I got the much-grappled-over ski helmet for Christmas (I love it) and now I’m in the mood for wild and crazy skiing so…

Monday

PRaP 11-30-2009

“Twist and Turn, Up and Down”

On our vacation this past week we were driving around lake Travis in Austin doing that tourist thing.  Thankfully our tour was guided because I would have never found my way out of this ride.  Well I would have eventually but it was a lot more fun having someone else doing the driving.  These roads twisted and turned and went up and down and were very narrow with no shoulder and some were very steep and as we were driving along the Holy Spirit came upon me and shared with me that life is like this road always twisting and turning and we have very steep downs and very steep ups and sometimes these roads don’t have road signs to warn you of how sharp the curve ahead is and the only warning of a steep drop is after you turn the hairpin turn and see out the front windshield the drop and at the bottom is another unmarked blind curve.  As we traveled on down and around there was a story told of how a truck loaded with lumber slid off the road and into the deep ditch to the side of the road and lost its load and again the Holy Spirit spoke to me telling me that even if in our walk with Christ we slip off the road and end up in a ditch Jesus will be there to pull us out of the ditch and put us back on the road.  Like these roads life sometimes has no shoulder to pull off of and sometimes it is 100 miles to the next rest area and you have to be sure your tank is full before you go on that journey.  Makes me wish there were bumpers along the side of the road that would push me back on track without damaging the car.  Oh wait there are bumpers, they are called Pastor, Mother, Father, Brother, Sister, Friend, Family, and they come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors, that only God could have built.

Numbers 22

Key Verse:

Numbers 22:32
The angel of the LORD asked him, “Why have you beaten your donkey these three times? I have come here to oppose you because your path is a reckless one before me.
Numbers 22:31-33 (in Context) Numbers 22 (Whole Chapter)

Jesus Bless,

Pastor Steve

Last week I created a series of new product on zazzle using another photo from one of my hikes in the snow last winter. In this photo the pale blue winter sky is visible through the forest canopy, as the sun’s rays stream through the evergreens. Glistening drops of melting snow fall through the air toward the ferny forest floor covered in a light dusting of snow.

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
fridge magnets by zazzle.com

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
buy buttons on zazzle

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
Make a sticker on Zazzle

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
Design a personalized t-shirt on zazzle

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
postcard printing by Zazzle

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
Make your own mouse pad online at zazzle

Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Winter Sunrays #16 by dlmtleArt
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Dawna’s Gallery of Greeting Cards, Matted Prints, and T shirts

Dawna’s Fine Art Prints at

Dawna’s Zazzle Gallery of items featuring her Art and Photography

Using one of the photos I took last winter and digitally altered, this week I created a series of products on zazzle. This digitally altered photo of a snowy sunlit forest glade covered in brambles at the bottom of a steep hill in picturesque Rainier, Oregon shows the winter sky glowing through the forest canopy in a golden haze of sunlit mist, causing the trees to fade off into the distance. I like the colors in this version of the photo better than the original– it has more of an ethereal fairytale-like atmosphere to it.

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
Browse other Oregon Invitations

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
Design personal stationery with zazzle

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
Design a neck tie with zazzle

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
Make a magnet on Zazzle

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
Create your own promotional keychain at zazzle

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
More Oregon Buttons

Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Snowy Sunlit Forest Glade #2 by dlmtleArt
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Dawna’s Gallery of greeting cards, Matted Prints. and T shirts

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Dawna’s Zazzle Gallery of items featuring her Art and Photography

The Yungas Road in Bolivia, South America, is infamous for being one of the most dangerous roads in the world. Around 100 people die every year on the 63km stretch that goes from La Paz to the town of Coroico, traversing waterfalls, rainforests and ravines. Before modernisation, 200-300 people were killed yearly. It is extremely steep and a wrong turn on the, single track, road can mean certain death for the traveller. Most of the road is no wider than 10.5 ft (3.2 m). In 1983 a bus plunged from the road into a canyon, an accident in which 100 people were killed. Along the route are many crosses and flower bouquets signifiying the amount of people who have been killed travelling along the road that is also known as ‘El Camino De La Muerte’, which roughly translates as ‘The Death Road’. A 20-year period of modernisation put in a two-lane road and a bypass for the most dangerous section of the Yungas road. The bypass features guardrails and asphalt. Despite this the road is still extremely dangerous. Thanks for reading.

Recently I created a series of products for sale on zazzle.com using a fantastic photo I took last winter, forest “troll” in the snow #2.   Like something out of a fantasy novel, this tree stump resembles a mythological woodland creature such as a troll, ogre, or gnome guarding the forest. Branches dangle overhead shining in the sun like a chandelier from a castle ceiling, and ferns cascade downward illuminated by the winter sun as the snow casts a light carpet across the forest floor.

forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
See more Forest Magnets

forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
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forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
Shop for a different greeting card on zazzle.com

forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
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forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
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forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
create an apron online using zazzle.com

forest “troll” in the snow #2 by dlmtleArt
Make canvas bags from Zazzle

Dawna’s Gallery of greeting cards, Matted Prints. and T shirts

Dawna’s Fine Art Prints at

Dawna’s Zazzle Gallery of items featuring her Art and Photography

New image in the fear factor photography contest

Austria – Kitsbuhel …
Steep photography picture

So because I also indulge in making stuff… such as bags and purses, cards and frames… and many more things…. most times when I am visiting boutiques and lifestyle stores, I am filled with this confidence that I can make most of these and that they would be much much economical if I made them myself. This is not to demean the talent and hard work of all those boutiques and self contained theme shops, but hey… how much can a small cloth bag with ornate bangles as handles cost? How much? Without any intricate flaps or compartments… a simple bag should ideally cost no more than Rs. 200 /-. And they charge you a scary Rs. 900/- and above…. Phew! And this is not just about cloth bags… but about everything that is commonly available… like a stole or a dupatta, a saree or a necklace, a laakh bangle or a jute hand bag…

Why the Steep Unthoughtful Pricing? Is the idea to restrict customers? Or allow only a few?  But I can understand the restrictions to all and sundry if it was something rare and high-end and you don’t want it to become a mass brand or product… but a cloth bag???? I wouldn’t think that they are designer creations coz’ they are not. They are just hand made… and if you want to propagate handmade indigeneous brands and products, you need to make it affordable. Not disguise it in your Store rental and AC charges…

If you want people to appreciate what is India, spread the word, make it affordable, explain the hard work and creativity and let people feel proud to own it and not be scared to buy…. Coz’ the only feeling that overcomes you when you see hand made stuff that are overpiced is that of cynicism… a hushed, below the breath muttering… eh-lets- go- from -here-, they- are- too- expensive-, its- not- even- worth- it,- I -can- get- it- one-fourth- the- price- from- so- and- so- place…

Be thoughtful… Do a service….Help People Buy

Anche una giacca può contenere tecnologia come e più di uno smartphone: abbiamo voluto provare qualcosa di diverso dal solito e raccontarvelo.

C’è chi ama cambiare abito appena cambia la temperatura e chi cerca una seconda pelle da tenere sempre addosso in ogni condizione climatica. Posto che la giacca perfetta non esiste, qui ci andiamo molto vicino: Ripid Steep è la seconda pelle, ma anche la terza, la quarta… Ti può servire per muoversi in città, per fuggire in montagna, per affrontare il vento, il freddo, la pioggia, la notte.

L’abbiamo testata in bicicletta in questi giorni di sbalzi termici paurosi e di vento forte e dobbiamo dire che funziona. Quando pedaliamo, percepiamo  solo il fruscio del vento e ci sentiamo corazzati come Iron Man. I tessuti sono un insieme di 4 materiali: c’è kevlar, lycra, nylon stretch e protection dry, per andare praticamente dappertutto in qualsiasi stagione.

Se in strada si mette male, ferma l’acqua e l’aria e dai polsi escono dei mezzi guanti che chiudono ermeticamente ogni possibile sfiato. Con la canicola di mezzogiorno non abbiamo avuto bisogno di sfilarlo: staccate le maniche e aperti i vari zip, l’aria ha ripreso a circolare come una ventola.
Di notte o nella nebbia sei ben c’è il flash lite che ti segnala alle auto come un faro scomposto.

Solo quando ci fermiamo e lo sfioriamo ci rendiamo conto di averlo addosso: fa un uuuuish che dà un piacere quasi feticistico.

SI: È davvero multifunzione, con un prezzo adeguato

NO: Cappuccio un po’ scomodo (ma non è un parka…)

Il sito ufficiale: http://www.samas.it/mellos/index.htm

How to Steep a Perfect Cup of Tea

A perfect pot of tea does not begin with a mug of hot water and tea bag. The perfect pot takes time and careful planning.

First of all, the tea in standard tea bags are called “fannings”, the dust and left overs from the tea leave grading and separation process, which are then squooshed into a tea bag where what little taste is left is minimized (due to a reduction in surface area directly exposed to the hot water). I used to be a big tea bag user, but once I started drinking hand crafted loose leaf teas,I can’t go back. I prefer a steeper cup, or a tea ball (not over stuffed) for preparing my tea.

Here are some suggestions to help newbies steep a divine cup of tea….

1. Start with a preheated pot or cup. This prevents the tea cooling too quickly. To warm the it, pour boiling water into the pot, swish it around, and pour it out again.
2. Use freshly drawn or bottled, not reboiled water. Reboiled water has already lost valuable oxygen and your tea will taste flat.
   Bring your water to a rolling boil for approximately 10 seconds. Remove kettle from heat. Don’t boil the water for too long as this will boils away the flavour-releasing oxygen.
3. Wait until the water is just “off the boil” (approximately 208 degrees for those folks that like to be precise) before pouring it onto the tea. This temperature brings out the rich aroma and prevents the scorching of your tea.
4. Use one tea bag per person, or start with 3/4 of a level teaspoon of loose tea per 6 oz. of water.
5. Steep for 3-5 minutes, according to taste. If possible, cover the teapot with a towel or tea cosy while steeping to retain heat. Remove the tea bags or leaves
6. If you enjoy adding milk to your tea, place your milk into the cup BEFORE you pour in your hot tea,  allowing the milk to better blend with the tea without curdling.
7. Sweeten as preferred (honey or sugar) or serve with a slice of lemon.
8. Specialty tea notes: Infuse (steep) green tea for two minutes, semi-black (oolong) tea for seven minutes, unless instructed otherwise based on the tea you have purchased. Both may be infused several times, depending on the tea you have purchased. Though they may be slightly more expensive than black tea by weight measurement, Green and Semi-black are ultimately less costly due to the number of times the leaf may be infused.

It took me a while to figure out what was wrong with Youtube. Apparently the progress bar was causing some error so I had to use their “no progress bar” option. Problem solved. Anyways, here it is, last song that was played that night. Enjoy

I’ve noticed a big push in Dunkin Donut sites openning lately. I’m sure you’re wondering why that’s a big thing? Easy, the two product lines that Dunkin serves (Donuts & coffee) have retail leaders that have had a hard time the last few years. Both Starbucks and Krispy Kreme have actually reduced the number of retail sites and are floundering in creating an upswing in sales.

So, how does Dunkin do well in a market that looks problematic? Strategy, both in operations and marketing. They have looked at the leaders in their respective sectors and found the flaws. They came up with products that addressed them and then used marketing to place themselves as viable alternatives in pricing and quality.

In short, they figured where they were in the scheme of things and took advantage. This is something many businesses need to do. You could be anything from a new entrant in a market to an established presence looking for renewed interest.

If you are a new entrant in a marketplace then potentially, the world is your oyster, as far a marketing goes. You are blazing new territory, but be careful. Just because you are a pioneer;it doesn’t make you impervious to marketing problems. You still need to perform due diligence in your marketing efforts and find something sustainable. (At least until your product has a history and becomes established.You’ll want to change tactics after that happens.)

If you are established and looking for renewed interest you need to look at the current market leaders. What kind of place have they carved out for themselves? How can you compete with that? (Price, quality, service?) Find out what it is and start a new campaign addressing those issues.

Remember the timeline from new adapter to mainstream is growing shorter all the time. New trends can increase marketshare, but external factors (use a STEEP analysis) can change things quickly. You have to remain flexible to address external issues regardless of where you are in a life cycle. So, figure out where you are and keep doing it. Don’t become complacent and you’ll remain competitive.

Photographed by Ron Layters

the cinque terre is a section of rugged coastline in liguria (north west Italy). It features 5 villages precariously attached to the sides of narrow gorges with a small harbour to the sea. There are no roads – the only access is from the sea or by a railway line that connects them.

Riomaggiore is the most southerly of the villages

(best viewed large)

Fly to this location
(requires Google Earth)

– License

I guess I take rejection pretty well

I mean, it’s not as though my life’s a living hell

It’s just a simple matter of the will

Like climbing up an ever-steeper hill

I can’t explain the reasons for my ever-slow ascent

But it’s better than believing that my narrow path is bent

I guess I take acceptance rather badly

I’d choose rejection any day, and gladly

It’s just a simple matter of a hill

And battling an ever sharper will

I can’t explain the reasons for my quickening descent

But I don’t believe the winds that push me ever will relent.

I guess I take rejection pretty well

Acceptance is a kind of living hell

It’s just a simple matter, that is all

A steeper climb or maybe just a fall

I can’t explain the reasons that I’m always standing still

But nothing in my path explains the ever-moving hill.

Kentucky is a land with two faces. It seems one faces West, and the other East. In the West, I’ve found Violet: a pastor’s wife, a mother, smiling and in love with God. Her face is gracious, happy, generous. In the East, I’ve found bulldogs, rottweilers, and German shepherds. Violet bares food. The dogs bare teeth. I’ve experienced the depths of Southern Hospitality, and been chased down the street by dogs eager to chew my ankles. What a strange contradiction. What an odd pair.

What an exceptional place.

Kentucky is a gem. There is no other way of describing this land. It is so green. So green. The colors easily rival the forests of Washington. From the slow, winding rivers, carving a wet path through the hills, to the quiet forests spilling over with life: I can’t count the deer I’ve seen, the birds I wake to every morning, the white noise of crickets as the sun dies.

But I should pick up the story in Marion, Kentucky, at the library.

I was typing away, my fingers buzzing over the keyboard, when Morgan Lynn walked up to me. She stands out. For one, she is young, and for another, she is beautiful. In a library filled with children and older adults, I felt lucky. Of course, I looked like an oddball in my cycling clothes.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

That’s music to a cyclist’s ear.

But I had a dilemma. I’d only been on the bike for twelve miles. I need to make more miles! Lately, I’ve felt an itch to see the Atlantic, and be off the saddle. My fingers are numb from holding the handlebars. It’s a crazy itch, and only making miles can scratch it.

I could push on another sixty miles. Or, I could stop here, twelve miles into my day, and get to know Marion, and get to know a new friend.

I stayed. Surprised?

I finished writing. I made myself a peanut butter honey sandwich. Morgan had lunch with her godmother. I met up with her, filled out some postcards, and we talked about Morocco, Peace Corps and Nest. Turns out, Morgan knows a woman finishing up a tour in Morocco. Her friend’s work has focused on empowering women and boosting the economy through micro loans. She is also personal friends with the British Ambassador to Morocco.

Yes, I’m in Marion, Kentucky, and I just met a woman who knows the British Ambassador to Morocco.

I was blown away.

Morgan wants to do an internship in the American Embassy in Morocco this spring. So I may have a friend in the embassy.

We went and met her Dad, who owns Lynn Auto Sales. His shop is the local hangout. The guys go down, sit around the office and shoot the shit. Morgan said that Lynn Auto Sales is where the big names go when they visit town. When Senator Mitch McConnell came to Marion, they held the meeting at Lynn Auto Sales. Alan, her father, has a barbecue grill out back that’s as big as an SUV. He claims to make the best barbecue, ever. I didn’t have a chance to eat a rack of ribs while I was in town, so I’ll have to come back to Marion and give it a try.

So, I stayed the night.

Morgan and I spent the afternoon talking at her house, which is on the highest point in Western Kentucky. From her porch, you can survey the land below: the small city, the farms stretching out toward the horizon, the rolling hills and swaths of forest.

I met Winston, Morgan’s big chubby bull dog. He doesn’t move fast, or much, but he’s got wrinkles like no dog I’ve ever met. And to Morgan, those wrinkles are just adorable. I am not a fan of wrinky dogs, but even I had to admit he had a charm. Something about how he snorted with each breath. I don’t know.

We talked about our dreams, what we want to do with our lives, how we want to be of service, how we want to be part of creating a better world. It’d been a while since I’d talked to someone like those dreams. I felt really good.

Alan came home from work. He and I talked. He reminded me of my dad, in some ways: a Southerner with a big heart and a work ethic. He has an interest in politics, so he and I got along really well. We totally disagreed with each other, but there was a deeper connection. We liked each other. We respected each other. It’s silly how easily a disagreement of opinion can be forgotten. I think we both recognized a character in each other: that we care about people.

We drove to her godparent’s house, which, I must say, was stunning. Morgan’s godmother Caroline has had the farm in her family for years and years. When she married Jean Claude, Morgan’s godfather, they did an expansion of the house. It’s a beautiful house, perfect for a big dinner party, guests galore and live music. We sat down to a roast beef dinner, which was an incredible feast! It felt like Thanksgiving, and tasted just as good.

People in Kentucky love gravy. Biscuits and gravy. Gravy on meat and spuds. I like it.

We talked round and round about my trip, about politics, and family. We all ended up stuffed pigs, and there was plenty of food left on the table. Jean Claude, Alan and I went to sit outside. Jean Claude smoked a cigar. We watched the dogs, and conversation spun off into the warm night air. All of us were a few drinks into the evening. Alan was falling asleep in his chair. So, we said our goodbyes and we went home. I slept like a rock.

I woke to what I thought was an empty house. Alan, the early riser, was gone. I realized Morgan, who claimed to be an early riser, was snoozing late. I sat on the porch and watched wild turkeys waddle through the yard. Winston helped keep an eye on them.

When Morgan got up, we talked some more. Then I decided to hit the road, and make some miles.

My destination: Sebree, Kentucky.

The sky was cast in heavy clouds, and the air was thick and warm. I was happy to be riding. Grinning in fact. The hills were usually somewhere between steep and insane, which made for a fun ride mashing my granny gears.

I got caught in a downpour in the late afternoon. I booked it under a big maple tree, and gave the parents a call. We talked for a good hour. Toward the tail end, my dad said, “It must have stopped raining. When you called, the rain was a background roar. I can’t hear it anymore.”

He was right. The rain here in Kentucky is different from Washington. Instead of hanging overhead all day, spitting a drizzle, the rain comes and goes. When it comes, it’s hard to do much else but sit it out. When its gone, the land smells fresh, clean and alive.

Sebree is a little town with a big heart, and a love for cyclists. It’s all Violet’s fault.

At the edge of town, a truck stopped and rolled the window down. The man inside said, “Do you have a place to stay?” I said, “Not yet.”

“Well, go up the hill, around the corner and look for the First Baptist Church. Pull in and go see Violet. She’ll get you a shower, a dry place to sleep and a big meal to fill you up.”

So off I went, up the hill, around the corner and into the Church, which is, to say the least, large. In Kentucky, Church is the center of many people’s lives. You can tell in the size of the buildings. The biggest buildings in town are always Churches, and they are beautiful brick monuments, with stained glass, pillars and giant wood doors. To say they are a dime a dozen is an exagerration, but even the smallest of small towns has two churches, or three or four. Sebree, a town of twelve hundred people, has twelve Churches. It’s really cool to see. I think my hometown of Bainbridge Island had about that many Churches for twenty thousand people.

I walked up to Violet’s open kitchen door and knocked on the screen. She came and immediately invited me inside. “Do you want something to drink, a coke maybe?” I said yes. We sat down at her kitchen table, where she told me her story, and I told her mine. She’s fed over 200 cyclists at that table this summer, and a countless number over the thirty years she and her husband Bob have been at the Church. She gets a thrill out of it, in part because it’s a chance to minister, and just to hear the stories and share the cyclist’s crazy energy.

She showed me the Church, and the hostle, which is also the youth room. There are pool tables, ping pong and some little foosball tables. And showers. And couches and a giant kitchen fit to feed an army. I bee-lined it into the shower and then, refreshed, went back up to Violet’s for dinner.

She said dinner was leftovers. It tasted so good, I had my doubts. Her husband Bob wasn’t home yet. And a storm was threatening. He had been out on a fourwheeler, and I could tell she was worried. But she kept it to herself. He came in eventually, just as Violet was serving some lemon pie and ice cream. We introduced and he sat down to join the conversation. We talked a while. I downed the pie with lightening speed.

Then it was off to an early snooze.

I ended up staying an extra day in Sebree. For a couple reasons. The next morning was Sunday, and I’d never been to a Baptist mass. So, I stuck around for morning Bible study and Bob’s sermon on being god’s willing worker. Their was a low turnout, because of labor day, but I had plenty of people to chat it up with. Bob took me around to meet everyone, and people were gracious and curious. I felt welcome. I didn’t understand everything, but at one point during Bob’s sermon I whispered to Violet that I could tell we stood on the same rock.

I could tell she wanted me to become a Christian. She was praying for me to. Toward the end of the sermon, Bob made an invitation to anyone who wanted to come up and profess their love for God and become a Christian. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he meant me. I stayed in the pew, watching, curious, taking it in.

Afterward, Violet slipped back to the house. “Come as soon as you can, and we’ll eat.” It took me longer. People wanted to talk, and I love to entertain. I did eventually make it to her table, where I met Michael, and two big guys who had the same name. I’ve forgotten it though. Michael was another cyclist, heading to New Orleans, his home. He’d been gone since February, riding 10,000 miles. The conversation drifted around, as did the piles of delicious tropical chicken salad, cheese, crackers and veggies. We talked a lot about hunting. And my sweet tea kept disappearing. And more desert. The rest of the lemon pie did a disappearing act of its own.

As lunch wound down, Michael and I bid our farewells and went back to the youth room. I wanted to get going, so I started packing up. But something held me in place. I just wasn’t amped to ride. I was tired. The sky was a heavy blanket of gray clouds, looming and full of rain. And the air was thick and hot. The air conditioned Church felt so nice, and Michael was my excuse for staying. He’s a character, to say the least.

Alcohol was at the front of his mind, like God was at the front of Violets. It seemed every other sentence was about this cheap beer or that fine bourbon or how this county was dry as a bone but the county after that was wet, but the stores were all closed. He was thirsty. I didn’t envy him in the least. It’s hard to find liqiour in Kentucky, even though they make a crazy amount of bourbon. I just never looked for any. It’s hard to cycle with a hangover, and it certainly robs it of some of the fun. While Michael cycles, he drinks, smokes cigarettes, “and if I could figure out how to rig a bong to my bike, I’d be sucking on that too!”

How? I have no clue, and I don’t want to find out.

I’ve never met a cyclist like Michael before. He’s well educated, by his own admition. He’s built more cars than I can shake a stick at, worked as an illustrator for magazines, and is preparing to write a book about his adventures riding 10,000 miles around the US.

To say the least, I was curious about the guy. We went and had thick milk shakes at the Dari-Bar, which was the only place in town open on a Sunday, besides the pizza place. I cooked pasta and threw some slices of cheese on top. We called it dinner, but really it was just a fill up. The kitchen was big, but we found the pantry pretty bare of ingredients. But, so it goes!

The next morning, I got an early start in the wrong direction. About five miles outside of town, I realized I was heading north instead of east. I turned around, and called it my morning stretch session. When I pulled onto the right road, I started making some good miles.

In Utica, a little town thirty miles east of Sebree, I stopped and had one of the best bbq sandwiches of my life. The price? $2.00. And I bought it in a country store that had been continueously operating for generations. The building was ancient. No indoor plumbing, except a sink.

I stopped at a fire station ten miles outside of Uitca to use the bathroom, where I met Chief Mark Luckett. He was having lunch, and we ended up talking for twenty minutes about my ride, and about his station. He warned me about the drivers, as any good fireman would do, and told me about how he built the original fire truck by hand with three other men in the 1970’s. He was standing in front of his new fire truck, which he got for free because of a grant. He wished me well in my travels, and I was off into the afternoon sun.

The end of the day brought me to Falls of Rough, a state park created after the damming of the Rough River created a giant reservoir. I didn’t end up having to pay the fee for the site, because no one was at the booth when I arrived in the evening, and no one was there when I left in the morning. I slept hard.

The next morning, I got a very late start. I peeked outside my tent, but couldn’t see a thing through the thick, gray fog. It was too heavy to ride, so I slept long.

After eating breakfast at a greasy spoon not five hundred yards up the road, I got on my way. An hour into my ride, I met Leo Fraser, a fellow cyclist riding a silver Nishiki, pulling a trailer. He is headed West, to Portland, Oregon. And he is late. But he didn’t seem deterred. He told me of his travels, and how it’d taken him a month to go 900 miles. His first bike had totally broken down, and this was his second. A kind bike shop owner had sold it to him. The bike had already seen the TransAm trail once before, he said, and now it would see it again.

I warned him he was late, as almost everyone else probably has. He said he would go South, or hitch a ride over the Rockies. I hope he does okay. It can get aweful cold in the mountains in August. I wished him all the best.

Just outside of Sonora, Kentucky, I stumbled into fresh bell peppers, a huge loaf of homemade bread, and wild blackberry jam. My first hint was a sign: “Fresh Vegetables” outside a down to earth farm. I’d just waved to a man in a collared shirt plowing his field with horses. I was curious, to say the least, and hungry. Of course, I’m always hungry.

I pulled into the farm house yard, and parked the bike. I heard someone behind me and turned around to see a woman in a bonnet and full length skirt. Her little daughter, who couldn’t have been more than four, wore the same clothes, in the same style. My guess is the clothes were homemade, so I knew the veggies would be homegrown. My best guess is that a congregation of Menonites call this part of Central Kentucky home.

She took me to the porch, where piles of green beans, peppers, onions and potatoes greeted my feasting eyes. I took a huge pile of beans and three peppers. I’d never bought green beans before, and I thought I could eat them raw. My mistake. I discovered later that to make them edible, they have to be boiled for two hours. Not an option. So I gave them away. The peppers were delicious, covered in peanut butter and honey.

I asked where I could find some bread. She pointed to the house I’d just passed. I rode up the dirt drive and parked in front of the house. An old couple came out on the porch. The man introduced himself as Joe Yoeder. I asked about bread, and he called a young woman who was working in the yard. She went inside and got me a loaf the size of a watermelon. Then Joe said he had homemade perserves. Homegrown strawberry or wild blackberry. I chose my favorite.

My day made, I pushed on into Sonora, where I stopped to rest and get more groceries. From Sonora, I turned South toward Mammoth Cave National Park. I got turned around not five miles out of Sonora. I’d missed a turn and took a few back roads to get on route. Along the way, I passed three horse drawn carriages.

I didn’t make it to Mammoth Cave. I stumbled into a little slice of heaven, that held me up: Round Stone Native Seed. It’s the Seymore family farm. John took over from his father. For years, they grew tabacco and corn, just like every other farmer in Kentucky. Then, John’s father-in-law turned him onto a new market: harvesting native seed. The father-in-law was on the board of the Kentucky Nature Conservancy. They needed native seed for their work. The demand was there, the supply was nonexistant.

So John jumped at the chance to do something new.

“I spent five years just saving seed, and I didn’t make a dime. That was ten years ago. In the last three years, we’ve quadrupled in size. I’ve got thirteen men working for me, and business is growing.”

“And I feel good about what I’m doing. When you grow tabacco, you know in your heart you’re hurting people. Now, I know I’m doing good.”

The farm is tucked back into a little valley. They grow trees, grasses and flowers. They mill their own wood, but their main business is harvesting seed.

The place is ripe with life. Each turn of the head brings another vista, another grove of trees, another scratch of life. A red beetle marching across the porch, the hum of crickets, the darting flight of grey bats feeding as the sun sinks, and the sky grows heavy with black. The dog asleep on the porch.

The Seymores live at the top of a hill, overlooking the farm. I pedaled to the top, only to find an empty house. I turned around to leave, but luck was with me: an SUV pulled into the drive. A woman rolled her window down. I asked to camp in her yard. She sent me up to a flat patch of grass, further up the hill. A few minutes later, she came out with her two children to invite me to share dinner and take a shower. I was plowing through an apple, relishing the incredible scene: the sun was plowing into the trees on the far ridge, crickets were buzzing up a storm, and the colors all around me were green, orange and brown.

Before we got in the house, I introduced myself. “I’m Leslie Seymore, and this is Carlie and Carson. My husband’s name is John. He’ll be home in a few minutes, he’s just finishing up down the hill.”

When John got home, we sat down to grilled chicken, rice and pasta. The food disappeared quick. The counter clear, John asked, “Do you want to go see the grey bats?”

“The bats?”

“Yeah, we’ve got over a mile of cave here on the farm, and the grey bats come every late summer to have their babies and feed. They’re leaving now, to start eating.”

We hop in his truck, and we blast down the hill to the farm. John pulls off into the grass. He points up into the orange colored sky. “See the bats?”

I stick my head out the window. We park beneath a tree, and John climbs in the back. We sit on his pickup, watching bats stream out of the trees in wave after wave.

“We’ve got about 30,000 bats living here, and each one eats 3,000 insects a night.” For a bat smaller than my palm, that’s a feast.

The bats twist in the air, darting after bugs. They dive and soar, a few coming within feet of our heads. John doesn’t flintch, so I try nt to either. He trusts the bats to carve a path around him.

For a split moment, I cath the sharp outline of a bat, the curve of skin stretched over bone, then gone in a burst of wingbeats, out into the night.

“Lets go to the cave.” We hop back in the truck, and minutes later get out. He hands me a flashlight. “Keep it pointed to the ground, or off.” We walk into the trees, down into a little rift. Then a blast of cool air hits my face. The cave. We pause and watch the bats stream out. It’s hard to see them in the dim light. We move in, kneeling our heads. Thirty feet in, we pause and kneel.

“Listen, you can hear them.”

I can hear water making music with limestone. Then, faint, I hear the little blasts, the voices of bats, little shrieks that map the room. Bats flow in a stream around us. I turn back toward the entrance. Pale blue light shines into the black cave. We’re in the black. And it’s uttery gorgeous.

On the way back to the truck, he points to a little tree. “That’s my redwood. When we visited California, I got the seedling and planted it here.” Some of the needles were brown. The seedling was out of place, but struggling none the less for a chance at life.

We pushed onto the backroads. We toured the grass, windows down. “Smell the honey? It’s the grass.”

Pulling into one of his far fields, he asks, “Have you heard of switchgrass? We let the grass die, then we harvest and sell it to the power companies. They burn it instead of coal, and get carbon credits. It burns much cleaner, and we harvest every year.”

No mine. Less pollution. Locally grown. I like this recipe, and so does he.

“I want to show you the barn.”

“I don’t buy new machines. I buy old and used and rebuild them, fix them up. Then I know how they work. It’s better that way. The barn is filled with old machines, made to do the work of today. “They work just great. They’ve taken some new parts, but mostly these are the originals.

His is a factory of grass, wood and recycled steel. You can tell he loves it — it’s painted in the depth of thought put into every detail. He has machines to sort seed, to cut out the weeds, and clean the seeds. At the end, a river of soft, milled seed is sorted by weight to determine quality.

Then there is the grass gone wild, and left wild in front of his parent’s house. “Makes a great place for deer to bed in.”

“My dad bought this land for the wildlife, to be close to the deer, rabbits and bats.”

“You should be proud,” I said.

“No, I’m just thankful. The Lord put the grass there, I’m just the man who harvests.”

. . .

I slept on the porch. I wanted to hear the crickets, and the bats. I slept well. In the morning, I caught John before he left for work. Then Leslie followed soon after, with the kids in tow. Off to school. I was last to leave. I gave the dog an ear rub and was off, flying down the hill, then climbing, slowly, up the next.

Later that morning, I found Mammoth Cave. I took the two hour historical tour, which was the longest one I could find. It was funny listening to the Park Rangers repeat, again and again, that “This is a hike, not a stroll, not a walk but a hike! We do not want to carry you out of the cave! If something happens, that’s the only way out! So mind your feet.”

My tour was big, to say the least: over a hundred people, and nearly a third of them were from India. All of them were women, too, and they giggled up a storm as we desecended the stairs.

The caves are mind blowing. Just utterly mind blowing. The land around the entrance doesn’t look out of the ordinary. Vibrant, lush green. Trees. Sunlight. Then, the land sinks. Stairs lead into the earth, into the black.

The first few miles of caves were used in the War of 1812 to mine for a critical ingriedient in gunpowder. Slaves brought the cave dirt to these giant boxes, where they ran water through the boxes. Then they pumped the water out of the cave, where they boiled it off to collect the crystals left behind. The boxes and wooden pipes are still in the caves.

Later, the caves were used for tourism. Graffiti is everywhere during the first few miles. People have scrawled their names on the rocks, using knives and smoke from lamps.

Fat Man’s Misery was the experience of a lifetime. It’s the tightest spot in the tour. I had to bend down and squeeze through a tiny little tunnel in the rock, that stretched out for a good fifty yards. And I had to be quick about it, because a crowd of people was behind me, wanting to get through.

Some of the pits in the cave are too deep to see to the bottom. Grate bridges span the pits. Looking down is sure to spin your stomach.

It’s cold in the caves. I liked it, because the humidity was low and the cool air reminded me of home. It was a blessing in comparison to the heavy heat topside. I didn’t want to leave the cave. I wanted to keep poking around on my own, with a lantern. My mind drifted to Bilbo Baggins and Gollum.

I spent the night in Munfordville, at a Motel 8. I hadn’t connected with anyone, the light was dying and I was desperate for a shower. I caved and paid. And it was good I did, because I found out that Peace Corps needed some more paperwork. So I spent the next morning entertaining the folks at the Health Clinic. They don’t see many cyclists, and I think they liked the change of pace.

I didn’t make it too far after I got done cycling. I had fajitas at this delicious Mexican place and made it up to Hodgenville. On the way I met two cyclists, Kevin and Mike, doing a short sprint to Sebree, where they were going to have a weekend men’s group from their Baptist Church.

Hodgenville loves Abe Lincoln. They have a statue in their town squircle, which is both the town square, and the town roundabout. I had a chocolate pie and sweet tea at Honest Abe’s Diner. Then I made it to the city park, where I found a hot game of softball. The score: 2 to 20. And it only got worse from there. It was a church league. I talked it up with the people sitting around, and ended up meeting Devon Norton.

Devon claims to have been one of the best shortstops to have ever walked the halls of Hodgenville High School. He said he hit 26 homeruns in one game, which I was a bit skeptical of. He blew his chances of playing college ball when he got in a fight and ended up in jail for two months. Now he works making railroad pins. But he dreams of playing for the Texas Rangers, and getting on a team is his start. Either way, he’s aching to play. Whether it’s in a Church League or the Majors. I was aching to play too, just talking to him.

I slept like a rock next to the baseball fields. In the morning, I hit a grocery store for breakfast and then made miles. It turned into Abraham Lincoln Day. I visited his Birthplace, his childhood home and the Lincoln Homestead. I ended the day in Harrodsburg, at the Kentucky Fudge Company. They run a little restaurant out of the town’s original drug store. They’ve polished up all the original wood, and have medical bottles from the old days in the cases. And they make fruit smoothies. The owner was behind the big wood counter, and he connected me up with a minister in town who let me snooze in his church yard.

The next morning, I climbed out of my tent into a free breakfast at the Church. A few guys were having a Saturday morning fellowship breakfast. They’d finished by the time I got up, but one of the guys invited me to have the leftovers. He made me a huge waffle and I plowed through the rest of their sausage.

I booked it out of town after breakfast, and made it down to Danville, where I had a date with Danville Bike and Footwear. Ernst, the owner, has done the Tans Am on a silver Nishiki, which he sold to Leo Fraser, the cyclist I’d met at Falls of Rough. He showed me Leo’s original bike, which was an old, well loved and slightly abused 10 speed. I was surprised he’d made it over the Appalachians on the thing. When I saw the old leather saddle he’d used, I busted up laughing. It was so worn in, it looked fit for the garbage. I wheeled out my bike with tightened brakes, ready for the Appalachians. On my way, I met Taka, and his mother Masumi. We went across the street to check out two farmer’s stands. I had my first fried apple pie, which was so delicious I bought a second one.

Then we went to have lunch at a greasy spoon down the street. We ended up talking until 4 pm, about building community and world peace, traveling, cycling, the US and Japan. Taka has lived in the US for several stints, the first when he was in high school, the second when he came to college in the US, and he is currently living in Danville for a Japanese manufacturing company. He’s 27, and seems hungry for adventure and community. He’s had a hard time finding both in Kentucky. His family has hosted exchange students for years and years, and his mother volunteers with an student exchange nonprofit, connecting students with host families. I told them I want to come live in Japan someday, and really learn the language. I’m serious about it. I’m not happy that I put three years of my life into learning Japanese, only to have it leak out my ears. I’ve never been to Japan, and I’ve always been curious. I want to see Mt. Fuji, and meditate in a mountain monestary. Now I’ve got friends in Japan. The dream is one step closer to realization.

I got on the bike at 4 pm and booked it for Berea. On the way, I missed a turn. I ended up tacking on an extra 8 miles worth of pedaling, which was just fine. I ended up entertaining some motorbikers at a gas station, and searching for sunscreen at a Wal-Mart supercenter. They didn’t have any. I stumped Wal-Mart, which put a smile on my face. Thankfully, Rite-Aid was next door.

I pulled through the town of Paint Lick, which in a car is just a bump in the road, but on a bike is something to enjoy. A short string of old buildings, that look their age but look well loved. How can a town end up with the name Paint Lick? There must be a good story, about a kid drinking a bucket of paint, mistaking it for tomato juice, or something loony like that. Over the next few days, I would pass through several towns called Lick: Red Lick, and Elk Lick. People in Kentucky must have curious tongues. Lets end that stream of thought right there!

I got to Berea around 8 pm. Berea is an incredible place. If you ever get the chance, and find yourself in Kentucky, Berea is a destination location. Here’s why: Berea College. It is a no tuition college that’s been running since the 1850’s. They allowed Black students to join the college in the 1850’s, just a few years before the onslaught of the Civil War. With Jim Crow, the college was forced to exclude Blacks and many other people, until the law was changed in the 1950’s. Put simply, Berea was ahead of its time, and it remains at the cusp of educational change. They charge no tuition. 90% of their students come from the Mountain region of Kentucky, which has a long history of poverty. The other 10% come from other countries around the world. The college stresses traditional crafts, keeping the cultural legacy of Kentucky alive. If Berea is anything, it is a thriving product of the folk culture of the Appalachians. Imagine a craft, and it’s on display: everything from folk musical instruments to printing to sewing and fabric making and traditional cooking. Berea is a mindblowing place. I’ll have to come back and spent a few months here to get a taste of the place, and deepen my understanding of the magic of these mountains. Yes, there is poverty. But there is so much more to Eastern Kentucky than the struggles these people endure. They are proud. And they have much to be proud of.

I wandered into the Main Street Cafe. It was dark, and the cafe was bright, filled with people, and a man was singing. I’d found home for an hour, and a delicious sandwich with garden tomatoes, mushrooms and mozzarella. I was reminded of Bellingham, and I felt both homesick and happy to find this charm growing on the other side of the country. I also had a citrus cream brownie, which blew me away.

After a while, the cafe started closing up. I ordered a cup of tea, and the owner came over to chat. He introduced himself as Sune, and his accent clued me in. He’s not a Kentucky native.

“Where are you going to be staying tonight?” He asked.

“Well, I was hoping you could connect the dots for me.” I said.

“I would invite you to come home with me, but my grandson is staying with us. I can offer you a place to sleep in a movie theatre I own. I’m remodeling it, but it’s warm, dry and there’s a bathroom you can use.”

So, I spent the night in an old movie theater, that had been converted into a doctor’s office and was being transformed into an art gallery. I poked around, because I couldn’t not poke around an old empty movie theatre. It was both beautiful and slightly creepy. I thought of this old show I watched as a kid called Are You Afraid of the Dark?. One episode, called “The Tale of the Midnight Madness,” was about an failing movie theater. The owner plays a vampire movie to save the business, which draws a huge crowd. But then the vampire comes to life.

That night, I had a dream: I was sitting in an orchestra. I wasn’t playing, just watching. All my friends were there: Rose, Kelsi, Freddy, Mitchell, Andrew and all the people from spring block. Mitchell, Andrew and Freddy were all trying to play along. Mitchell had a trombone. Andrew a trumpet. Freddy was mashing away on drums. But Mitchell couldn’t keep from laughing. It spilled out of him, and then some of the people next to him started giggling. And Andrew had to stop. They couldn’t play worth a damn, but all the while the orchestra kept beating out this soaring music. The three of them all stood up, and set their instruments down. We stood around and talked. They were doing some sort of magazine on the band. Suddenly, a cake appeared. The cake was made out of cans, cut into ribbons. Inside each was a huge candle, burning a long flame. The music built up and up, roaring into a finale. Mitchell blew out the candles. And I woke.

The next morning, I rode out to Sune’s house. “Come out and have breakfast in the morning, and you can do your writing.”

I arrived aroudn 8:30 and sat down to write, and drink tea. I met Sune’s wife Barbara, their son Scottie and their grandson Lucas. They made a delicious french toast breakfast, and Sune offered to make some eggs for me too. I couldn’t refuse, and was glad I didn’t. He brought out this incredible, thick bread full of nuts and hearty grains.

“That’ll stick with you,” said Barbara. It did, but I burned it right quick that afternoon.

I didn’t finish my post, and all of the libraries were closed in observance of Sunday. So, I hopped on the bike around noon and started pedaling up into the Appalachians.

These are real mountains. They are small, but damn steep. At times, pedaling up feels like climbing a staircase. I didn’t hit the mountains until the late afternoon, because I was delayed in Red Lick.

Red Lick is a bump in the road, even for a cyclist. It’s only a collection of homes, and a few churchs. Nature was calling, so I pulled into the first church I saw. It was Sunday, so I knew someone would be around. And I was right: the pastor, Charles Collier.

Some people I hit it off with. Charles was one of them, and man does he have a curious story. Charles is in his late thirties. He has a wife he’s known since the second grade, and three brilliant children. For years, he smoked pot. He describes himself as a former adict. Then he found meth, and pain pills. His life spiraled out of control, until a make-or-break moment when he tried to commit suicide by overdosing. He didn’t want his children to turn out like him, and he figured the best way was to end his life. He woke up half an hour before his kids got home on the bus. Then he found God, and his calling as a pastor. Charles is very humble, owing to his experience, and the reality of his family: his wife is the breadwinner.

We talked until 4 pm about spirituality, and he was incredibly open to what I had to say. I was glad for it. He didn’t judge me, or condem. He said, “I hate throwing bricks in a glass house. We need to be open minded, accepting, and loving of one another.” Wow! For someone of a completely different religious background, Charles was talking my language. Be loving, honest, kind, generous and forgiving. It was a wonderful, uplifting conversation. “I don’t preach hellfire. You don’t win people with talk of the devil. You win them talking about love.” He didn’t save my soul. He did convince me that we are all, fundamentally, looking for the same thing. That we are all struggling to live as best we can.

The sun was starting to fade, and I wanted to make it to Boonville before dark. So I bid him farewell.

Then I took another wrong turn. I didn’t know it, until I got to the top of the mountain. Instead of a left, I took a right, and I found myself at 6 pm at Ada’s Mountain Market, at the summit of the steepest mountain I’ve ever climbed. It’s gorgeous: vibrant, green and so damn alive. Everything’s breathing. There I met James and Sherry Woolery. They just opened the market three months ago, and offered to let me camp in the yard. They shared their dinner with me, and opened their home, letting me shower in their bathroom and enjoy the cool air of their sharply slating yard. I did find a flat patch of ground to pitch my tent, but the slope, like every slope in Appalachia, is steep, or crazy steep.

I had my first Ale-Eight-1, which is Kentucky’s muck water. Jerry Brown, a friend of the Woolery’s, bought it for me. I learned once again the strength of American generousity and kindness. You only find Ale-Eight-1 in Kentucky. It’s bottled in glass, and delicious after a long climb. I met the rest of the Woolery family: their son Joseph, his wife Kimberly, and their granddaughter Rachel, who is cute as can be. I even got to play hide-and-seek with her, before she had to go to bed.

In the morning, I booked it down the mountain I’d climbed the night before. The morning had been foggy, but by the time I hit the bottomland, the sun was high and the fog was clearing. I had maybe ten cars pass me the whole day. I passed through one tiny town after another, just a few houses and a church. I stopped for lunch at a little church on a hill, near a creek trickling over a bedrock of slate. The trees outnumber the people in this part of Kentucky by at least a thousand to one. And I like it.

When I got to Boonville, it was well into the afternoon. I sat down at the Library at 2 pm, and wrote until they closed at 5 pm. I had a lousy dinner at a dive of a diner, which made me queezy afterward. Then I went to the Presbyterian Church, which has a free camping area for cyclists, a shower and a little outhouse. The shower was cold and wonderful.

I talked to Jess on the phone. It’d been way too long. I need to do better about keeping in tune with people. I felt a wee bit lonely, in the site by myself. I wanted to be with people. I was aching to see people I love. So, if we haven’t talked in a w hile, lets make a point of it.

I’m at the Boonville Library finishing this up. I have around 800 miles left to push, and a few mountains to climb. I’m planning to log 70 some miles today. Which means I’d best get going.

Looks like you made it all the way to the bottom. I love you for it! I really do. You’re the reason I write. You.

Yesterday I went for a walk along the beach at Hawks Nest. When I reached the end of the walk I arrived at the beginning of the Yacaaba Walking Track in Myall Lakes National Park. I saw the sign and thought – ‘well, I might as well do it – I’m here now.’ So I did.

The walk to the top is a 1.5 km walk, with some fairly steep sections – though these are fairly small. The views along the way and at the top make the small amount of effort to get to the top well worthwhile. From The clubhouse at Hawks Nest’s Ocean Beach to the top of Yacaaba and back took me about 2.5 hours, however, I did the entire walk without shoes. I’d recommend shoes for the Yacaaba Headland part of the walk.

For more photos visit:

Myall Lakes National Park – Yacaaba Walking Track

At the weekend I went to Step in Hampshire to walk through the same countryside which inspired one of Britain’s greatest poets, Edward Thomas. Edward Thomas is regarded as one of the great first world war poets but in all honesty 90% of his work if not more was created well before he left for the war and centers around the beautiful countryside’s he lived in around England. One being Steep, Steep was also briefly home to Robert Frost another great poet and dear friend of Edward Thomas.

I can’t urge you enough to read up about him and his work (at the bottom I will leave several links for you to do so). He inspires my work in a million different ways. His poetry inspires me to be more creative and appreciate England and use it where ever I can. His letters to his wife and a friends from the war inspire me to be a better a person, a more courageous human being, and above all show an honesty in my work. In total he is my idol, my John Lennon, my Lenord Cohen, my Orson Welles.

Over the next few weeks I will write up my weekend trip in several parts showing photos and taking you through the exact route of my first of many pilgrimages to Edward Thomas.

Edward Thomas Wikipedia – Wikipedia page giving good information on the great poet Edward Thomas.

Edward Thomas Fellowship – The official fellowship for Edward Thomas who have been inspirational to the memorials dedicated to him around England.

Text of Edward Thomas poems – Most of Edward Thomas’s poems in text. A must read.