. The Skagit river really looks like the bubblegum-blue runoff of an ice-cream factory. It rumbles down from snowy mountain cones in Canada and picks up speed in northern Washington before washing through the North Cascades and draining itself in the Puget Sound just north of Seattle. When you take a dive into the Skagit, the chill momentarily takes you, and when you surface you're already 50 ft downstream from where you entered. A bitterly silly business, even for those of blue barbarian blood.

Our method of transport, of course, is the modern bicycle. Simon and Wendy have rigged their beasts of burden well. Over the last months they have been trimming down their lives, distilling it all down to only what is necessary for a journey such as this, with two and a half months on a saddle. Those extra volumes of reading had to go, and also the bathrobe and the typewriter. (I suspect that even the toothbrush is now shared, that Wendy wears the right-hand glove and Simon wears the left.) I've been joining in, mainly out of over enthusiasm and an inability to be a passive spectator in this adventure of theirs, for a few days. Just to make sure they really leave, you know, and to at least check their pulse before shouting "God Speed, Mate" from the first hilltop. Lugging a bicycle on the plane is a bit of a complication and a cost, so with Simon's help I found an old Univega touring bike from the 80's on Craigslist and drove down to the Mexican border to close the deal. And since Simon and Wendy were driving up the coast, my new blue friend hitched a ride with them to Seattle. But the bartering continues, because those who wish to rid themselves of the burdens of society, usually have a car to sell - and my stoneage friends had a little gem, up for grabs. Up for grabs to whoever will give Stefan a ride back from four hours east across the mountains, that is. The lucky winner of the Suzuki Swift lottery was duly found, also on Craigslist, to be our man Jason, a kindred spirit, a fellow in the search for fun. It turns out though that the uncut silver thread of science fiction runs deeply through the fabric of all our hearts. "I'm just paying it forward, you know", was all Jason had to say in his own defense. That, and his uncanny love of Geo Metro's too, I have to guess.

"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."

As with the creation of the monster, the transformation of Simon and Wendy into the sleek riders of the American Hills started in the basement of a goodly house between tall cedars and Douglas firs on the banks of the Puget Sound. Bellingham is a charming place, quaint and hip, and I can see how the scattered islands off the green shores would have a draw of sorts. Outside the Laundromat, Simon remote-controlled a friend on the internet to find a place for the night with the biking community "Warm Showers". Ray works at the local REI, so we were already somewhat clothed in their world when we joined him and Deborah for a meal and a night of bicycle tuning in their basement, eating our final ice-creams on their air-hockey table. What wonderful hospitality for sure, because we had an unexpected warm breakfast too ("Might as well go all the way", Deb said) before we were on our way with the cool air rushing fast. The first day winds through the fir forests that border the Sound and then through rural farmland with the unmistakable smell of strawberries. Old barns are surrounded in oceans of purple and yellow flowers, everywhere a rolling green of young summer. Lunch in the old town square of Sedro-Woolley saw Simon bringing out his kite, which was cute. Then on through the dense continuous forests south of the Skagit river, occasionally crossing an iron bridge. The forests are so dense, that it is dark in places and you follow a green tunnel with giant arms above cradling your way. Simon and Wendy stopped at a garage sale to ask if we could camp, but felt too bad to push the cause with the aged guardian and Simon accidentally bought a set of sheep shears. Preparing for the bronze age? I had to bring those back with me in the end.

At the east end of a town with the name of Concrete, there is a run-down motel where and old lady sat on the porch chain-smoking her cigarettes in her pajamas, while we camped at the far end by the river. In the middle of the town there is a great mural above the fire brigade/police station that reads "Concrete, center of the Known Universe". The large painting shows all the streets and buildings of the small town, and the mountains and rivers that surround it. And on the painting of the fire station in the middle of the town, there is a mural with, well, you guessed it... I went back a ways and found Albert's grocery store, where they had carrots and Moose Drool, which we drank into the night. The idea was that I would do my part and tell each night some tales from the Silmarillion that are so dear to me. The first tales were about the creation of Arda, about the filling of the void with music and the creation of time, about the making of the trees and the lamps and of the awakening of the Firstborn. Then Simon and Wendy crawled into the little tent that they carry, while I occupied my bivvy bag from which I could watch the stars. It has been my duty not only to see my friends on their way, but also to make sure that they stick with the program, and I am happy to report that they do. Wendy teaches the morning Yoga class, all the way from the eagle to the welcome-home-honey pose. These postures are so great, a perfect pre-breakfast stretch for the saddle-bound wanderer.

Our next days were spent going upstream into the North Cascades national forest. The mountains started raising their heads above the trees. There were red cedars and large-leaved maples and you could start making out the snow cloths on the far-off giants too. It was in the forest behind New Halem and newly washed that Zog and Thag rediscovered their Larson-names and that cave-wise Iga find lovely name too. Traveling pseudonyms for intellectuals like us. The forest there is beautiful and overgrown with bearded moss and lichen sculptures. The floor is soft and the river glistens all through the night. Zog shamelessly begged rice from car campers and we cook meal with spices from Bellingham, barbarian bliss. From there the road winds up and up, the views become majestic and the Skagit is eventually lost, far below. Our rest stops become picture stops ("Come, Zog make more petroglyph inside small box") and our gears shift down. We slept under a beautiful wooden bridge by a different river before commencing the final climb to Rainy Pass and Washington Pass (5477 ft). Along this climb you see the hanging glaciers and the mouth-watering climbable spires. The rock looks super-clean and is a dark-brown chocolate colour. It was here that we met Jens in his salpetered black outfit, pedaling his giant black bike. Last year he went from Turkey to Cambodia, so this was just a little side trip. Asked about his impressions of the US, he expressed justifiable outrage at the large RV's on the roads. But he must have known that he had lost all our sympathy when he started complaining about the large ice cream helpings in this super sized land. Come on, what gives, dude? Get a grip.

From Washington Pass, the 18 mile downhill ride is such a thrill, I thought Wendita was going to split her ears with that adrenalin-enhanced smile. We found a restaurant at what must be a great ski resort in the right season. They grilled me a large Portobello mushroom, yum, while the carnivores feasted on other delights. Wednesday morning we were quite surprised when Jason arrived right on time to take me back to Seattle. And what a lucky strike! It turns out that he is a member of the Science Fiction museum, so that was exactly where we went. Now this is not a time to be jealous, but please know that I could just about touch the shiny black uniform that Rachel wore in Bladerunner and that there were stillsuits from Dune too. Does it get much better than that? At last I left the ring of fire, mount Rainier disappeared and also Mt St Helens, blown apart. But my thoughts linger still with my friends the bicycle travelers. Simon has a little plant in a cup in front of his handlebars, his "psychedelic succulent". There are not so many of those around. "We need blog in Zog own words", he said. Well here it is.