Time to Start Living

So I wake up feeling good, eat some pancakes, read a book and decide to leave when I feel like it. It’s a nice realization that I’m actually on my own journey and get to do as I please (hint: listen to your body). The roads are busier than usual and I blame that on it being a Friday. Still, I escape from towns and begin rolling through hills. The views are getting nicer.

The weather is beyond perfect. I couldn’t have planned it better. A week ago, this entire region was in the 90s. So far, the warmest I’ve seen is 63. With this colder weather comes a smattering of rain and a gentle breeze at my back as all of this moisture moves North. By most counts, I’m a fool for setting off in this direction as I’d typically be dealing with the prevailing Northerly. Fortune really must be on my side.

I find some lovely valleys and a bit of gravel. I meet birdsong and dogs with gnashing teeth. I suppose we’ll call that balance. The hills are gentle, so not much of a true test, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I’ll be losing some gear before I hit Oregon.

In anticipation of the mountains and hard work ahead, I book myself onto a farm just East of Shasta City. The WWOOFing gig in Chico was amazing. A lovely little permaculture garden full of fruits, veg, flowers, bees, and chickens. The work was concise, simple, and there was plenty of food. It was a genuine pleasure to help out. I’ve learned now that I should not expect a similar experience at each WWOOFing roadhouse.

I get to the new farm at 2:20 PM and am given the good news that we won’t not be working today. The drizzle outside is enough to deter this fair-weather farmer. The welcoming tour is brief and consists of him walking up the hill toward a stand-alone, wooden structure; he opens the door and points out that it is bare bones but comes with a stove and some pots and pans.

There are some beans and rice on the shelf. Everything is covered in dust or cobwebs and the fridge is full of mold. The bed is mainly a padded cushion with a holey sheet wrapped around it and the platform it rests on is about a foot too short for me. There’s a porta-potty and an outdoor shower (which does actually have hot water).

Hospitality seems foreign and I’m not sure what’s on the job list for tomorrow other than weeding. I’m not here to complain though, I’m just here for the free roof. It’s also a nice wake-up call. I am ill-prepared for this kind of setup. I have some freeze-dried food in the panniers but those are supposed to be for offgrid camping and emergencies.

My Apple watch tells me I’ve burned over 2,000 calories on my bike ride and my tummy tells me it’s dinner time. The generous shelf of rice and beans does not call my name very loudly. It’s 4:00 PM and there’s plenty of daylight, even though the light rain persists. Despite a bit of disdain, I throw on some pants and my nifty raincoat, remove the panniers from the bike, and set off down the hill towards town.

I find cell service, a lovely grocery store, and time my ride in between the big, dark clouds. Once back in my shack, I cook up some rice, bell peppers, green beans, and eggs and stir in some spinach. Still not quite satisfied, I wolf down a breakfast pastry and Snickers bar for good measure.

It wasn’t the plan to carry this much food but I won’t be riding for a few days and it actually feels better. When I ride out of here, I’ll be hitting mountains. It’s going to be nice to know I’ve got a kitchen in my backpack. Realistically, the dozen eggs and four-pack of sausage I bought won’t make it through the weekend, but I need a reminder that I can make food just as well as anyone.

Years ago, cooking was a huge part of my life. At some point, I lost it. Perhaps it was getting paid more and working more and therefore losing time. I haven’t quite figured it out. But one thing I know: a key reason I’m on this trip is to break old habits and reestablish my relationship to the food that I eat. Part of that is farming, prepping, seeding, cleaning, chopping, shopping, and opting to take some more time to live good.

So here I am. Alone in the woods with a grumpy, old, dirty man. And yet I’m stoked. The creek rustles below the window. An army of frogs reverberates through the trees. Light raindrops tap dance on the roof. I’ve stretched out my tarp on the floor, set up my air mattress and sleeping bag, and feel like the king of a very small world. I may be the only one in the kingdom but the census reports look good. All citizens are warm, fed, blessed and ready for rest.