The Fool's Journey, Part 2 - On the Road # 28

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

Since Sun and I got a late start from Eugene, we didn’t get far.

Sun suggested we stay the night in Ashland because we’d have a place to crash there - a friend who she had met at EarthDance in September working in his kitchen 

She didn’t tell me her “friend” was the Knight of Cups. I also thought she had a girlfriend, but hey! Sexuality is fluid. 

Since Sun had made 0 book sales on my behalf, I was agreeable to a free place to stay. I also learned yet another lesson in getting what you pay for, but more on that later.

Again, I don’t regret giving Sun a ride because she had great stories, it was another chapter in this grand adventure, and awesome things would come of it. Just not in the way I thought they would.

Before we went to the Knight of Cups, she also turned me on the luscious Jackson Well Springs, a lovely place to soak and sauna naked at night. I wouldn’t have found this wonderful place without Sun.

She ran into another friend from her time in Taos, and ran off to have tea with him.

Finally we made it to our crashpad and the Knight of Cups.

His name was Matava. I’m pretty sure he named himself. He was originally from New York. But once he had awakened to a higher vibration, Matava donned loose, flowing garments to indicate his enlightenment, and made his living with exotic cuisine and Ayurvedic smart drinks.

I think he was a caterer with a New Age edge. 

I had to admit his tea was excellent. But I doubt it made me more intelligent. As far as his healthful cleanse cookies were concerned, they tasted funny - probably because they didn’t have any sugar 

Sun and Matava got reacquainted with a lively discussion over the wisdom of human design and Chinese astrology. Matava consistently referred to the Chinese and Western astrological significance of his absent housemate. I don’t remember her name, but she was at least 10 years older than he and owned the house.

“She’s a Fire Horse AND a Scorpio,” he said. “She’s very Scorpio.”

I suspected that meant he’s her lover who pays no rent, and the Fire Horse Scorpio gets pissed off with her errant Knight of Cups on the regular. 

And then Sun started disrobing.

Like a lot of Pacific Northwest hippies, Sun dressed in layers of heavy sweaters. As she and Matava animated over all things New Age, Sun took off one heavy sweater after another, along with her leggings and woolen socks until she was down to a t-shirt and loose, flowing skirt and bare feet. She also contorted her body in visually appealing stretches that thrust her ample breasts into the limelight.

When Matava slid down to the ground in a bent-knee crouch, Sun followed suit, with her long skirts making a pretense of modesty. Once they overlapped their big toes and gave each other that look, I knew exactly where this night was going.

But I was exhausted and it was time to crash at the crashpad.

Matava had made up a massage table in the living room for me to sleep on and I was out within minutes.

Unfortunately, exhaustion didn’t render me deaf. The High Priestess, Sun, elevated the Knight of Cups, Matava to the state of the Lovers, and woke up the Fool who had given her a free ride. I was tempted to make some noise to disrupt the high vibration of their coupling, but why? 

From what I heard, it sounded rather average.   

The next morning, Sun hinted that she'd forgotten how much she liked "Matava's company," with the implication that she could hang in Ashland even though a storm was coming that we would be wise to beat.  Then we hit Evo's Cafe.  The High Priestess went to the market to replenish the supply of ass-wipes for the Knight of Cups.  The Fool checked email and pulled out my tarot deck and started shuffling, wondering how I was going to gracefully extricate myself from this situation.

Upsidedown Temperance asked me for a reading, even though he had no money.  One of the eccentric, homeless youth that has found some sanctuary in the most tolerant coffee house in the affluent arty community of Ashland - home to the Shakespeare Festival every summer - took a seat and I gave him a reading, which he interpreted for himself.  Once Sebastian had satisfied his need to talk about his neglected talents while he had someone's attention, he left the table after a couple of hints.

A well-preserved, nicely groomed black man with a shaved head and pretty face at the table on my left who had observed the interaction of the reading, started up a conversation.  His speech was as refined as his looks, so I gave him a brief rundown of my story and explained that the cards were a gimmick I used to get people's attention to the book.  He then asked me what I thought it meant that the cards got people's attention.  What did I think people were seeking?  Of course, I didn't know. 

"They're looking for that third voice," he said. 

His name was Amien and he had moved to Ashland from Santa Rosa, California just six months before.  At fifty-two, Amien had had many lives, as a professional dancer and an artist, he had designed sets and done the lighting for many productions, and although settled was in chrysalis for his next life incarnation.  He encouraged me to do a storytelling, although he preferred philosophy and science fiction.  The noise of the cafe distracted him after a couple of minutes, so Amien suggested going by his cottage and doing the storytelling there. 

"It's very peaceful, I'll make some tea, and it'll be much better."

Never, never, never go off with strangers, always said my mother, the Empress.  You may come across the Devil, maybe even Death, and then what are you going to do?

But I am the Fool, and I am no longer a little girl.  Amien gave off a good vibe-ration, my instincts told me it was safe, so I went.  Besides, I thought he was gay. 

Besides, it is the Fool's nature to trust.  Will this step send me careening over the cliff or dancing over the rainbow?

If one doesn't trust, one doesn't get to meet the Magician...or the man who makes things happen.

Amien was a highly talented artist from what I saw of the pieces in the mother in law apartment.  After listening to "The Birth of Ella Bandita," he bought two books, offered me his spare bedroom - a good hidey-hole for the Hermit - and said he'd like to throw a party for me. 

"We'll make it very nice, very selective," Amien said.  "So you will meet the kind of people who can help you." 

The best part, it really was no strings.  Amien had his libido and his attention distracted by a sweet young thing, half his age, who led him around by the nose...or the head.  I provided good conversation, a sympathetic ear, and good counsel.    

"It'll be my first soiree," he said. 

Ain't it grand how artists support each other?

That night, he introduced me to the Hierophant, who had the mother-in-law apartment he lived in.  Melody was a teacher, whose daughter also was a self-published writer.  She was also throwing a dinner party that same night, so Amien suggested they coordinate their events and I be the guest storyteller for both parties. 

He helped with making up the flyer/invites, thinking up such refinements as "intimate setting," and "light refreshment provided" and a discreet "Books for sale." 

The party had a good turn-out, and The Fool got to take a turn as the Star, entertaining the Court with a tale.  Emperors, Scholarly Hermits, Lovers, and Empresses made up the audience.

It was grand, but alas not perfect.

As much as the Magician warned the Fool to be selective, I gave a flyer to a woman whose Tower had come crashing down.  He had met her and was surprised that I gave her an invite.

"She strikes me as somebody with a Ramona complex," Amien said.  "I suspect she's missing parts."

He shrugged and said it'll be what it'll be, but the Magician called it.  Just as the Star had told the climax to an audience of enthralled Courtiers, and was forty-five seconds away from the end, a Queen in the audience interrupted.

"There's somebody out in the cold."

Turning around there was the woman of the fallen Tower peeking in the windows, wanting to be let in.  The Fool did, and gathering my wits, finished the tale.  Honestly, it was more disruptive to the audience than it was to me.

An hour later, the Fool realized what a mistake inviting the fallen Tower to the party.

"That's why I consider myself legitimately schizophrenic," she hooted in laughter at her own joke. 

The Magician gave the Fool many a pointed look until there was an opportunity to generously volunteer a ride in the Chariot of my Brown Beast.   

It occurred to me that I shouldn't be compassionate at the expense of others.  After all, this sanctuary was home to the gracious Hierophant and Magician.   

They didn't ask for this. 

"I told you so," said Amien as soon as I came back from giving Julia a ride home. 

Other than that, The Fool took a step off the cliff and ended up with the World in his pocket. 

I love Ashland!!!!

Peace,

Montgomery

 

The Rock Lady of Santa Cruz - On the Road #23

Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay

Your friends will know you better

in the first minute you meet

than

your acquaintances will in

a thousand years...

"Illusions, The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah"

by Richard Bach 

Hey y'all

Well, I've just had an experience like the one described above. 

At the moment, I'm in Ketchikan for a few hours before the ferry carries me to Bellingham. 

The ferry is always an experience, especially the three to four day milk run between Juneau and Bellingham. 

And of course, I'm sleeping on a lawn chair in the solarium with a toaster oven heater hanging six feet above me to stay warm. 

I met Lili Rose due to a reluctance she had to break a promise to her husband. We had several hours in Sitka, and we became hitchhiking buddies on that stop because he didn’t want her hitching by herself, and the town of Sitka is several miles from the ferry.

She was based in Ketchikan for a month. Visiting from Santa Cruz, CA while her cousin was on a diving trip. While he was gone, Lili Rose took a four-day roundtrip on the ferry from Ketchikan to Skagway and back to Ketchikan. We crossed paths as she was going back.

"I have a gift for healing," she said, as we strolled around the church in Sitka.  "I'm known as the Rock Lady because I do so well with stones."

Like many people from California, she was very open in sharing her story, and at first I wrote her off as a New Ager, but she was good company. We got a bottle of wine and two brandy snifters at good will to drink wine in the solarium later. Because of course, she was perched up there too.

I had to admit she even looked the part of a mystic. Petite, with long reddish brown hair, and large crystal green eyes, Lili Rose has a vivid presence.

And then she told me she was only 74 pounds a few months ago, and that she had died and been brought back three times in the last year. 

Having four disks in her neck fused together, complications with her medication affecting her health, she had run the gamut of a modern-day medical nightmare.  She had a food tube forcing nutrients directly to her heart at one point before she figured out that it was the pain killers she was taking for her neck were affecting her system, and got a medical license for marijuana to stop so she could take in enough calories to not starve to death.  She gets high, so she feels okay enough to eat, and if she's not in too much pain, the food stays down.  Since she had stopped taking the painkillers, she had gained forty pounds and was healthy enough to take this trip to see her cousin and twin soul. 

"I choose to be happy," she said.  "It is all a choice, so why choose suffering?" 

A healer in pain all the time, a giver who can't receive, Lili Rose gave me a stone she had carried for almost twenty years.  A clear piece of quartz with copper filaments  threading through it like angel hairs, she described it as "rutile quartz."  She had it with her when she was holding people's hands as they passed from this life, or brought new life into the world.  She swore by it.

"This stone is very powerful," she said.  "It'll send your messages

directly to God."

Since the stone was important to her, the agreement at first was that I could carry it until I came to see her in Santa Cruz, and then we would trade out for a stone with gold filaments.  But by the next morning, she said that it was my birthday gift. 

"My dear, what is the point of giving a gift if one does not also treasure it oneself?"

This classic quote by Colette - the French writer, not our beloved slinger of hash and singer of songs - was the last sentence in a short story by Truman Capote.  I was so impressed by it I recorded it in my journal years ago and thus, have never forgotten it.  So the significance of this gesture by a woman I had known for three hours was not lost on me.

But the best gift from Lili Rose to me was the missing piece in the puzzle of forgiveness.  Without going into the details of the conversation that led to this - anybody who's done any living at all has been stumped on this issue at least once in their lives - we were treating ourselves to a less-than-mediocre dinner served in the swanky ferry dining room when Lili Rose dropped this pearl of wisdom on my plate.

"When you truly forgive, you give up your right to retribution."

Now that's some profound shit, but she went on.

"When you wait for an apology, an acknowledgement, or a punishment to forgive, you are still giving up your energy to a situation, which is what somebody wants who does things that hurt us.  When you give up that right to retribution, no matter how justified, you take back your power."

Wow.

Something tells me this leg of the trip is going to turn into some mystical avenues.

If I ever lose that rock she gave me, shoot me.

Montgomery

Suckers for Cutsie Poo and Unexpected Good Dates - On the Road #19

Hey y'all,

Before I get too carried away, let me just say one thing: next time any of you are in Anchorage, you must check out El Tango on Tudor behind the Holiday gas station. 

If you've gone to Hooters, you have definitely gone too far! 

El Tango has a fantastic menu of Latin cuisine - Columbia, Argentina, and Puerto Rico - a very friendly staff, and a small dance floor. 

It's only been there for a year. The location sucks; but if you like your ambience refreshing, then this is the place for you. 

How did I get there?

Last night at the Cook Inlet Bookstore, I was crushed to find that I was one of a cluster fuck of writers. 

Needless to say, the four of us were overcrowded at one small table. So we got another one and two of us sat there. 

I figured I’d stake out the front door in the hopes I’d get more attention. But everybody still herded around the schoolteacher at the other table.

She had a mountain of books and a generous target audience. Her book, “Recess at 20 Below” was full of pictures of her students having FUN in her class and adorable narrative about school life in Delta Junction. 

It was both cutsie poo and Alaskan at the same time.

Meanwhile, I misread a potential fan, Sheila. And I found out she was anything but when I told her the first chapter of Ella Bandita. I included the dirty old sorcerer, the cold-blooded daddy, and the eaten heart. 

 Sheila scrunched up her face and let me know that she was a fan of the Walt Disney version of whitewashed fairy tales. She also said that she used to have a friend who would have been into my writing because she wrote a lot like me. 

"But she's dead now," Sheila said. 

So heartwarming of her to tell me that. 

Do I sound bitter? Really, I'm not. Even though the night was a dud.

At this point in my road trip, I have had enough successes to not sweat the flops. 

Besides, last night was a quality, if not a quantity, experience. 

I ended up with a date. A good one, too with a nice guy.

Go figure. That practically never happens to me. 

I usually gravitate to the those-I-cannot-or-should-not-even-consider-wanting-to-have types.  

This guy has a steady job, no addictions ( at least, not obvious ones ), courtly manners, a good body, and blue eyes that are awful purty to look into.

That's how I ended up at El Tango. Because Nice Guy With Pretty Blue Eyes took me there.   

Besides the food and the Argentinian staff, they had a keyboard player whose keyboard created a symphony with every note, and the staff would get up there and sing. 

Since they didn't have the TV screen that enabled bad singers to massacre mediocre lyrics, it wasn't really karaoke. But it kind of felt that way even though the staff were the main singers.  

Most of the songs were in Spanish, so it was very cool. It also helped that they could...oh, sing. 

Hugo, the owner who was from Argentina, played kind of the Latin version of a bluegrass washboard - a weegel ( I don't know how to spell it, and the closest he could come to describing it was a plant, kind of like a zucchini, that's dried and then hollowed out - if you want to know what the hell I'm talking about, go to El Tango and you'll see), while the bartender had maracas.  

I love Latin folk. They really have the happy-to-live mentality down pat. Hugo gave us free drinks, calling us amigos and that we are family. 

"When you are in Anchorage, this is your home."  Hugo said.     

Nothing is perfect, however...

Hugo is a sucker for Celine Dion, because his daughter, Lilly, belted out "I Will Always Love You," and he sat there, looking emotional and teary-eyed.

Lily sang beautifully. I simply don’t like Celine Dion’s music. 

But other than that, the night was awesome.   

I was going to come back on Tuesday. But my good date asked me out again, so…it’s good to explore the possibilities.

I'm coming back to Juneau roughly sometime before I head down to the lower forty-eight by November 1st. 

Does anybody have a housesitting gig or an extra room? 

I rented my place out and I don't know about crashing on my own couch for almost two weeks. 

It'll be good to see the Vagabond - my cat, that is.  And of course, all of you. I’m really excited to see all of you.

Peace, 

Montgomery 

 

 

Living the Dream - On the Road #18

Hey y'all,

I am so glad I listened to the wisdom of my inner voice, the same inner voice that told me to go back to Seward for the Music and Arts Festival, even though my first tableside storytelling adventure was not immediately profitable.

In fact, my first day I told stories with my whole heart and soul into it because I wanted to sell my book, dammit! 

This was only my second stop on the trip. I had had a couple of things in Homer. I was in full-throttle eager novice mode and people could smell blood...I could sense them smacking their chops as I concluded my story without closing the sale. I sold nothing!

And that really sucked.

And frankly, so does Anchorage.

I did my last storytelling tonight at the Organic Oasis, and it is impossible to do what I'm doing and not do it often in Anchorage. But I just do not resonate with the vibe of this town, it reminds me of the Orlando of my teenage years.... AAIIGGHH!!! 

So let's get back to the good stuff, Seward.

 After that discouraging first day, however, it got better. I sold two books on my second day, and on my third and final, four. So, the word was getting out there. 

Also, on the third day is when deliverance in the form of Joe Alaniz came along and saved my demoralized ass by selling fourteen books by the next day.

Remember Joe? 

So that was my Seward experience in early August, but they had just put up all these flyers for this festival and since the booths were cheap, I marked my space.

I woke up to beautiful weather in Seward with the colors in full blast and knew it would be slow at the festival. 

And I was right, but I learned a few things since my last time in town. I set up my space with blankets, pillows, and although I left the candles in the Beast, I laid out my purple sari over the table with the book displays, and a sign under an orange patterned fake-silk poly scarf that read:

FREE!!!

Hear a story...

Buy a book...

Get Tarot reading...

FREE!!!

I figured if everybody was going to confuse me for a fortuneteller, I might as well give them what they wanted. And golly gee! It worked! 

To make it even better, people were into the storytelling and into buying the book. But about a quarter of my sales happened because somebody really wanted their cards read and the book was only ten bucks. 

I sold twenty-two books at full price. And the experience was effortless, at a festival held indoors at the Cruise Ship Terminal, which looked more like a hangar.

The turn out was low due to sunny weather. Got to get that hiking in! Because the darkness, rain, and snow are just around the corner. 

I also sold ten books to the lady who had an all-purpose gift shop coffeehouse in town, so now the book is being carried in Seward. I traded a book for a bracelet. 

So in one weekend I sold over thirty books. 

This, of course, feeds the soul...not to mention the validation that I'm on the right track.

But the best part of this week-end was not the sales - not that I minded those! It was really connecting with people when they sat down to hear a story.

The way I see it, I'm laying the foundation for my base of readers for the future, and it is such an intimate way of connecting with them. It worked well at Borders as well. 

One woman said that I was living the dream, and she was right. Right now, I feel like I am.  

The weekend was so great that I didn't mind coming back to the tepid atmosphere at the Organic Oasis. I sold a couple of books and it is happening...one book at a time. One person sold on my work at a time. 

I'm getting better at this, but the tarot cards were a nice touch.

I must admit being a fortune-teller was fun too.

Anyway, Keep in touch...

Peace, 

Montgomery

PS God I was naive!!! This was from the DIY booktour roadtrip I made in 2005-2006. Things have changed a lot since then.    

Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska - Population 85 - On the Road # 16

I even had a really nice date while i stayed behind the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska.

Hey y’all,

I have so many vivid memories of the people I met at the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska (population 85) along the Turnagain Arm.

As tourism slowed way down in the autumn, I stayed in one of the cabins behind the Saloon for about two weeks. I hoped to take a break from selling and being “ON” for the sake of getting some writing done.

The Brown Bear Saloon was my go-to for morning coffee and dinner, as well as those conversations that kept me somewhat tethered to the human race, and kept the loneliness at bay.

I remember meeting a very kind-hearted woman who had been a bartender since she was 23. She had a pretty face, with sparkling green eyes, and graying hair done in braided pigtails. She didn’t work at the Brown Bear Saloon. She had worked in a neighborhood watering hole for 17 years somewhere in Anchorage.

Restaurant/bar work can really suck people in. Most people work in hospitality as they go to college or figure out what they want to do. I had been one of those, and managed to pull myself out of the hospitality vortex in the nick of time.

This lady admitted she had stayed there too long, was burned out, yet didn’t know what to do beyond starting a hot dog stand. I hope she found her way out of there because she was very gentle with a very peaceful energy.

It’s a dirty business. There’s no shame in it.

I even had a really nice date while I stayed behind the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska. Remember, the population was only 85 people, so this date was pretty remarkable.

I don’t remember my date’s name, which I feel bad about because he was a really lovely man. He had dark hair and eyes, and a cheery round face. He took me to dinner and a movie in Anchorage. The movie, “40 Year Old Virgin,” was a guaranteed icebreaker and we both laughed so hard, it hurt.

Afterwards he talked to me about his new career as a teaching assistant in a kindergarten class, and how relieved he was to no longer be a used car salesman. He said that the profession was every smarmy as reputation had it, and gave me a few pointers of tricks they pulled to make a sale more likely.

“For example, say you go for a test drive and come back to the lot. The salesman would encourage you to leave your purse in the car while you look around, go to the bathroom, etc.” 

“How will that make me more likely to buy the car?”

“Because when you leave such a personal item as a purse in a car, you’re already claiming ownership. They salesman is putting it in your mind that the car is already yours.”

I was speechless, and he nodded.

“It’s a dirty business. There’s no shame in it.”

Of everybody who stopped by the Brown Bear Saloon, the motorcycle day-trippers were the most fun to watch. The bikers were not gangsters. They were Anchorage professionals who loved taking day and weekend trips to zoom their bikes along Turnagain Arm and/or into the Kenai Peninsula.

The last pit stop on their way home was at the Brown Bear Saloon. They were a sight to behold decked out in their leathers and bandanas, laughing and talking, and on top of the world.

The last pit stop on their way home was at the Brown Bear Saloon.

I sold a book to one of them. I don’t remember his name, but we had a lovely conversation about his fiercely independent daughter. She was only 17, and had been out on her own since she was 15. He said she lived in Sitka, had a great head on her shoulders and already so capable of taking care of herself. He sounded so proud of her.

I had been in Alaska long enough to not be shocked by this. Talk about kicking ass and taking names? Alaskan teenagers are a different breed. They believe they can do anything, and they often prove themselves right. I met a woman whose 17 year old son already had acquired his pilot’s license. While I lived in Juneau, two 17 year olds who weren’t of legal age to vote, ran for the council positions on the School Board. Neither of them won, but that’s not the point.

But the kicker was that 2 years later, after I’d been back home in Juneau for a while, I met the weekend biker’s daughter. Her name is Ashley, and she taught skiing and snowboarding, as well as doing Ski Patrol.

Those are the moments that make all the suffering worthwhile.

That year was the best snow year on record in Juneau, and I went snowboarding all the time. In a casual conversation, Ashley said she heard I was a writer, asked about my book what was it called?

“Ella Bandita and other stories.”

Ashley got this strange look on her face.

“I have that book. I read it about a year and half ago.”

“What!”

Ashley then tells me this story of her parents meeting me, “this random woman,” buying my book. They read it, and apparently my heart-eating anti-heroine put them off a bit because they thought main story was weird.

But her parents decided to send it on to Ashley anyway as they had intended.

“What did you think?” I asked her.

“I loved it,” she replied. “My parents said, ‘well, I guess you’re weird too.’ But I thought Ella Bandita was awesome. 

Those are the moments that make all the suffering worthwhile.

And I still miss the small town that is the massive state of Alaska.

Peace,
Montgomery

PS: This piece was written from memory of the 2005-2006 DIY booktour/roadtrip in the Alaskan Interior. To check out previous blogs, click here and here.

 

Lazy Hiking and Positive Omens - On the Road #14

Hey y'all,

Honest...I think I wouldn't be keeping a journal if I wasn't sending it to fifty people. It's weird, but even though I have little to say this week, I feel compelled to write anyway. 

For those of you who live in Alaska, ignore this if you like, because we experience cool shit like this all the time. This is more for those who live elsewhere. 

I love lazy hiking. Sitting on my duff whenever I feel like, zoning out until I feel like getting up and moving again. 

It's the peak of autumn right now, and the colors are breathtaking. Staying last weekend in Denali, I couldn't find my camera before going on a hike; but I looked at the cloudy, rainy skies and figured it wasn't that important, so I left without it.

Of course, lots of special Kodak moments happened.

"Etch it in your brain," my inner voice said. "That way you can take it with you when you die." 

That's very nice, but I still wish I had my camera with me. Even if I can recall the image vividly at will, my bragging rights have been severely stunted.     

There had been a group of fitness-junkie hikers that zoomed up to the overlook and back, while I puttered along and sat on my ass regularly. They said the view was "awesome," and nothing else.

But they didn't have a squirrel flirting with them from branches three feet above their heads, trying to seduce some snacks out of them. I did. And that's the kind of thing that happens when you do lazy hiking. 

I continued on up even though the fog was totally socked in and it looked as if I wouldn't be getting any "awesome" views. But I saw at least five flocks of migrating (after asking around, I decided they were cranes) birds flying above me as they made their way to their winter homes. 

Whatever they were, it was impossible to miss them, because their purring birdcalls could be heard for quite a few minutes before I actually saw them. 

I had also seen a flock of cranes (they definitely were) flying above me in Fairbanks. And I saw folded cranes in Gulliver's - who is carrying my book - and in the College Coffeehouse - where I did my last minute storytelling.

My time in Fairbanks was effortless.  

Cranes are definitely a "thing" in my life, whether they're made out of feathers or paper. What can you expect from a woman who folded a thousand cranes and put most of them up on her wall? 

But back to my hike. I made it up to the overlook and there was a ridge trail continuing on. Once at the top of the hill, I hiked the ridgeline. The undulating ease of the ridge is the hikers reward for getting there. 

The mountainsides were stunning with the red, gold, and fiery colors, and the deep green spruce speckled throughout. The fog kept coming in and going out, and eventually, the rainy skies cleared up. 

The views alone were enough to make me regret my camera. And that was before I saw the sheep. 

Going the extra distance was worth it. A quarter mile up the ridgeline, I saw a horned head poking around a rock staring at me, and a smaller head joined hers. 

Looking to the right, I saw a young Dall ram - his horns hadn't curved all the way around yet - poking along the stray plants munching away. He gave me a bored glance and kept chewing. 

The mama sheep and her young were just a little more nervous. They were also right on the trail, so I gave them time and space to move, which they did hesitantly, eyeing me all the while. 

I watched the sheep, the lamb, and the ram for a while, cursing myself the whole time for not searching more diligently for my camera. They practically posed for me, and there was nothing but my memory to remember them by.  

I passed them and sat on a rock that gives that "top of the mountain" feeling and just soaked in the space around me. After a few minutes of sitting on my duff, I head footsteps behind me and turned to see yet another Dall sheep coming up the trail and she stopped about six feet away from me.

We just stared at each other for a few minutes. Maybe if I'd stayed still, she would have strolled right past me, but as soon as I moved, she scurried to the side and around me to join her group.

Now that was cool. 

Between the flocks of cranes and the sheep, I took the whole day as a sign that things were looking up and a breakthrough had happened on my book tour. 

Maybe I'm a superstitious ninny.

But this week, I heard from the Anchorage Press that they are featuring my last storytelling at Organic Oasis, instead of just putting it in the calendar. And book sales have been steady. Maybe that's only a coincidence.

Either way, I still love lazy hiking. 

By the way, many thanks to Jason Caputo for featuring my journal entries on his website, www.juneaumusic.com. Don't forget to check out the site regularly for info on what is happening in Juneau musically and artistically.

Besides some of the links are cool, but beware the infinite David Hasselhoff crotch shot. Unless of course, you like narcissism...and David Hasselhoff. 

Peace,

Montgomery 

This excerpt from my DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005/2006 was one of my favorites. I don’t know if the juneaumusic.com site is still active with or without David Hasselhoff’s crotch shot. But my email journal ended up being my first blog during the infancy phase of blogging. Andrea, who was on my email list, forwarded it on to Jason and that’s how it all began. If you’d like to see the previous letter in this journal, click here.

I LOOOOOOOOOVVVVVVE FAIRBANKS!!!!!! - On the Road #13

Hey y'all,

I Love Fairbanks. I love it, love it, love it!!!!!

Let's color this email happy, baby!

(No color fonts in SquareSpace, unfortunately, hence the colors in the photo.)

Just when it seemed as if I was burrowed in the vat of discouragement, eating bitterness for breakfast, I came to Fairbanks. Never mind the drive up with the fall colors lighting up the tundra - that was beautiful! - but at Fairbanks, I arrived.

Granted my trip was not just sneers, you're-weird-looks, and other unpleasant run-ins - I have met so many wonderful, supportive, and amazing people at every stop...but in Fairbanks - at least from the college side of town to Ester, it wasn't just random individuals here and there, but packs of people in general. We all know that there's safety...and strength in numbers.

And coming here on the tail end of the Alaska Fair was just what my spirit needed to keep going.

I could feel from the first that Fairbanks would be different. At Gulliver's - awesome bookstore! - I ran into an acquaintance I met in Juneau - several of those up here - and was bellyaching about the trip and the difficulties of selling my own work, and myself, etc. when a friend of his sat down and after hearing what I was doing, offered to buy a book.

That night, I was at a dinner party in Ester when Jen, an artist I'd met in Girdwood, suggested that I go by this coffeehouse and if they didn't have anything scheduled, ask to do a storytelling there. Sure enough, one night was open, so I managed to set something up at the last minute. She also challenged me to "creatively visualize" a hundred people waiting in line to buy my book.

"If you do that every day for a month, I promise you, things will happen."

On the same day, I was at Gulliver's again, waiting for my turn for free computer usage when the manager came by and said they'd take five books to start out.

I also sold three more to acquaintances that I ran into and a stranger I'd just met.

The next night, I had a couple of groups, Jen's friends and people that I met at the hostel show up for the storytelling - one man bought five books, a Japanese lady bought two, and yet another bought one. Better yet, Ethan, a high school English teacher bought one and asked permission to photocopy it, so he could teach it.

"I love your book!" said Kliff, a drummer who is a friend of a friend. And apparently, he has raved about it to everybody he knows, because the Ethan the teacher was a friend of his.

At the Pub that night, I sold two more. I also met a radio dj who wants to interview me when I come back to town - because of course I will!!! - and one of the women who bought a book and was at Jen's dinner party - is a natural at marketing and is already cooking up ideas for a dinner party with a story segment in between courses. I had been wanting a venue to do "Ella Bandita" as a combo dinner theatre/tableside storytelling, and here Sarah was just handing it to me.

"Fairbanks is a place where a lot of people are trying to create something," said Jay, a musician who lived in Juneau briefly a few years ago. "So people really try to support each other here."

Jen said her art has just taken off since she moved here. Her friend Heather, who makes hats does quite well at the Farmer's Market.

I don't know what it is about this town, but after weeks of people's walls, boundaries, suspicion, and all other forms of attitude, the feeling of openness, generosity, and support was like the nectar of the gods. I sold twenty books in a few days without even trying and I have a posse in less than a week.

Hope everybody has patience with my bragging rights, but hell, this was long overdue.

Did I mention that I love Fairbanks?

Montgomery

This is from the DIY booktour/roadtrip I took in 2005-2006. This stop was one of my most joyful, and I still have cherished memories from that time. The DJ ended up being a total dud in the long run, fyi.

If you’d like to read the previous On the Road post that strongly contributed to the relief of this journal entry, click here.

Picking Up Strays - On the Road # 10

Hey y’all,

Again, this is a letter written 14 years after the DIYBTRT in Alaska, the summer and fall of 2005. So Joe and I decided to go to Valdez first before heading to McCarthy for the Blackburn Festival. We were curious to follow the pipeline all the way to Valdez. But Joe slept on that drive, which I couldn’t believe. Maybe he has since experienced the incredible beauty I did. But the drive between the Wrangell/St Elias range and the Chugach range is known for a low cloud cover ALL THE TIME. On that day, the cloud cover lifted and what I saw was all kinds of jaw-dropping-stunning-gorgeous! The jagged peaks, glaciers that stretched almost to the road (or so it seemed) and the deep, rich, emerald green that was both vivid and surreal, I felt like I was driving through a mythical land. Where I lived was plenty beautiful, but this was the most exquisite part of Alaska that I ever saw. And that was only from the road. That was not the backcountry.

Joe decided to stay on in Valdez in the hopes of getting another fishing job. He didn’t and joined me at Blackburn, where we stayed in my half collapsed tent. Shannon, the friend from the peanut oil bus, saw Joe entering my tent and was about to deck him, when I showed up and reassured her that he was a friend of mine. The Festival happened, and the blogs about it are here and here for anybody who’d like to read about it.

Another friend joked that I picked up strays along the way and took them for a ride of a brief spell in my road trip, and that was true after this Girdwood party in Kennicott. I don’t remember how this happened, but after the Festival was over, there were a handful of us who stayed in the parking lot for another night. A photographer from Girdwood who had a passing resemblance to one of the Bee Gees in their prime, he had long hair and a beard, and a similar mindset to somebody who came of age in the Disco era – and no he was not of that age. I think Girdwood’s random lesbian, a cute girl with a pixie blonde haircut and large heart shaped sunglasses, a responsible looking woman and her husband, and me and Joe. Anyway, the Bee Gees photographer dude caught a ride with me and my Beast filled with books, and Joe in the backseat. The drive was several hours to Anchorage and then around Turnagain Arm to Girdwood. The photographer lectured Joe about his attitude about something or other, which pissed Joe off to no end. We still had a place to crash, and Bee Gees Photographer Dude showed us the pictures he had taken of all the belly dancers gyrating near the rusting ruins of a defunct copper mine – because of course, he took a lot pictures of the belly dancers. He didn’t get ANY shots of the magical moment when they danced spontaneously. I doubt the essence of that dance could have been captured in a snapshot though.

Anyway, that catches up the gaps in that particular squeeze of time that I neglected to write home about.

Peace,

Montgomery

The God Pan as Box Man - On the Road #7

Hey y'all,

Since I don't have a common theme to play with today and there are lots of images I haven't found space to include, consider this the start of a rummage sale of moments, stories, and such that I've seen and heard while on the road.  

But let's start with the god Pan, the avatar of drunken debauchery and profligate fucking from the pagan days when the worship of many gods for various purposes made sense and everybody was okay with that. Anyway, centuries later when the Word of the Lord was spreading far and wide and probably because Pan was the rock ‘n roll party god, he had the dubious distinction of his image becoming that of the Devil by over-zealous Christians who believed that the flavors of life should be only colored by shades of gray. In case you haven't figured it out, I am a blithering Tom Robbins fan, and “Jitterbug Perfume” gave the god Pan the respect he deserved, with a major, if not starring role, and the favorable impression stuck.  

Why do I mention this now?

Because perhaps it’s possible that the god Pan had to go underground and reincarnate as various human beings to survive the attacks against him; and although he has lost a lot of power, his spirit still lives. And for some crazy damn reason, I'm convinced his current incarnation is in the form of Michael Pando, aka Pando to his friends. For those of you who know Pando, this statement makes total sense because he adores booze to the point of alcoholism and young girls barely into the phase of adulthood. Since he's lost god-status and invincibility, he is weakened by his passions for the party that doesn't stop and often winds up in jail. Everybody who knows Pando has a half dozen outrageous Pando stories to tell, which will become legend.

It is inevitable.

Love him or hate him, he is a character, but a character challenged by finding his good space in this world. He was chased out of Juneau due to a shoot out
with a psycho bum who had taken over the cabin Pando had built.

That kind of thing, you know.

This past summer, Pando had a touristic rafting job with an anal company - which seems to be the case with many touristic companies in Alaska, you know. Anyway, being himself, Pando got drunk one night and stole a golf cart - buck nekkid - and had security chasing him. To disguise himself, he put a box over his head and hightailed it to safety. 

Thus he became known throughout this camp as "Box Man." Every so often, during the summer, Box Man would make a naked public appearance streaking through at the most random moments and it wasn't long before he became legend, and the best part was that nobody knew it was him. One day, he was talking to some dude from some other country and the guy said with a thick
accent, "Box Man, I think he like Zorro. Box man, he come for de peeple."  

Can you imagine hearing something like that about yourself?

Eventually, Pando got booted out due to failing a surprise piss test – he also liked to smoke weed. Well, he had to make a spectacular exit, didn't he? His people would expect it of Box Man.

So one night, when everybody was at dinner, including all the bosses, Box Man makes his final appearance, nakedly running in with a box over him. He stops, strips the box away and stands there with his bare ass and cock, unmasked for all to see before streaking away and packing up his shit to go.   

Pando may have even been sober.  

Since I've only heard about this through the grapevine, I may not have all the details straight. But what the hell, it makes a good story. And when I showed this to Pando, he seemed more than a little flattered.

The god Pan keeping the spirit alive - what do y'all think?

Montgomery

PS This is from the DIY booktour/roadtrip I did in 2005-2006 when marijuana was still illegal everywhere. This is one of my favorite stories from that road trip. Although I did not experience it directly, I knew Pando, and Joe told me this story at the Blackburn Music Festival in Kennicott/McCarthy. I would later have a challenging night crashing in a squatters treehouse in Girdword with both Pando and Joe, while they were drunk and I was sober. Good times.