A long overdue, big game of blog

Warm Wyoming Mornings

We begin in Wyoming, and ‘upwards’ was right. We climb to nine thousand feet, carving through miles and miles of woodland as the road winds up and around the mountains surrounding Yellowstone. We pass through Big Horn National Park an hour after sunset and decide to camp for the night. So, after meandering in search of somewhere suitable to camp, we find a large ‘No Camping’ sign and set up the tent. An hour later, the fire is roaring, the food is cooking, the beers are open and the sky is ours to enjoy. We lie on the bonnet and stare at the star-speckled sky, with the arm of the Milky Way arching across it and the temperature dropping sharply around us. We all put on 73 layers of clothing, and assume the quadruple spoon position in the tent. For connoisseurs of detailed spooning notes, Andy was the scoopee and smallest spoon – think a melon baller – and Alex was the main scooper in his role as largest spoon – perhaps a ladle. I was a dessert spoon, I believe, with Lucy enacting the role of the Soup. Speaking of Lucy, here’s Lucy.

Pie and coffee in meth-town

Hello to all of you spoon enthuiasts out there, and indeed hello also to those who are not as keen for spoons (I’d hate to discriminate). After our snuggling session came to an end, we made our descent into a delightful little town by the name of Greybull. It had been at least 12 hours since our last hit of caffeine, so naturally we pulled into a little cafe to refuel. Within minutes, we had the pleasure of meeting Frank, a right-wing rock’n'roller who introduced us to perhaps the greatest newspaper written since The Sun: Greybull’s own weekly newspaper, filled with hard hitting news. As someone from a little town (Go Bexhill), I can appreciate that sometimes our top stories may not always involve stabbings, oil spills or whatever it is that the rest of the world is up to. This, however, perhaps can top even little Bexhill’s month of news coverage on a cracked pavement. Here are a couple of my own favourite news stories, hot off the Greybull press.

“July 6

Deputies received a complaint of a bounced check at a local fireworks stand. The author was contacted and agreed to bring cash to buy back the check.”

“July 6

Police recieved a tip from Park County that a suicidal man on a motorcycle is headed for Greybull but later learned that the man had returned home.”

“July 8

A suspicious person at the Hiway Bar and Cafe was reported at Manderson. A man was reportedly asking residents if they “want to get baked.”

“July 9

8:05 a.m., A woman reported that someone had played switcheroo with the campaign sign in her yard, replacing the sign of the candidate she supports with one of her opponent’s signs.”

“July 10

A young woman allegedly purchased a large quantity of ice at Dirty Annie’s Country Store.  Authorities questioned the need for the ice.”

Glorious. What a town, and what a newspaper.

Over to you Alex, I’m off to get baked.

180 Degrees for 35 minutes and you’ll be perfectly risen.

An exciting picture of a Bison

With the mountains of Big Horn National Park behind us, we pressed on towards Yellowstone and the promise of more buffalo and deer and, hopefully, a few bear attacks. Once inside we meandered around, often coming across buffalo trudging purposefully along the road in front of us. When this happened we naturally pulled up beside the beasts and took photos. We later found out from a park ranger that this is the worst thing you can do in the presence of a buffalo, something I find hard to accept. Worse even than mounting the monster? Doubtful. Driving on, we flirted with the idea of staying in one of the many log cabins dotted about the park but had obviously not booked one and therefore couldn’t. To camp then, further north in the park than the cabins. We found, and paid for, a campsite with little to justify the fee. Dinner, drinking games, campfire and, much later, terrible gibberish were enjoyed by all. A shoddy night’s sleep and we were off northwards towards more mountains in Montana. An all too brief visit to an absolutely beautiful national park. Pawkins?

On our way to the prick awards

Day Thirty-Seven, then, and it begins as any day should – polishing off a hangover by spending lots of money on cowboy hats. We switched the price tags on a couple, and embraced the world looking quite a lot more like we’d been invited to a Dress-Like-What-You-Wanna-Be-When-You-Grow-Up Day.

Next stop: Calgary, Canada, the Stampede Festival and my old university friend Steph – more historically known as Canadrunk. We cut through Montana, its scenic and simple countryside, small towns, straight roads that stretch out to the horzion and the occassional lingering relics of the Wild West’s roaming natives and the pioneering frontiersmen who followed them.

We drove all day – our biggest break made memorable by the large Mexican family we met that consisted of a fat, jolly and mustacheoed man, his memorable wife Womanface and his children, who may or may not have been multiplying as we talked. By the time 70 of them had materialised, mocked our accents and invited us for a swim in the local lake, we reluctantly returned to the car and moved on. Our only other breaks are to piggyback wireless internet from such corporate giants as McDonalds, Starbucks and ‘gregs upstairs connection’ and contact Steph. We let her know we’ll arrive about midnight.

Steph with her kids

We arrive at 5 in the morning, of course, after an enormous amount of faffing, losing her address, not having money for a pay phone, struggling with a small scale map and generally not being very good at arriving (it balances out though because we’re also terrible at leaving.) She greets us with her cheeky, happy little face and has made some comfortable beds on the floor, complete with lovely, licky pets. We all go to sleep, wondering how we can pass the narrative back to Lucy.

Boys are good for some things now and then, however, one thing that they are not good at is looking after addresses. But, as Paul has already informed you (and your possible spoon collection) is that we got to Steph’s safe and sound. Excellent.

Tequila. Uh-oh.

We awake feeling hideously groggy, but with a little help from Steph and some suspiciously  illuminous yellow Mac ‘n’ Cheese (Thanks Kraft) our strength is regained and we are ready for an entire day of Canadian Culture. Or, more commonly referred to as; drinking. Marvellous. From what I can tell about Steph, (from my 3 days of knowing her), is that she has all of her fingers permantently in all of the best party pies. So, keen to get a slice of the action (oh, see what I did there?) we join the crew of thousands of people on the great ‘Bust Loose Pub Crawl’.  Steph and her team of merry men encouraging everyone to drink (a difficult job, I presume) made sure that we were on the best bus, (the Ferrari of the bus world if you will) when travelling from bar to bar. For twenty glorious minutes between each bar we were able to enjoy hooker poles, games of ‘rock the bus’ (apologies to the bus driver), free energy drinks and a group of excitable Australians who were able to fill me in on the political situation in Australia. Bad times for you, K-Rudd.

12 hours of drinking, more dollars than any of us care to remember spending and a cloudy memory later, we all arrive back at Steph’s to sleep off the adventure. How you doin’ Alex?

My leg aches. Calgary’s Stampede still in full swing we made our way to the festivities the next day, skipped them and went to the bar. After playing ‘quarters’ and ‘flip cup’, which drew a great crowd and had a good 35 people involved at the end, we went in search of deep fried pickles. A little bit too crunchy for my liking, I’m not sure what I expected, and I enjoyed the deep fried Oreos far more. Scotland ain’t seen nothin’. After petting some miserable cows, llamas and alpacas we returned to Steph’s and our final night’s sleep in Calgary.

Westward, and towards Vancouver. Another glorious drive through Banff national park past looming mountains and winding valleys. A long day on the road led us to a small town called Sicamous where we drove around town looking for a bar or restaurant to find some wi-fi to check our options for the night. Bros’ Bar, tucked away at the end of town, provided not only wi-fi, not only beer, but Ian! An appropriate time to pass to my left. Paul?

Paul is currently writing a letter to his Nan for her 90th Birthday, so instead it’s Lucy back, bashing at the keyboard. Hello.

So, throughout our adventure, I’ve noticed that generally our little foursome tend to follow this path:

Problem > Problem > Problem > Bar > Excellent Solution.

In this situation, we had our problems – nowhere to stay, no wi-fi to get on the internet with, and it had been a while since we’d refuelled with coffee or beer. And the excellent solution came in the shape of Ian, the barman at our chosen wi-fi filled pub. We needed a place to stay, and the universe threw us a bone. A bone that came with Avelina and Fivel, two dogs belonging to Ian and his fabulous friends.

Remember that time you were Lucy, taking photos of your toes in a lake? Me neither.

So there we were, in Sicamous (about 5-8 hours from Vancouver depending on whether you owe someone in a nearby town money) staying with a tremendous group of hippie-hating people living in a big house that looks like an arc. An arc that had been nicknamed ‘The Orphanage’, due to their habit of taking in strangers in need of shelter. Good stuff. With such great people and a house that looks like an arc, I think it’s clear that we were going nowhere for a few days. Well, except perhaps the nearby lake for floating and backflips into the water. This is torture.

The Orphanage

Our stay at The Orphanage was an educational one. We learned that tents are no match for falling trees, that people tend to multiply as soon as food is put on the table and that wearing a Gorilla suit at a festival apparently doubles a man’s pulling potential. I’m going to sign out with this gem of a quote, that a fine man, Mr Ben Jammin’ came up with while on mushrooms.

“Life is a series of 15 minute adventures. So don’t be discouraged if you miss a few.”

Beautiful. Speaking of beautiful, how’s that letter coming along, Paul?

I burned it. I didn’t obviously, I’ve just put it down for a minute. So, we’re in Sicamouse, are we..? With that excellent group of anti-hippies at the Orphanage. They were a particularly hard group of people to leave, but they gave us a ton of great ideas and even some butter for the road (it was wonderful butter.)

Vancouver-bound then and excited by the offer from our next couch host,

Me and Lucy not learning anything

Janice, who’s housemates were studying for exams (one of them was studying to be a prick and doing well) so we were relegated, happily so, to camp in the garden. In exchange for the hospitality, we set to landscaping the lawn with enthusiasm, leaving nice big flat rectangles that told our story: the British have been. Janice was brilliant. She showed us around, but mainly took us to the Science Museum where we spent hours and hours and hours and learnt literally nothing. We also watched Monsters vs Aliens in an open air theatre by the beach in Stanley Park, filled every available space in our bodies with all-you-can-eat sushi and generally buttered ourselves all over the gaff.

We now interrupt this program to bring you a minor interjection from Janice:

Us with our Vancouver friend collection

Having been officially displaced by my roommates, I join the lovable Hammock gang for an evening of camping before they leave Vancouver. We drive to the north shore where the internet has (falsely) led me to believe that a campground exists. Arriving at Mount Seymour Provincial Park, we find a picnic area, and decide to impertinently set up our tents 2 metres away from the sign that clearly says “No Camping”. We continue to overlook warning signs and have a little campfire, by which the lovely and dynamic duo of Alex and my guitar entertain us until the early morning hours. Before we head to bed, the boys exercise some small pretense of responsibility by weeing on the remaining embers of the fire and thus saving Mount Seymour from almost certain destruction.

Leaving Vancouver

We plan to get up at 8 am and make our escape before anyone comes round the park. Of course, as luck would have it, at 7:58 am we are awakened instead by the police. We try to plead ignorance, and I pretend not to be from Vancouver, so as to avoid having a ticket mailed to my Vancouver address. After a bout of convoluted questioning, we are still unable to explain to the policewomen’s satisfaction why 4 British and 1 Canadian are driving a car with Pennsylvania plates belonging to a lady in New York. This is complicated by the fact that Andy does not have his passport with him. We quickly realize that the less we say, the better. They stare us down for a while… and then, apparently deciding that we are neither members of Al Qaeda, nor intelligent enough to understand a “No Camping” sign, they advise us to pack up quickly and leave. We are only too happy to oblige. I am deposited back in town, and the gang continues on their merry way. Back to them now.

Then Paul said: Once again, we struggled to leave… but we had a border to cross. And we love crossing borders, don’t we Alex?

Beer, beach and BBQ

We do. We do? A scorching hot day and an hour and a half queue to get to the border crossing was unpleasant but made more enjoyable with dollar ice cream and a nice chat with a couple in a car beside us. The man at the border was the best yet, asking only one question and even washing our car and massaging our scalps. Sterling. Pressing on southwards towards Seattle we got in contact with our next host, Luis, who we were to meet at a beach party. St. Catharine, our car, was thirsty enough to start blinking at us so we got petrol and cracked on eagerly towards the beach. Upon our arrival we were greeted warmly by a group of 15 or so wonderful Mexicans, Luis among them. A fantastic guy. Insisting upon us imbibing something with a touch more flavour, body and character than ‘the King of Beers’ we chatted as the sun set and a fire was lit. Luis, as it turned out, wasn’t able to put us up so

Miguel (with click noise)

Miguel, his wonderful, jolly friend, offered us a place to stay. Generosity, it seems, is something deeply engrained in the Mexican way of life and we immediately loved these guys.

Seattle then. Armed with our guide (Luis’s Hat Tour of Seattle coming soon) we wandered around the market, saw some chewing gum with a wall stuck to it, had a goose at the first ever Starbucks and ate the best mac and cheese of the trip. An unexpected highlight was a visit to Seattle’s (and almost certainly the World’s) best hat shop. Hats are, quite simply, good clean fun. Following an amble along the ocean front and some free fudge we headed to a bar on the other side of town where three of us ate and drank and the fourth wandered down the street making friends. Oh, here she is now.

Unrelated to the paragraph: drunkenness

Hello guys. There was indeed wandering and friends certainly were made. Hello to Sam, a lovely fellow who ran F Coffee Bar, and took the time to inform me that the area of Seattle we were currently in is nicknamed ‘Snooze Junction’ due to it’s laid back way of life. Delightful. I also saw a homeless man holding a sign saying ‘Too Ugly to Prostitue’. Equally delightful. Perhaps more, even.

Once we were fed, watered and generally satisfied with our quality of life, we were to head to Green Lake, a magnificent park surrounding… you guessed it, a lake. These Americans are smart people. The boys excersised their motor skills with a game of Frisbee while I pulled faces at a spectacularly cute baby. The boys were not as impressed with my idea of adopting a ‘Road Trip Baby’ as I’d hoped, but there’s still 34 days left, so I presume I’ll get one by the end of the trip.

Gullible Alex is told that I'm a rucksack

Putting up one of the hammocks by the side of the lake was one of our better ideas of the day, and after all that excersise, Alex had himself a little snooze in the hammock. Two women passing by stopped to take photos. I’m 90% certain that they were admiring his strong jaw line and sculpted pectorials. Hammocks are great things, they really are. While  I had myself a little swing in it, I believe I got more smiles and comments than the whole of the trip combined. Even without a strong jaw line and sculpted pecs. People really do like them. Hammocks that is, not the pecs. Perhaps if Hitler had owned one, things would have been different. I’m going to resist the ‘Speaking-of-Hitler-here-comes-Paul’ joke, and instead  hand you over to the ray of sunshine himself.

Heil. One average Kurt Cobain bench later, and it was time for the bar. Beer was regularly and systematically and successfully administered to our mouths, and before long it was time to pile into cars and head home. Our car got home extremely successfully. The car behind, not so much. Alex was in Miguel’s car when it got pulled over by the police. But that’s OK because Alex had a plan. It involved winding down the windows and subtly vomiting. Here’s Alex.

Miguel's note

And subtle I was, because the policeman simply Heiled a cab and sent me on my way. Unfortunately we weren’t far along the road home and my cab driver was a in no hurry to get me there. It was not a cheap ride but I arrived back eventually, as did Miguel, in time to oversleep and miss his flight back to Mexico. A top man, he left his apartment to us until we were ready to meet up with Luis for an all we could eat Indian buffet. My fingers just fell off, so back to Paul.

To save Alex from futiley mashing his useless knub stumps into my keyboard any longer, I will proceed with the narrative.

Nice cops let you take pictures

We leave in the afternoon, drive five hours, get pulled over by our first nice cop (Kevin) and are told that one of our headlights has gone. We basically don’t care as this is now our 5th or 6th run in the law and we continue for an hour beforecamping. Andy and Alex sleep in the car, me and Lucy meander to the beach, set up our tent near the embers of a dying fire, get it going again and waste some of the night. We get up early, get straight on the road and are just past Portland, Oregon when we see our first lone hitchhiker that is entirely fittable in our car.

Nicholas Star Castle One Feather

We all agree and I brake hard, waving him in. Nickolas Star Castle One Feather gets in, and is a lovely, chatty and passionate guy – a native of California and a retired stoner. After ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘Where are you from?’, his third question was a logical continuation of the dialogue: ‘You guys smoke pot?’ Four or five hours breeze past along a beautiful Pacific backdrop, through mountains and redwood forests. Nickolas provides the tour guide, we drop him off and continue to San Francisco with lots of apprehensive looks in the rear view mirror everytime we pass the cops with just our one headlight. We have nowhere to stay when we roll into the city at 10.30pm, and decide to hit a couch surfing meetup that’s happening in the city for potential leads or just cool people to hang out with in the city. Janice (from Vancouver) has spontaneously already travelled down to meet us, and she is at the bar when we arrive. Drinks and drinks and drinks and cool people later and Stu and Katie, two very cool local Francsiscans invite us back to crash at their place. They are excellent, so we readily accept and have 5 nights of fun, frolics, adventures, shenanigans and even a bloomin’ knees-up. To conclude then, here is our latest host, Stu, before we leave and power on to Vegas tomorrow morning.

A lot of love

A cloudy haze subdued my memory, oddly enough, but I believe after the beds were set, the first of many late nights ensued.  Four o’ clock set the bar high that night but we came readily prepared with hops and it’s close cousin.  The next morning I can only account for the whereabouts of myself, Katie and Mari.  Boogaloos, en route to biscuits and gravy, our new friends embarked to the Embarcadaro.  Nine o’clock summoned them back to us.  Consuming the remaining inebriating liquid and lung numbing plant, family game night begun; Bananagrams (Andy watched intently).  Only one round went to me the entire night, as I refused to arrange my letters.  Neal rode his bike from Excelsior and added to the table,as I, became two dimensional and drifted away…

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