Sharing is the most primal form of friendship.

Marijuana is everywhere up here. Literally, you can smell it being grown in every other house’s backyard. Why not? The people living here aren’t making any money on their local businesses…not in these small towns. By law, if you have a medicinal marijuana card you can grown up to 99 plants. Each plant as I have come to learn can produce approximately 2 lbs. of sellable pot. At $2,000-3,000 a pound, there is a reason that the homes here go for as much as those in San Francisco, and amazingly, they haven’t had any of the foreclosures that have plagued the rest of the US.

As I was running, a woman stopped and talked to me. She was very sweet and was tremendously encouraging. She said, “I really support what you are doing, and I think it is just wonderful. I would like to give you some money to help you out.” I told her that I didn’t need any, and the Universe has been taking care of all my needs. “None the less, I want to give you something to help you out. I don’t have any money on me, but take this. You can sell it to anyone and get a good bit of money. Just tell them that it is from Humbolt.” And with that she gave me a 1 gallon freezer bag filled with pot. The pile was the size of a regulation football. I tried to refuse the gift, but she insisted and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I relented.

I was blown away by her kindness to me. In reality, she just gave me approximately $1000. However, I didn’t know what to do with it. I thought about the people that I could give it to. I know people surviving cancer, friends that like to smoke, but in short, I was at a loss. The idea of holding on to it for another 250 miles to San Francisco wasn’t all that entertaining. I certainly wasn’t going to sell it. So for the time being I just put it in my buggy. I had no peace however. I thought…what if I get pulled over by the cops again…if I go to jail for peace—fine, so be it. But, I don’t want to go to jail for this, and ruin my peace message’s potency. In the end, I stuffed the bundle in a stump in the woods…my peace returned.

So many people have offer it to me up here, and I am overwhelmed by their generosity. I offer to them in return some of the apples or grapes I’ve picked. It seems that the way we as humans first establish friendship is by sharing. It is for this act of generosity that I am humbled by the kindness of strangers. If all people could be so kind to share the fruits of their labor as willingly as the kind people in Northern California share their pot…life can and will be better.

I have been, for the last week, in the marijuana growing capital of the world. Tom, the man pictured above, has nothing to do with this, other than he lives here, and I met him in the hub of Pot—Garberville. After being dropped here by my friend the CHP officer, I used the time to do some art, makes some friends, and plan my route south. My primary objective was to avoid if at all possible using the 101, and thus avoid other unnecessary entanglements. This would not prove to be easy.

At the coffee shop that the officer directed me to, I met Mary and Sarah who worked there. They were kind to me considering that I just got dropped off by a police cruiser in the cannabis capitol. They filled my water bottles and gave me a free scone and tea. It was very sweet of them and to repay their kindness I painted them these flowers.

I found a passage through the back country that avoided the 101 and took me through some beautiful terrain. Excellent! I thought, and in addition, it was only 3 miles longer than the 101 route! However, google maps doesn’t let you know the elevation gain and loss totals…which for this route, would have been nice to know. However, I saw pigs, chickens, cattle, horses, and every other farm critter, all relaxing as the smell of skunk bud wafted in the air about us.

It was upon the banks of this river that the winding of the road narrowed until I reached a sign, already some 6-7 miles into the trek, that told me that my proposed google route…didn’t exist. The sign read, “Not a through road.” Another read, “Private road, no fishing, hunting, or access. Road under surveillance 24/7.” I double checked my bearings, my map, and all was as purported to be. I then stopped a passing Mercedes SUV, and asked the woman if it was possible to continue on this road? Her words, “I wouldn’t go there with a baby.” After I assuaged her fears, I told her of my pilgrimage, google maps, and my intentions regarding adhering to the edicts of the highway patrol. She said, and I quote, “Look, everyone is harvesting right now and camped out in their fields. Go back to Garberville, take a bus or  your chances with the cops, but it isn’t worth a bullet in the brain to go this way.” And with that, she drove off.

I wasn’t frustrated with the woman, nor was I afraid of the “bullet to the brain.” Rather, like Gandhi, the best place for a peace pilgrim is where love is needed most. What I was so frustrated about was the lack of a straight answer about whether the road went through or not! I had already gone 7 miles, the idea of back tracking and wasting half a day was disheartening. However, the idea of going on just to find out that google was wrong and having to back track even more was infuriating. So in the end, for the first time on this trip…I went backwards.

Fortunately, I had a nice night camping on the river with a campfire and the sight and sounds of the salmon jumping as they make their way upstream. Watching fall “happen” has never been more exciting. In school you learn about the migration of the salmon and watch videos of bears snatching them out of rivers and such. I’ve seen photos of Native Americans spearing them at the falls on the Columbia before the dams went in. But, to really witness it yourself…magic.

It seems that the most perfect way to exist is to live compassionately toward all people, animals, and even the earth. In doing so I’ve fouind that what I do without being commanded is what others do only from fear of the law.

However, even when you are trying to do that which is “seemingly right” you tend to stumble into trouble. There is no way to make it South in California except to gallivant and traipse acrsoss the highway 101. Unfortunately, California refers to both highways and interstates as freeways. As such, pedestrians are prohibited. If however I were riding a bike, or even riding on my cart, I would be OK, but pushing it makes me a pedestrian and a recalcitrant.

The kind officer of the California Highway Patrol who pulled me over and “gave me a ride” to the next town was sympathetic to my mission and my plight. However, he was more happy that I didn’t have any kids in my chariot. Having received said “ride” into town, I must reflect, that it is a surreal experience to roll into town and “exit” from a police car in front of the local coffee shop. In sincerity, the officer was kind in every way, accommodating, and friendly. I appreciated and thanked him for the ride, and told him I would do my best to stay off the “Freeways”. I was honest with him stating that I didn’t want to break the law, but I did want finish my mission rather than be stuck in some small town. As such, I may once again take to the road, he advised me of the probable consequences, and wished me the best of luck.

I met Coffee Jim this morning in Philipsville. Coffee was nice enough to sit for me, and was happy to receive the portrait I did of him. Hopefully the rest of the day provides more Coffee and less doughnut eaters. 

Love, Art, and Peace to all.

Yesterday was absolutely gorgeous. It seemed like summer rather than nearly Halloween. I started out of Rio Dell and went into the factory town of Scotia. In Scotia, I stopped by the post office and happened into a woman by the name of Seer. She had just finished reading the Peace Pilgrims book, and she was on her second day of walking…just beginning the life of a peace pilgrim, she was just beginning her pilgrimage.

Seer, is 60 years old, and is stepping cautiously into the life of a Peace Pilgrim. We did 9 miles together to the entrance of the “Avenue of the Giants” a 32 mile jaunt through some of the remaining old growth timber in the world. On the way there, she met with the realization that all pilgrims (it seems) encounter; namely that they’ve brought too much “stuff”. So we sat on the side of the road together and went through what she brought, and could be left behind. It seems so long ago now that I had that same side of the road experience, it was almost “fun” to help her through it. The letting go experience is soooo difficult. So silly what we find ourselves attached to. Seer was attached to her fathers cribbage board and her canister of mace, I my easel and my pastels. I can understand anyones fear at letting go and choosing to trust others, and trust the universe. It seems loveIS letting go of fear. At the end of the 8 miles, I think she decided to head back to town and stay in a motel. But, she left me saying, “We’ll meet again I’m sure.”

Running now, on the new paved road through the avenue of the giants, I found myself giddy as a school boy. My legs rested thanks to the Snells, the new asphalt, and flat roads through some of the worlds most beautiful country had me yelling “YAHOO!!!” and laughing out loud. Happy.

There is just no way to convince anyone who’s never been here, and seen these trees, just how large they really are.

I camped on the banks of the Eel River last night. I thought I should take a bath, but I chickened out…too cold. I thought I would do it in the morning…yeah right. Finally did it this afternoon, and although it was cold, I always love it.

There are poles and signs all over Humblolt reminding residents and visitors just how bad the flood of 1964 really was. It ripped every home, barn, and town from its roots. The flood devastated the county, and the high water mark was nearly the height of the average telephone pole. Today I met the owner of the Myer’s Flat Inn -Dan, who is the Grandson of the original owners. He said when his grandparents bought the land from the indians in the 1800′s. The indians told his grandparents to build their inn (for the stagecoach and gold miners) on the site that it stands now. After 1000′s of years of experience their advice was sound, and as the flood of 1964 proves, prophetic. The inn was the only thing that survived in the entire county. The picture below shows the height of the water…it is the top of the post!!!

As I pass through this great land, it seem this is what my day entails; striding through these majestic giants, bathing in the river, meeting kind people, and loving all of it. I thought many times today that when I die, I want to replay this day over and over and re-enjoy it. I hope you all enjoyed your day as much as I did. I love you all.

I was fortunate enough to have a great circle of friends when I was a teacher. A great colleague and friend during that time was a man named John Snell. Most teachers are referred to by their last names, as that is what we hear the students call each of us more often than our first names. Snell, was and is a jovial guy, who always has a good story that seems to trump the last one told. An avid baseball player and fan, Snell went out of his way to impart his love and knowledge of the game to the children under his charge.

Although I hadn’t seen John in 7-8 years, when he heard that I was headed his direction, he insisted that I take advantage of he and his family’s hospitality. Though I’d never met his parents, they were kind enough to put me up for 2 nights and feed me like a king. They have loaded my cart up with so much food for the journey, that I don’t know if it will roll. They are the kind of people that take time every evening to have “happy hour”, enjoy the sunset and each other’s company.

Jack and Marguerite are delightful people. Although they’ve lived around the country, they find they feel most at home in the small town where the rivers still run blue, the mountains are out your back door, and you don’t need to use your turn signal, because everyone knows where you are going anyway. These are the kind of people that take time to go and stack wood for the elderly widow, pick apples and pears off the trees for those that don’t have enough food, and take it weary strange men on pilgrimages around the US. They live compassionately and love abundantly, and I am grateful that there are so many people like them out there.

Love, Art & Peace to all.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Chris and Seth here were kind enough to allow me to use their pump to load my tires. I knew I was going to have to do 30 miles yesterday in order to get to my friend John’s house. After helping me inflate my tires, I offered them a drawing I had done. Chris to show his kindness to me gave me a bunch of health bars, and some electrolyte tablets. Really very sweet of them.

At about 20 miles, my legs were giving me the signs it was time to take a break. I saw there was a Starbucks up ahead where I could put my peds up. Once there I met a little girl named Madrona and her family. Madrona gave me the look of wide-eyed disbelief as I wheeled my chariot near her. She kept looking me up and down, and I was trying to figure out why. Her father Devon and mother Becca mentioned that they had seen me on the road, and that explains Madrona’s reaction. I suppose if I was 7 and a strange looking guy that I saw walking the highways of America saddled in, I might stare too.  I asked Madrona if I could draw a picture for her, shy, she just nodded her head emphatically. I asked, “Do you want a teddy bear, a pony, a kitty-cat, or a…?”

She replied, “A surfer please.” I then did my best to produce the best “rockin” surfer chick on a big wave for her. She, in similar stead did a drawing of me on the highway, dodging cars, yellow lines, and levitating. Sweet.

Devon her father was desperate to help me along my journey. He offered me food, money, socks, and anything else he could think of to aid me in my quest. Really very sweet. In the end, he gave me a small dry bag and Northwest Snowboards hat that he charged me with taking around the country. Life is good, people are kind, love is the answer. Happy.