Dear Friends and Readers,

Thank you so much for following and reading these tales of adventure, poems, essays and reflections.
I have decided that it is time to have my own website onto which I can put more of my writing.
But, fear not, the adventure around the world continues, as does my writing, and both will have special places on my new website.
I hope you will continue to follow me, read and share my work, and provide me with that invaluable feedback which has been so helpful.
This is my last post on this blog, I hope to see you on my new site: www.alexandertolchinsky.com

-Alexander

The Bumps and Hunger

The blank page is my enemy!
She stares at me with her blinding reflection, and mocks my fingers as the tremble above the keys.
Some days are easier than others, some days I question the wisdom of my decision to write, on others I question the point of living when failure seems inevitable.
But this too shall pass.
More often it is just a wading through the muck of memory and imagination, of what I want to say and how I want to say it. It is tedious, and often scary.
I am trying to rid myself of the habit of comparing my writing to the complete works of masters past. I must remember that at some point Cannery Row was too a blank page.


What is coming along, however, is the translation of my grandmother's diary.
Though coming along is not the most accurate description.
I don't want to say that I'm re-living what she went through, no, but, there has not yet been a day when I was not made incredibly hungry and had to stop to eat while trying to translate. I have no logical fear of bombs or sirens, but, when I hear an ambulance or fire truck...

I see her words, fading on yellowed crumpling paper, smeared with tears, and letters that were mangled by a shacking hand. I see her as she weaves between the realities of her mind and those of the world outside. She speaks of longing and concern, she speaks of where she goes and what she eats, and as I read the lines I can hear the explosions, I can feel the room shacking, I can see the dead and trails of blood on the frozen roads. I am only at the end of November, 1941, while there are still meager rations. With the coming December the numbers of dead from artillery will grow, those frozen to death will grow, those dead from bombs will grow, those murdered for their ration cards will grow, those dead of hunger will grow... into the hundred thousands.

If it is difficult now, I am not sure how the next few months of translation will go. But, I am convinced more and more every day of the necessity for this translation and for it's publication. The fact that she survived, the fact that anyone survived when more than a million perished is beyond me. How the hundreds of thousands shells, bombs, rockets and bullets did not wipe out every living thing... how temperatures of 40 below zero did not freeze the rest to death... how living on less than a slice of bread (most of which was tree bark and saw dust) for days on end did not take the rest... is beyond me - it is beyond any of us.
And that is what I want to change.

I fear of what we may become. Though keeping the world from war, particularly a world war, is the only thing that makes sense, the absence of a mutual struggle against a shared overwhelming difficulty breeds a people unaware of the height of human potential and compassion and heroism.

I want my grandmother's story to live, yes, but, I also want what she and everyone who stood beside her in May of 1945 felt and knew to live on and help us know ourselves.

Publication!

So much of what I have posted has been from the road, that I have duly neglected the other side of this adventure: writing.
On 11-11-11 I got published for the very first time in a newspaper, and will be paid for said publication.
It is a small sign, but one none the less, of validation.
Though I am still mostly gripped with fear at the thought of submitting my work anywhere at all, this has gone far in lessening that fear.
Their request for a subsequent article, and the praise from a number of authors, has done even more.
Below is the piece as it was printed in the American Jewish World.

The Frumkisses of Toronto

The Frumkiss Family Business, by Michael Wex, Random House, 384 pages, paperback, $17.95.

Reviewed by ALEXANDER TOLCHINSKY

Yiddish, a language spoken by fewer and fewer people, in which almost no books or plays are written anymore, may seem like a relic from the last century.

It is hard to find relevance in a language that cannot be used for most conversations about the modern world. And yet, the magic of Yiddish lies in the very fact that it can be used to describe and relate the finest and most subtle details of the human experience.

(Michael Wex to speak at Twin Cities Jewish Book Fair)

An odd blend of German, Hebrew and Slavic, it captures the pathos of the Jews living all over Europe and America. Its words and phrases can often express grief and joy, pain and triumph, love and sarcasm in single words. Its turns of phrase are comical and yet laden with the sorrow of those oppressed.

In Yiddish you can tell a story or put on a play that embodies satire, scorn and hate — with scenes and dialogue that cut to the very bone of those who tormented the Jews, and yet to them (even if they could understand the language) it would seem like any other everyday performance.

Such is the glory of Yiddish nuance! That comedy could always be present, no matter the circumstances, speaks of the incredible ability of the Jews to survive, and not only survive but retain their traditions all the while.

Michael Wex has managed to continue the revival of this beautiful tradition in The Frumkiss Family Business. Though in his book there are only Yiddish words and phrases, with occasional sentences in Yiddish, he still captures the language’s ability to thinly veil mockery, use allegory, and make remarks that will leave you laughing and crying and all together verklempt.

Wex does a wonderful job of putting into English some of Yiddish’s finer intonations, making it accessible to all readers regardless of graduation status from Hebrew day school. His language is direct and expressive; it takes the form of the speaker’s meaning without the filter that would dilute its impact. This makes for an honest telling of the depths that human baseness, perseverance, humor and reason can take.

Wex treats the characters with a truthful and unbiased light — illuminating their strengths along with their weaknesses; he makes us think twice about each one, even after we think we understand them. There are heroes and villains, but he gives us reason to love and hate each one, so that reading the story becomes a process of evaluation of our own beliefs and predispositions.

The book takes us over the course of almost 100 years as we discover Faktor, the quintessential yidishlech mentsh, and his progeny. Each of the characters is both typical and abnormal, loveable and detestable, relatable and yet with at least one part of each of their personalities at some extreme.

Faktor, or Der Mazik, embodies Yiddish wit and humor, as he lives through the time of pogroms, the Yiddish Golden Age, Hitler and immigration. Something that so many of our grandparents and parents went through — we feel we know him as we see our forbears in him. However, he is born wealthy and manages to safeguard that wealth during the purges and thefts of the Nazis.

He works as a journalist, a writer and playwright in the Yiddish theater. But he lives a bohemian life and has countless affairs until he finds love. His idea of a good time is playing practical jokes on people and ridiculing those around him, and yet he is a caring father and good husband. He is outrageous, but that part of him is somehow tempered and focused by his second wife, Chana.

She too is wealthy, but she created her wealth by her ingenuity and perseverance. She represents the greater Jewish woman in her ability to take dust and turn it into sculpture, and to be patient when facing powerful forces that would destroy her family, livelihood and stability.

Wex goes a step further with Faktor and Chana’s offspring and grandchildren: it seems each receives a blessing and a curse. They are brilliant but disturbed, beautiful but malicious, kind but unlucky. It’s almost as if they represent the duality of the Jewish existence (staying true to tradition and being part of the larger social context), and the hidden meaning behind so many Yiddish stories.

Their ultimate battle comes when they face the very meaning of being Jewish. This is something very familiar to us, but again Wex presents the cause of their struggle on an almost absurd level. He sculpts the issue with the details and magnitude of Michelangelo’s David: a human like each of us, and yet so much more — that is the magic of The Frumkiss Family Business.

***

As part of the closing celebration of the 2011 Twin Cities Jewish Book Fair, on Saturday, Nov. 19, Michael Wex will talk about The Frumkiss Family Business at the St. Paul JCC.

(American Jewish World, 11.11.11)

WE are the Truth of the Nation

Second biggest country in the world: done and done!


The road offers many gifts. One of the greatest is the house cleaning it performs on your grey mass. We are so often blinded by the dust we raise as we teem in the midst of modern society. Always in a hurry and never observant of the realities that surround us and the messages those realities send by which we are effected but of which we are unaware.
The following couple of posts will include reflections that could only come after a person has removed themselves from the havoc for a prolonged period, and then re-entered with fresh eyes and a sensitive awareness to what is antithetical to our greater nature.

This is a poem about the general state:


WE are the Truth of the Nation

I am not a slave to your false sensibility,
I will not work for a sense of false security.
I am not sensitive to your solutions,
I seek truth only in my sensations.

You give me false hope with your society,
You want me to believe in my own notoriety.
You try to make me believe in your sensationalism,
You wish I could forget the right of my naturism.

I want to see the outcome of my forced sacrifice,
You wish you could hide your own lack of reliability.
I want to see for what you wish I would die,
You would rather I not, and blind me with your lie.

You want my vote and support and obedience,
I cannot give to you when I see your reality.
You make it so murky and light it on fire,
I am left to rebel, to deny you is my dearest desire.

We scream of the papers that give us our rights,
We yell for a time that exists in our dreams on warm nights.
We long for what never existed yet was spread as the truth,
We conquer our perception and logic and claim it’s good for the youth.

There is no us in your eyes that is whole,
There can be only right, that you’ll protect with your might,
There will come a day though when your falsehood will unfurl,
There can only be hope when your might will be revealed as smoke.

We are, we are, we stand we scream,
We are not only the youth, we are more than a dream.
We are the now and tomorrow and then,
We do not even know with what power we teem.

I believe that our ignorance does have an end,
I believe that the future is not beyond mend.
I believe that respect is the seed of it all,
I believe that the truth, no matter how hard, will save us from the deadly final fall.

Poems From the Road

THE CHASE – (dedicated to my students)
--------------------------------------
From coast to coast
The sun I chase,
O’er peaks and valleys,
Blinded by my haste.

From Glacial ruins,
To fields of golden grain,
Past sea-like lakes,
Through thunder, wind and rain.

I see my end, as it’s contained
Within the rise and fall of our sky’s flame.

I smell the firs, the fruit and sea,
And find my end in what will never be.




LYING STILL
--------------
Death becomes me
Lying still,
Devoid of thought,
With nothing left to feel.

A new release
Found on my brow,
Carefree in nothing --
No pain to handle now.

What sorrow brought
In day to day,
Is now exhaled
And fades away.

No lust to fan
The flames of loins,
There is no fear
In where I’m going.

To sacrifice the draw of breath,
To choose, and love, and be loved back,
Comes with rewards beyond the thrill,
No hurt to heal – when lying deathly still.


OUR ROAD – (dedicated to Dionne Hartunian and Jay Lazerwitz)
-----------------------------------------------------------
The road forgives
Our use and wear,
She grips us tight
When death we dare.

She listens closely
To our wail,
She bares with patience
as we emerge from city’s laiR

When we are lost
She helps us find the way,
She may be tough
But with her we will stay.

Though sometimes barely there,
And often filled with ruts,
We seek her still,
And take the wisdom of her bumps.

When on her
The going may be slow,
But when she’s gone
There’s no where left for us to go.

And if we sit
Too long in place,
We lose our selves
And are like holes in time and space

So always forward we will ride,
And throw the throttle back a nigh.
And let the wind make clear our head,
And let the road our suff’ring mend.

Kindness

The lake like sea, the sky like mountain, the forest like wave, the road like life.


The rain fell steady and the fog horns on and around Deer Island kept me awake all night. For a couple of hours in the morning it stopped, allowing me to pack. I raced around the misty isle, losing my bike cover in the process, trying to catch the ferry to mainland New Brunswick.
Just like the one coming to Deer Is. this one had to come back for me. They actually reversed engines and re-docked so that I could get on and not have to wait another hour sitting in the rain.
I didn’t mind that I couldn’t see anything beyond 5 ft. out, I was just so happy that they came back for me.
The rain picked up again after we arrived on land and stayed with me for the next 8 hours – soaking and chilling me to the bone. I had not yet done 1000 miles and was on the road for less than a week. Packing was still a process of discovery, as was the best way to stay dry and warm (something I would master by simply not riding in the rain, but only after nearly dying because of it).
I was still a few hours out of Montréal, somewhere between the White Mountains and Northern Woods in New Hampshire, when I simply had to get off the bike. It was hard to see anything, I was freezing, the road was curvy and slick, and I was wet. This was not a warm summer rain wet. This was a suck the heat straight from your heart wet. So I pulled into a gas station across from which was a diner, and made my way, if not to warmth, than at least to food and a precipitation free environment. It was already the middle of the day so I couldn’t afford to stay too long, lest I would have to ride to Montreal in the dark.
I left the steed at the gas station and walked across “Main St.” to the diner.
To complement the weather perfectly, I was “greeted” by a waitress who stole no less warmth from the room than the rain from my bones. When you need some patience and understanding most, it seems life throws in your path a gauntlet of rudeness and curt backtalk to test the little faith you have left in life. So I sat there, miserable, eating my mediocre burger and drinking my mediocre coffee, and feeling no less mediocre myself. And then a fine example of conversations I would have across the continent began with a jolly faced, goateed young man who sat down a couple of stools down.

“Where ya from?”
It is usually pretty obvious that I am not from wherever I happen to be.
“Well”, I said, “I started in New York. But since I no longer have a home or job there, I’m not sure I will return”.
“Ha, ha!”
He had a most peculiar laugh, a “ha, ha” with an emphatic stress on the second “ha”, such that it rang throughout the diner.
“Where ya headed?”, a couple of older guys joined in, Harley riders on days better than this.
“Tonight, I’m just trying to make it to Montreal”.

In a moment when New Englanders drop their typically laconic façade, one is able to see a hospitable wholesomeness that has been passed down to them over the course of 400 years. Though steeds of flesh have been replaced by those of steel, and stockings with jeans, for a moment I could tell no difference between the vision of our founder’s New England and the one in which I now found myself. It helps that whitewashed colonial houses are still the predominant structures lining the tiny Main streets and mountain roads of the great nor’easter land.
Though still cold, I was beginning to warm up as we continued chatting about the curse of the rain and the joy of riding – I even forgot about the waitress and the shivers she helped the cold send down my spine.

“What did you do before you left?”
“I was a teacher… English.”
“Oh, I used to love my English teacher!”
Another phrase I would hear so often on this trip. It’s funny because I hated my high school English teachers.
“Yeah, I love my kids too. I was very lucky. We had such a good relationship that discipline didn’t really get in the way of our discussions and discoveries – not something that can often be said about an NYC classroom… I miss them very much…”

In turn we started talking about books and the joy of holding one and smelling it and being able to turn the pages. Mark, the young man, mentioned that he had found a history book from the 1870’s, and noticing my obvious and immediate excitement invited me over to take a look. I was eager to make it to Montréal, but dreading continuing to ride in the rain, so I accepted his offer. We finished our burgers and drove a mile down the road to a beautiful estate.
The farm was built many generations ago and the family who owned it have been a permanent fixture in the county ever since. It consisted of an ancient barn that held treasures from centuries past; a tea house; a cottage that was used as a billiard room for the gentlemen; the beautiful colonial mansion; and 400 acres of woods, streams, farms and lawns.
Mark was living in the cottage, which had no shower or bath, as part of his agreement with the late owners in which his lodging was payment for his keeping the grounds. The two sisters who were the last of the family line had both recently died and the property sold to a neighboring lawyer who owned a herd of cattle. Mark was allowed to stay in the cottage as a sort of superintendent for the time being.
We entered the cottage and turned on the heat. I sat, still wearing my rain gear and sweaters, in an ancient rocking chair holding in my hand a red, leather bound, history book that still referred to natives as savages and blacks as Negroes.
There was little more than two beds, two chairs, two side tables, and a bathroom; but Mark managed to make me feel so at home, so at ease, that even without the necessary hot shower (the only true restorative from damp cold) I began to feel truly warm. Still, Mark saw that I was cold and wet and dreading getting back on the road, so he offered for me to stay the night. He had a spare bed and said he would appreciate the company – he almost made it seem as though I would be doing him a kindness by staying!
That is true kindness and altruism: making the recipient feel not as though they are a burden and should be humbled by the granted favors, rather as a fellow Man being treated as one should.
I have an easy time giving and take pleasure in doing so, but being on the receiving end has always been difficult for me. Never the less, I decided to trade the cold and wet of the road, for Marks pleasant company and the warmth of his cottage.
I have rarely been so comfortable or slept as soundly as I did that night.

Sickness and Cure

The Icefields Highway, Jasper National Park - Northern Canadian Rockies

SICKNESS:

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire his death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

- Sonnet 147, by William Shakespeare


CURE:

45mph speed limit – check.
60mph actual riding speed – check.

Back and abs tight, slight forward lean, arms loose, hands tight, big breath in, slow exhale… go!

Road curving right, position on far left of lane, the road falling away 1000 ft off the sheer face of the cliff, weight on left foot, leaning right into the turn, breath, throttle back – 65mph.

Leaning closer to the ground, right hand pushing the bar away, ass lifting off, adrenaline spiking, breath, neck tight, head up – looking for the end of the curve – 70mph.

Still can’t see the end of the curve, body off the bike entirely – getting closer and closer to the ground, breath, leaning on the throttle – 75mph.

Still no end in sight, heartbeat matching the trance in the eardrum – 100bpm…110bpm…120bpm, breath, knee almost to the ground – 80mph.

Face burning, the flush of adrenaline soaking me, beads of sweat running into my eyes, the sparks flying as the right peg scars the blacktop, I see the end of the turn, breath, almost there, throttle back, on the far right of the lane, stone wall of the cliff barely a meter away – it too is soaked from the tiny waterfalls covering its face, breath, throttle – 85mph.

G-forces subsiding, slowly sliding back onto the seat, pushing the bar back to the right, heart growing lighter, snow covered peaks revealing beyond – draped with skirts of pine, the sun slowly disappearing beyond a mass of granite… road curving left, speed – check, breath…


On The Book:
I discovered that writing on the road is damn near impossible, at least writing about something not related to the journeys and the travails of daily adventure. I've written many pages since leaving New york, but only a few that will be of any use in the book. Now that I'm in one place I can focus again, my head clear now from the solitary cleanse.
I also started my first translation - my grandmothers diary from the siege of Leningrad. It took 4 hours to the first page, and then another 4 to recover from what I have read...

Interlude

O beautiful, for spacious skies...


At times it seemed as though I may not, at others, as though I may not want to – but 9500 miles and 55 days later I made it to MN, my mother, her kitchen, the friends of my youth, and what will be home for the next few months, before going overseas and continuing the journey around the world.

This doesn’t mean that the blog will stop, there are indeed many more stories to tell, and now that I will be writing and translating there will be more to tell about that as well. I just wanted to take a moment to thank all those whom I’ve met on this journey so far. Without you I may not have made it, without you I would not have had all the experiences that I will now treasure forever.

I don’t want to use names, so I will name the places where I met you or where you live, because for me you represent more than yourself, you are of whom I think when I think of that place as well.

Brooklyn, New York
Rockland, Maine
Verona, Maine
Deer Island, New Brunswick
Errol, New Hampshire
Montreal, Quebec
Hamilton, Ontario
Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario
Thunder Bay, Ontario
Winnipeg, Manitoba
Regina, Saskatchewan
Lethbridge, Alberta
Canmore, Alberta
Columbia Ice fields, Jasper National Park, Alberta
Kamploops, BC
Vancouver, BC
Nanaimo, BC
Seattle, Washington
Seaside, Oregon
Corvallis, Oregon
Bend, Oregon
Walla Walla, Washington
Lewistown, Idaho
Glacier National Park, Montana
Missoula, Montana
Billings, Montana
Box Elder, South Dakota
Albert Lea, Minnesota

Stories, Poems, Essays and more pictures coming… thank you for reading, for sharing, and for your incredible support!!!

Adventures in Glacier, Part V: My Dance with Death

From a better time, but symbolic none the less: Cliff diving into Lake Superior


During the next two hours, as the sun continued to set behind the dark mass that followed me on my trail, and my body began to freeze, I cursed the atrociousness of my decision.

By the time I was half way through the rockies that I initially thought I would not have to cross, my feet were soaked and frozen, my body shivered non-stop and my hands shook harder and harder with every passing mile. By that point, every hotel I passed should have been my last stop for the night. But I saw the Moe's house (my destination) as my salvation and my tunnel vision kept narrowing upon it, making it impossible to stop.

When I started getting small waves of warmth and seeing things along the road that were not there, I realized I needed to pull over because hypothermia was setting in.
I pulled into a 7-11 somewhere along the Crowsnest pass. I staggered inside and managed to get to the bathroom to run hot water over my hands. I was delirious with cold, my bloodshot eyes sought the coffee pot. As I stood by the glass enclosed trays of chicken laying under heat lamps I could not help but press my face against the warm glass.

Coffee in hand, body shivering, face against the bubble of warmth, I began to cry. The enormity of my mistake overcame me and I could not hold back the tears. Almost 10 years of riding and I was still capable of such stupidity! Not only should I have checked the route before leaving, I should have stopped at a hotel long ago. The tears, sadly, did not make me cross the road to the motel located across the 7-11. Instead, my tunnel vision tightened further and I began preparing for the road.
I found some small hand warmers that I put in my boots, along with a ski mask, and some gloves that were slightly less wet than the ones I had on. The two kids and woman running the 7-11 were very kind to me. They put my gloves and mask under the heat lamps and gave me a piece of chicken to chase the 5 Advil and 2 muscle relaxers I needed to take in order to continue down the wrong path.

A few minutes later I was back on the bike and for the first 20 seconds felt good and could feel the warmth of the facemask. But that feeling fled as quickly as it was painstakingly found. By now I was engulfed in darkness and could only see clearly about 10ft or so in front of me. It did not help that every passing car lit up the little droplets of water on my glasses rendering me blind for a few seconds - every half minute. If there were a few cars in succession, I could only pray that I would stay on the road. And pray I did! I invoked the Great Mothers mercy. I begged only that she not let any animals in my path. The cold I would somehow bear, but there would be no chance for me if a big horn sheep or moose were to wander in front of my steed.

I tried taking of my glasses so that I would not ride blind half the time, but the rain would hit me right in the eye-balls, and I was forced to replace the shades. And so I had no choice (or so I thought) but to ride on, half blind, freezing, shaking and thinking every shadow or dark patch on the road was a beast running in front of me.

I still had more than 100 miles to go - my speed kept shifting from 50mph to 80mph, depending on the amount of fear I had at the moment regarding the unknown darkness.
80 miles - I'm praying; every two minutes I prayed, again and again: I can handle the cold, just don't let an animal come in my way.
60 miles - I'm getting colder and colder and am starting to shake more violently; I become less and less sure of my ability to handle the cold.
40 miles - I see lights in the distance, a town, if I can only reach that town...
30 miles - The tears are coming back; why did I put myself through this?! I could have stopped, I could have checked the map, I could have been warm...
20 miles - I'm shaking and delirious and can see nothing but the Moe's house...
10 miles - I can die at any moment - either an animal, or a car I can't react to quick enough, or running into something because I'm blind half the time...
5 miles - So close, within Lethbridge city limits, so close, don't let me die now, it can still happen, it can happen within 20 feet of the house...
The garage... the door opening... inside... off the bike... staggering into the basement... must untie boots, unzip jacket, unbuckle belt, slide of shirt and underwear... Garret staring in amazement: "oh my god, oh dude, holy shit, oh my god, bro..."... must warm up - shower! WARM UP!... hot, wet, not cold, warmer and warmer and warmer... dry off, breathing stabilizing, shins and feet still cold... bed, covers, more covers, a bowl, darkness...

Adventures in Glacier, Part IV: The Big Mistake

On yet more road where my steed does not belong. She is quite patient with me!


After a sleepless night spent in fear for your life, one is not in a position to make wise decisions about anything.
I knew the weather was going to be bad for a couple of days, and though I did not yet do everything I wanted in Glacier, I decided I needed to take off and sleep in a bed - alone, sans 1000lb beasts.
I called my guardian angles in Lethbridge, Alberta and got the go ahead to spend another night in the warmth of their company.
I knew I had a wet ride ahead so I decided to take a nap with Sarah under the single patch of blue sky in Glacier. An hour later the patch had closed; the clouds seemed to be moving in from the east, the interior of the park. At the time I thought nothing of this fallacy. So I packed up my bike and, against the suggestion of my GPS and the campground host, turned west to leave the park.
That one turn, that one moment when I could have double checked the time and distance of the road I was going to take...
I did not want to go east because that meant crossing the rockies over a road potentially clogged with slow driving tourists, and over Logan pass on the continental divide (elevation 6646 ft.) which would potentially mean snow. And for some reason, which I cannot to this day explain, I thought that if I first went west, then north, I would not have to cross the rockies when I went back east to Lethbridge!!! I thought there was some magical flat area in the middle of the range between Glacier Park and Height of the Rockies Park in Alberta!! This thought, along with my decision to first go west, was based on a vague recollection of a map I had seen some days earlier which I thought showed the road going just slightly west before turning north and then back east.
All of these assumptions would have been extinguished had I taken a moment, just a single moment, and checked a map or my GPS. That one moment would have saved my traversing the razor thin ridge between life and death which was my night time, freezing and soaked, crossing of the Rockies.
As it turned out, the route I had chosen would take 270 miles over the course of 6 hours, instead of the 130 miles over 4 hours it would have taken otherwise.
So I made my turn west (remember that my destination is north-east), and decided to ignore my GPS's please for me to make a u-turn as soon as possible. But I was sure, with no actual confirmation, that my way was quicker and free of snow. Within 20 minutes I was driving through a wall of rain, at just a few degrees shy of turning to hail. For a while I had to keep my left hand over my face to keep the "rain drops" from busting out my teeth.
When the rain let up for a few minutes I was able to fully see (not grasp) the magnitude of my mistake. the western sky was a solid charcoal wall past which no mountain or forrest was visible. The rest of the sky put on a full display of the beauty of clouds in all their shapes and styles, but I could not contemplate them for the imminent storm about to engulf me and the rockies. To my great dismay the eastern sky, over the road I should have taken, showed no evidence of snow or even a downpour the likes of which I just crossed.
I continued west and north and began to feel the cold that would be my companion for the rest of the ride.
About an hour into the ride I got tired of the GPS telling me to turn around, so I pulled into a gas station for a brief respite from the rain and to re-plot my course - something that if it had been done earlier...
My heart sank as I saw my ETA pushed back 2 whole hours upon my inputting my intended route. At this point it would still be faster to turn around, but I felt committed to my mistake and used the possibility of snow over the pass and the fact I just passed a massive downpour to justify my continuing on the wrong path. This was the first compounding of my initial mistake.

To be continued...

On the Book:
will resume after the next post... lots of good stuff happening though - finally!

Adventures in Glacier, Part III: Of Moose and Bear

----------------------- Friends ----------------------------------


...As we continued along the sunny path to our second camp, around a peaceful bend on the trail I heard the galloping of what sounded like horses. I yelled to Sarah to get out of the way of what looked like two horses. Within a split second she was running towards me and I realized they were not horses but two very large grizzlies, now within 30 ft of me.
What I discovered about myself at that moment is that when faced with danger, I stay pretty cool, and, am kind of stupid.
I stood there with my bear spray in my left hand as my right was clicking shots off the camera hanging from my neck.
After three shots, the second of the two beasts gave me a doubtful look, at which moment I ceased shooting. I looked him straight in the eye, something you are not supposed to do (nor are you to run away from them because they will think you are prey), I wanted to show him that all was well and that I meant no harm. After briefly considering us an aperitif, the two grizzlies disappeared into the bush, and the realization of how lucky we were reverberated throughout our entire being. Never the less, for the next hour I walked with bear spray in one hand and my army knife in the other. From that moment, every sound of grass rustling in the wind gave us a start.


As we walked through thick patches of berry, my mind kept wandering to only a few hours before when Sarah and I found ourselves, once again, in only what nature gave us, sitting on a gently sloping rock that lead into an upper, tucked away, terrace of a waterfall. The peaceful moments when my hands were on her shoulders, then her hair... I felt free and blissful, and as the sun re-emerged from behind the cloud, our lips met and I felt her warmth and softness against my chest. Oh the ease with which a mind can soar when bodies thus enveloped surrender the artificial chains thrown about them, and suffer freedom to enter once again...


The heart was slowly resuming it's normal rhythm as we began approaching our new site. Along our traverse we saw a moose emerge from a small lake nearby; at that moment it seemed a perfect scene - our witnessing the natural order and routine of Glacier and its residents.
We reached the site shortly thereafter and found the three girls who camped near us the night before, along with two guys from Chicago, gathered in the cooking area. We were very hungry and the day was quickly drawing to a close, so after quickly breaking camp we joined the rest of our neighbors. Minutes after our food was ready we noticed the very same moose we saw earlier, grazing within 60ft of us. This could have been the beginning and the end of that encounter, however, the gentlemen from Chicago thought it a good idea to approach the moose for some portraits, you know, keepsakes and all that. The rest of the night went rather quickly into the abyss of fear and uncertainty.


At first the cow (female moose) started huffing and pricked up her ears, but the guys did not heed this obvious sign of hostility; by the time they did, she was in full territorial mode - mounting posts and rubbing her scent on the bushes and trees. Then, as we sat nervously watching her and eating our supper, she charged us. If you can imagine for a moment what 1000lbs of territorial tank like mass rushing at you, against which knife, spray and stick stand no chance, then you will understand fear.
We ran so fast - but we knew there was almost no where to go. We took "refuge" on some logs lying by the shore of the lake, it served little purpose other than to give our minds the illusion that at least we were safer there. We wanted to see if she was still there, so the other two guys and myself snuck up to a nearby tree - she saw us and charged again! This time we retreated for good.
She continued sniffing around, taking her time, all the while it was getting dark and cold in that rapid manner particular to the mountains. We stood around shaking for some time, but soon realized that we must ascertain her intent before it got too late. The three of us again ventured out to see where she was. We only had one good headlamp between us, so we crept slowly, barely breathing, knife and bear spray in hand - knowing full well that they are useless. I looked like a bad combination of Rambo and Elmer Fudd.
By the time we got access to two of three campsites, night was well upon us. By then our nerves were well worn, but staying up was not an option, it was getting very cold and we needed to get to our tents - though they offered no degree of safety, or, as it turned out, sleep. We finally found the moose bedded down for the night - right on the path to and directly opposite the three girl's tents. We decided that we could not risk them sleeping alone in such proximity to the cow, so we formed a four person raiding party to recover their bags and mats. We could not take the path, so we skirted the lake edge and crawled up to the tents with barely a breath between us.
Now we had the problem of figuring out who would fit where. My tent is meant for two people, and I already had Sarah, one of the guys had a one person tent - both of our tents are for mountaineering, so when it says one or two person, it means there is no room between shoulder and wall. The other guy had a two-person, so he was able to take one of the girls with ease. Sarah and I squeezed Elizabeth into our tent and managed to stuff the two of us into my single sleeping bag, so we had 2 bags, 2 pads and 3 people in my little shelter.

Between the grizzlies, freeze dried food, soreness from hiking, fear of being trampled, and stiffness in every joint and muscle from lack of motion in the tent, we passed the night with moments of shallow drifting and startling at every noise. Around midnight the wind started to howl and we emerged in the morning (alive) to find the mountains covered in a heavy fog with the imminent threat of "weather".
Thankfully the moose was gone and we were able to pack up and hike out within a few hours. On our way out we saw her, and a few others, again at the smaller lake. Needless to say we did not stop to admire and take photos this time around.


to be continued...


On the Book:
There was not much writing done that day or the one that followed, so I will continue with the updates after the next post. Though, I am glad to say I have had a breakthrough...

Adventures in Glacier, Part II: The Calm Before the Storm

------------------------------ Lake Moraine ------------------------

Glaciers, draining their purity into hundreds of streams and falls, hug the mountainsides. The peaks along massive ridges stand tall, but are reminiscent of fortress ruins rather than granite towers. One side of the valley stretching ever further toward the sky, the other crumbling away having served its term of glorifying our humble terra firma.
Alpine meadows with Beargrass, Indian Paintbrushes, Fireweeds, Asters and Lilly's dancing in in the breeze, glowing in the un-hazed sun.
Huckleberry bushes as far as the eye can see, more than one could ever eat - though how we tried!
Rose Hips, Blackberries, Salmon berries, currants, blueberries and thimbleberries - an amazing site, but I could not help but feel as though I too were on the menu when walking through endless acres of bear snacks. Having seen black bears in Jasper eating berries, I would not want to be so gently treated by one.
Giant boulders, once part of towering facades, clearing chutes along the skirts and bases as they rolled like Juggernauts down the slopes killing hundreds of trees, now lie peacefully with the offspring of the dead firs growing atop them, as if in defiance of their destruction.
At every turn of the path there lay a new wonder - another monument to patience and time; a delicate expression of color and perseverance; a sweeping view that makes it all but impossible to consider littering, strip-mining, or deforesting our precious home. But most do not come to see it, do not go beyond the safety and comfort of their drywalled nests; and so we waste and waste, and now our ears wont hear the song of 100 songbirds known to our forefathers. I wondered how those within a few days drive could live out their lives never having seen the very best of what this world possesses.

The day after we broke camp at Cobalt lake brought more than any person should go through in a 24 hour period.
We began the day with a hike up to two medicine pass where three valleys opened themselves before our eyes. Mountains goats flanked the west side, a wolverine kept guard over the east while hawks and eagles patrolled the endless sky, and glaciers and lakes for endless miles in every direction.
Before heading out to camp 2, after we returned from the pass, we decided to take a dip in the glacial lake, on whose shores stood our tents. Naked and free we ran into its chilling waters; within a few seconds we felt its icy grip at our throats and bones and so quickly re-emerged, gasping for breath. There are many levels of cold:
cool, nippy, chilly, cold, chilling, very cold, icy, fucking cold!, freezing... sweet and holy, 6 pound 4 ounce baby jesus it's cold... Glacial. In the last, the water steals your breath and your testicles re-ascend so far you feel like a fetus again.
But that half minute in the lake shot more life into us than a syringe of epinephrine to the heart. And so enveloped in Joie de Vivre we went along the valley to our second camp at upper two medicine lake. We stopped often on the way to gorge on huckleberries, and prayed the bears would not gorge on us.
Within a couple of hours we discovered that our prayers were answered.

To be continued...


On the Book:
I am writing constantly but am still having trouble penning the stories for my book. The act of wander can be so overwhelming, and the journey itself so full of adventure and experience that it's actually hard to focus on the past (where the majority of the book will lie). The present is so forceful, it demands all of my attention and my reflections are inevitably linked to it.
Though I have not had the good fortune, I feel as though by some form of choice, to have met many Russian Jews along the way, the few that I have again confirmed our shared history and current diversity, even for those who live in Canada.
It will be hard to bring the books focus to the last generation when the stories of our roots are so important to who we are and are in themselves worth a hundred volumes. There are however countless books that have dealt with their struggles and their story is much better known than ours, so if I can keep that in mind I think the stories will flow more quickly to Us.

Adventures in Glacier and Doubt

Three Sisters and Moon


On The Book:

Inspiration can be a fleeting thing: overcome one minute, left empty and gasping for words the next.
At this moment, when all human voice have gone and I am left with the birds, whales, seals, the drone of Cessna's, the rumble of boats and the whirl of competing currents - I am truly inspired, yet left with no words.
The pervading calm absorbs me and my mind wanders to the people and events of my book. Still, I only dream of them as I fall in and out of consciousness.
So often other words crowd my mind - poetic verses, arguments and expositions - and there is little left for the task I set forth.
Sometimes it's fear that holds me back: how dare I even attempt to write when the works of truly great authors are left untouched on dusty shelves?
How can I ask someone to give their time to my words when they have not yet absorbed the Angst of Dostoevsky, the lessons of Dickens, the challenge and absurdity of Roth, the poetry of Pushkin, the bite of Diaz, the sad whisper of Lahiri, the tearful laughter of McCourt, the history of Tolstoy, the forward simplicity of Hemingway, the fever of Hughes, the humanity of Shakespeare...?


On The Road:

I have decided not to post chronologically, the things that happen along the way. Some events and ideas develop over time: I may have had an encounter in Maine, but only realize its importance when I experience something else in Alberta, and am only then ready to write about it.

I have now ridden more than 4000 miles across Canada and the U.S, with at least 4000 more to go. I am more than 2 weeks behind schedule, which means by the end of this leg of the trip, I will have been on the road for 2 months, not 1. I wonder what that means if I planned on being done within 2 years…?

Over the next 4 posts I will relate a series of events which occurred in and around Glacier National Park...


GLACIER 1: GOOD BEGINNINGS

I arrived in Glacier some weeks ahead of schedule and with 2 new friends. It was nice to travel with some fellow bikers, if only for a couple of days. The following morning they left, and I met Sarah. She was also alone in the park and looking for someone with whom to hike. Within 10 minutes of meeting we were on the back of my bike cruising down the windy road to get backcountry camping permits. A couple of hours later we were on our way to Snyder Lake for a warm-up day hike, Sarah’s sweet southern drawl accompanying us along the way. The more she and I talked the more similarities we found; though from backgrounds as disparate as our gender, she growing up in the Appalachian mountains of Virginia, we found an uncommon amount of parallels in our thoughts and ways. As per my usual, the second I saw the lake (as I do with any body of water, particularly is its cold as hell), I was soon thereafter naked and splashing in its icy waters. Sarah only dipped her calves and promised to go in next time.
Besides my own good lord’s blessing, Sarah and I shared an incredible amount about ourselves, but it seemed as natural as we had known each other for years and not just a few hours.
The following day we found ourselves in the backcountry of southeastern Glacier, around Cobalt Lake.

To be continued…

Quick Notes

Fellow bravers of the mountainous wrath


On The Book:
Though I will inevitably make it into my book, I do not want it to be about me. As I make my periodic forays into normal society I am reminded again and again that I belong on the fringe. I don't recall a time when I truly fit in anywhere, or when I was unconditionally accepted by others. This cannot be what the story is about; our experience is so diverse - is why I think short stories may be better than a novel. Most acculturated better than me, yet, I wonder for how many it's a facade, like so often it is for me.

On the Road:
More than any other form of transportation, when on a motorcycle you are tested by the Great Mother. Every degree drop is felt by whatever skin is exposed to the wind. When it is cold and wet enough there is no garment that can keep the damp and ice from penetrating your marrow. One moment the sun is burning you, the next you shiver as beads of sweat are replaced by goosebumps.
This undulation is endless.
The constant awareness that anything other than clean, shiny blacktop can send you flying at 85mph, causes adrenaline to become a constant presense in your blood, so that by the end of a ride your body and mind are worn: like you just finished a mental game of chess while running a marathon.

Reflections from Maine

On the Road:

Though more temperate along the coast, Maine is still a true northern land. The fogs roll heavily over sparse, hilly, granite plots from which farmers manage to extract what little bounty; instead, the sea is where the sustenance lies - it's life giving itself so that we may live alongside.
Life here moves slowly, matching the lazy lapping of the bayed in North Atlantic; here people know that the tides cannot be controlled, that the lobster will come to the box when it's hungry, and that the wind will take to the sail in due course. My only urgency came in the damp of dusk when the wind began to suck the warmth from the very depths of my marrow. But on a sunny August day when the mist is dried and all that permeates the air is the salty surf - there seems no more pleasant place on earth.

There is not the oppressive heat of the city: it's brick and concrete furnace fed by the cars and trains and bodies... the endless towers of glass magnifying the sun, burning us like ants under a menacing child's magnifying glass. here we do not suffocate in the underground highway - pressed against each other - pit to nose to mouth, drenched in our own and eachother's sweat.

WE shout of freedom and the air that doesn't choke, and every so often we break free and immerse ourselves in Green. But, it is not to last - like heroin fading from our veins, we begin to chaffe under the lack of ever-present stimulus. Blogs, TV, Google, Lights, texting and tweeting... and the all you can eat of media vomit, and the isle after isle of choice - no need to adapt and adjust, if there is a "need", it is filled. We need the movie, the club, the show, the clothes, the recognition, shameless flaunting of our emptiness. Because when we find ourselves too long in nature we become faced with ourselves - without the anaesthesia of constant bombardment of how we should think, what we should feel, what we should buy, who is our enemy, and how we can project instead of BE - we shut down and curl up in the corner.
We are scary upon first encounter. We discover our emptiness and depravity, the hidden truth that on average we have naught to offer ourselves, let alone some one else.
So we flee the Green and the clean and the pure, and re-immerse in the muck of falsehood.
"Act as if..." has become all we are; we show what we are not because we have ceased to struggle to make ourselves real.


On the Book:

I am starting to lean more and more toward short stories. I think I can capture the different generations and the diversity of experience more poignantly if I separate them, yet keep the theme and ideas. There is no need to tie lives that are truly disparate, no need to remove their message by blending it with others. If I can set forth the premise and introduce the stories and the theme, I can then treat them like the unique blooms they truly are.

First Days

Me: 165lbs; Gear: 200+lbs

On The Road:
Not much has changed since John Steinbeck took to the road in Travels With Charley: crossing the continent more than twice over seems unfathomable, and every person I have met has expressed their wish to journey on the open road. Though my own journey will bring me to the far reaches of almost every continent, I share Steinbeck's awe and concern with this vast and often untamed land. There are only a couple of countries bigger than the states, so for most people across the globe the idea of traveling in ones country, unless legally forbidden, is not met with trepidation. Equally, few countries on earth have the massive swaths of wilderness, striking and dangerous, like those that predominate the American West. Like Steinbeck, my first stop on the American leg of my journey is Maine, then Deer Island, NB, however, I have purposefully not read past his departure from home, so that I may discover this land for myself.
Note: I know we all have to forget at least one thing before we leave for a trip, long or short, but of all things to forget: my motorcycle jacket?! Thankfully there is UPS, a city somewhere along the way, and a cousin who cares whether I will freeze to death.

On The Book:
My efforts to begin my book are curbed with a constant back and forth about whether it should be a novel or a collection of stories.This in turn brings me back to what I think should be the purpose of this book. I want "others" to know about our unique generation, and for "us" I want there to be record and a source for commiseration, because though we share many similarities, assimilation has dispersed us and our story and our shared identity. There also comes a question of plot and character development: do i want self contained ideas and stories that relate the diversity and experience of more people and situations, or, do I want to dig deeper into a few characters and develop them over time and attempt to bring out our collective experience through them?
So far Maine has brought forth reflections on modern society and less on the aforementioned dilemma...

Foreword

I envision this blog as a medium to relate my own struggle of attempting to write a book and getting it published. And, as importantly, to document how a journey and the act of travel influences a person’s creativity and reflections that shape their writing.

My journey will begin by traversing 6,700 miles across Canada and the U.S. on my Honda Magna VF-750.
I will then make my way to Israel, Russia, France, Italy, Spain, England, Thailand, China, Japan, Argentina, Peru, Venezuela and Brazil.

The book I’m writing is not about travel, or, specifically, not about my own travel at this time. The book will be a fiction, embedded in the history and development of my generation:
We are refugees from whom identity was severed along with our citizenship - tossed into limbo; and when we landed on the shores of freedom we were no closer to understanding our potential or what kind of blossoming we would experience. Our roots are very similar: going back dozens of generations there was only a handful of places where our forefathers lived, only a handful of professions they could hold… but as they are the stalks of flowers, wholly indistinguishable, we are the blossoms – with as many expressions as the number of us who sought the golden door.

About Me: coming in the next post!