Into The Forest

Friends say, "Where are you? You're not blogging. Are you okay?"

Yes. I am more than okay. After two weeks of struggle, I am slipping gently back into soft old skin. I am melting back into desert time. Dream time, the aboriginals called it. The sun rises and sets outside Sanctuary, and unlike last week when I wanted so to be hospitalized for my own safety from my mad self, now I give in to the rhythm of the desert dream, and I sleep and rise to eat and read then sleep again and rise and read again. The wind's whistle siings me to sleep, gentle breezes even, talking thru thin lips of windowpanes barely open.

In one day, maybe two, I read "Into The Forest" by Jean Hegland, and all the while I am in two places, present desert and redwood forest of my youth. Two young sisters learn to subsist in a collapsing society waiting for lights and computers to spring back to life, waiting in vain. Uniquely protected by the location of their home deep down a forest road, they learn over time to live off their environment, to live with less and yet so much more. I read by lamplight with wicks fading, then headlamp with batteries dying. I am right there with them. I am in the story 100 percent. Then it ends, and I want to go with them steeped in their fiction. But the cooing of the wind and constancy of crickets bring me back. I close the book smiling and mount the loft for another slide into dreamtime. - RSM
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Filmmaker, Flame Meister

THIS JUST IN!
MY crazy cousin caught HIS crazy cousin on digital video doing a nasty little fire act on the Appalachian Trail in 2004. He's done an awesome job editing and adding music to it. I've always felt/known that Justin was born to make movies, and I'm glad to see he's moving in that direction. By way of brief explanation, that's me showing Justin, Jess, and Party Girl Molly how to ignite a soda-can-alcohol-stove using Heet as fuel. Here it is, ready or not:

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=1254284787

(maybe you have to be a MySpace member, I dunno? Hope not)

The Grand Rapids Article, reprised

The way this Blogger shit works, it makes telling a story kind of difficult. The whole thing comes out ass-backwards. I printed it out the other day for the bathroom reading ease of a friend who doesn't compute, and jeezus. It took forever to unbuild the backwards time progression of the blog into the correct chronology in a Word document. And that was done in Bisbee's Copper Queen Library, not on my laptop, which means I gotta do it all over again cuz I couldn't save it. Incidentally, I donated a copy of "Dead Men Hike No Trails" to this, our local library, so that nickel-poor friends like me could read it. Five months later, they have yet to catalogue it and get it on the shelf. Now, whazzup with that? Shit.

[Postscript 11-16-06: The lovely librarians at the Copper Queen, hard-working and undoubtedly underpaid for their efforts, made a special effort to get my book on the shelf when I brought it to their attention. I apologize for my above rudely-stated impatience. I sometimes forget that anyone reads this shit, and I go mouthing off.]

Anyway, point is, I went looking for the Grand Rapids Herald-Review article by Marie Nitke that day at the library and all I could find of it was a reprint in some online mag called Paddler's News or some such thing. Well, I found it today over a beer, here in the newly-Wifi'd saloon at Bisbee's cool old haunted hotel, The Copper Queen. The article appears at the beginning of this backwards-blogged story, thanks to my friend Mary, under "August," but you may not stumble upon it if yer half as web dumb as I. So here it is again, cut and pasted but also linked, should you wish to go print it out from the original source (something I like to do, makes it more official-lookin'!). "Dreamcatchers paddle through town"

'Dreamcatchers' paddle through town
Marie Nitke
Herald-Review
Last Updated: Wednesday, September 06th, 2006 12:19:05 PM

A line taken from the lyrics of the hit song, "Proud Mary," which was written by John Fogerty about life on a Mississippi riverboat around the turn of the 20th Century, states: "People on the river are happy to give." According to some canoeists who recently paddled through Grand Rapids, those words still ring true today.

The canoeists were Rick McKinney and Frank Grandau -- modern-day adventurers on a "Dreamcatcher Expedition" down the Mississippi River. They began their journey about one week ago from Lake Bemidji, and hope to make it to New Orleans by the end of October, collecting the dreams and wishes of river people along the way.

"This journey is all about hope and connections between people," said McKinney during an interview Tuesday. "We want to meet people as we go, and collect their dreams. I'm asking people what their life-long dream is, or what their wish would be if they were granted one."

These dreams and wishes are then written down on small pieces of paper, which McKinney plans to put together into a sealed and corked glass bottle. Like classic "messages in a bottle," the dreams will be sent out to sea at the end of McKinney and Grandau's expedition.

"This trip," said McKinney, "is a mission of hope."

In the last week, McKinney and Grandau have already collected about two dozen dreams, including a few written down during casual conversations and interviews the men had while dining at the Forest Lake restaurant on Monday night.
"We talked to the bartender, and some others," said McKinney.

Most of the "dreamers' the men meet either live or work on the river. Grandau, who McKinney describes as "gregarious and bolder than I am," paddles over to almost anyone he sees to meet them and spark up conversations. McKinney, meanwhile, talks to people directly about their dreams and the purpose of this expedition.

According to McKinney, Grandau is the logical, practical goal-setter, while he is more the artistic, creative type.
"He's the pragmatist and I'm the dreamer," said McKinney. "We make an interesting team. We balance each other out."
The friends met only two years ago, when each was on a solo hike along the Appalachian Trail in 2004. McKinney was hiking to soothe his soul from the loss of a friend to suicide, while Grandau had recently retired from 26 years of service in the Navy - most recently as a Captain - and completing the hike was one of his personal goals.

Although both men were complete hiking amateurs when they met on the Appalachian Trail, they enjoyed the physical and mental challenges of their feat. That's what made them decide, two years later, to embark on this latest journey, to which they are also amateurs.

"We're hurting," admitted McKinney. "Neither of us had done any real training, and, boy, do my shoulders hurt. But we've got a long way to go. They say it takes about one million paddle strokes to get from one end of the Mississippi to the other."
Sore muscles aside, however, McKinney said he and Grandau have been enjoying their trip so far -- and have especially appreciated the kindness of strangers they have met along the way.

For example, when the two pulled their canoe over to the shore of "Pinky" Jetland's home Monday night, McKinney said, they were pleased to be welcomed with unexpected kindness. Seeking nothing more than a place to lay their canoe while they stayed in a motel in town, the men were bowled over by Jetland's good graces. According to McKinney, Jetland offered to haul the men's canoe and equipment to Steamboat Park for them on his trailer, saving McKinney and Grandau a long walk around the dam.
"He was great," said McKinney. "People have been really, really friendly. It's been really nice to meet such friendly people along the river."

"The lyrics that go, 'people on the river are happy to give' are true," said Grandau. "People need to know that."
Those interested in McKinney and Grandau's travels can follow along at www.jigglebox.com/ dreamcatcherexpedition.

Hunter Mann, My Man

Below is a wonderfully crafted, kind and warm-hearted salute to my recent fore-shortened journey, a gift of my dear friend Hunter Mann. Hunter is a very private man, especially with his words. He hasn't given me permission to print it. I'm just hoping this is one of those cases where asking forgiveness will be easier than asking permission:-> He's such a great wordsmith. I just can't resist. The trip down the Hudson to which he refers happened concurrently with my AT hike in 2004. He was part of film crew filming a man who swam the whole length of the river. In all likelihood, Hunter probably passed right under me as I crossed the Hudson high on some bridge in New York somewhere. Hunter and I, as with many of friends, are so "on the same wave length," or better said, we are riding the same blanket of clouds to some new, unnamed and far more interesting Heaven on Earth, together if often apart. - RSM

Written September 24, 2006

Hi Rick,
  I've enjoyed the photos and river tales, your pen
dipped in muddy water this time instead of ink,
well... better muddy water than blood. Your blog seems 
such a valuable use of the computer medium, not to
mention the hi-tech ease the Blackberry and other
tools have provided you a link to your readers.
Whether you're on the trail of dirt or the trail of
river water, you bring an intimate window to many of 
us who are mostly rafting upstream, out here in the
badlands, the hinterlands, the wastelands, the
Hollywoodlands.
  As I felt the whole two months I was along the
Hudson River, rivers are such a metaphor, as though 
they are more poetic than actual physical, tangible
bodies of H2O. Stream of water, stream of
consciousness, streaming video, unspooling in real
time with the naked eye watching it all flow.
  I salute your success that has been the river trip, 
some things like this take longer than the scheduled
and press-released two month duration we promise the
world and ourselves. Well, do what you need to do,
which is obviously to stop being a slave to the
 paddle, to ask the river for a break, so you can heal,
recondition and maybe return to where you last dipped
wood into water, or not, maybe just start a new
adventure, a new dream collection service, perhaps
even a cross country trip from Atlantic to Pacific to 
then toss the bottle of dreams to the sea, for her to
swallow then regurgitate on a beach in Tahiti at
sunrise, where an old fisherman finds it, and takes it
to his great-grand daughter to translate into Tahitian 
French. 
  I know this sounds nearly Hallmark Card-ish, but you
gotta remember that it's about the journey, not the
destination. Whether you return to muddy waters to
continue the trip someday or just let it flow away 
from you, the paddle trip is/was/will be what it was
to be, etc, etc, as they/I say.  
  I'm reminded of dear amigo Aaron Makinen, who rode
bikes with me from Seattle to Helena, MT. From their
he continued riding solo, zig-zagging the map. He was 
29, and as he rode he wrote, giving ink to his
non-fiction road story he was calling Turning Thirty
Across America. He was nearly 33 by the time he
finished that continental crossing, since he had to do
it in hop, skips and stumbles to compete. Now he's 
turning 43 and still editing his manuscript, so
Turning Thirty was just a poetic thought really, a new
title I guess he'll be fishing for along the river or
seashore.
  Be well, let the river flow where it does, life will 
keep rolling, the waters will be muddy, clear, calm
and rough...that's why they call if "life."
  Love and admiration,
   Hunter

Injury or No Injury

I gotta say, I think I've been feeling a lot more remorse for the death of the Dreamcatcher Mississippi River run of 2006 than I realized, or let on. That, and guilt. It was one thing to come to terms with the fact that my body was screaming for me to stop and having to heed that warning, but yet another thing when three days later Frank quit, too. I felt REALLY bad, in fact, so bad that my mind's only defense was to just shut down, shut it out, work towards the next goal which was getting home.

Well, I'm pleased to have received these words from Frank in an email tonight. He writes:

"Don't kick yourself too much for stopping. Injury or no injury, the river was just TOO BIG for a little canoe this time of year. With the first of the winter storms just over the horizon, and water temperature dropping by the day, it would have been absolutely foolhardy to continue. One unfortunate dunk in the middle of a mile-wide section in the river and hyperthermia would have set in before we could get dry and safe. In this case, much better safe than sorry."

Thank you, again, to all those who helped us along the way. I will safeguard your dreams, I promise. - RSM

Bones, the Bale & a Genie's Bottle Waiting

Red Hot Chilli Peppers on the radio singing some jazzy funeral dirge for California, rest in peace. Radio. How weird to hear radio out here in the BF Egypt outskirts of Bisbee halfway to Palominas and just a stone's throw from Mexico. But I had to buy a little one, to hear the outside world. Back in the Bale.

Sanctuary. Today I take that name quite literally and be it ever so Munday(ne) in the outside world, clocks ticking and workaday people clicking their heels saying "There's no place like home," (I agree) I pay no heed and never leave the house to begin with. It's a snow day, kids! Donnie flooded the school! I've got the thermometer-under-hot-tap-water flu! Yahoo.

Now what? Emails comin thru. Dad says I oughta return to Maine where there are people who can help promote my book. Ski Bum says come to South America, join Deia and him on their round the horn hike to del Fuego and back up the continent's eastern flank. Mina in my mind says "Minneapolis." My heart of Hope says "Back to the river with ye! Deliver the bottle to the sea." Kate says "Welcome back to Bisbeeland" as do others, many a local friend.

Back five nights now, drunk with James 3, maybe 4. Next day morning hungover psyche says "REHAB!" But even sober yesterday, today all day, shadows crawl across me, blot out all Hope. Stormy in my dreams returns, says "No pain will follow you into this night of nights." And I am tempted, by everything and nothing, and once again alone. Jack says, "Go roll your bones, alone." No, Jack. You went it alone with pickled nose and slur in young old age, and I don't wanna go that "Road," Jack. I wan't love again, or at very least a partner with whom I share scent attraction. Like dogs, yes, I gotta smell her. Let animal attraction do the rest.

Five dozen dreams sit in a lovely genie bottle on the table 'neath my loft bed. I fear I have taken on a mission I cannot finiish, a burden I cannot bear.

For now I will sit here in the desert and wait. Perhaps the genie will come for her bottle, roll me up and stuff me inside with all the others, assimilate me into the stuff of dreams. And I will think no more. - RSM
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