The Dead Sea Gulls & Company (Part II)

The morning after was always an amusing time at camp. For those like myself who managed to pace themselves with the recreational substances, I managed to recall many hilarious scenes that may become lost to the alcohol or traumatically repressed by those who didn't drink enough.

Understandable as there was a comically great deal of random nudity spurred on by Nickolas' personal comforts with losing a few layers. Before long a chain reaction of disrobing tops and or bottoms occurred, turning this brown man's skin red with bashfulness. I was no stranger to ditching clothes, being obsessed with the ancient Greeks and having done my share of nude modeling, but for once I thought I'd play the mild mannered guest card and simply giggle and shake my head.

A burnout contest erupted once David jovially provoked the young buck, Mike, into seeing who could rev their engine, drop it into gear, and burn rubber the longest before falling over. Perhaps the most level-headed of the three brothers and dare I even say the entire group, it was amusing to see David spearheading the foolhardy competition. So it was safe to say everyone was a little crazy in this ragtag group of characters. Hell, even I had a wild side that would come out to play after testing the waters.

The debate about who won after the headlamps shut off lasted well past bed time but come morning it became obvious that the victor was Mike. Unfortunately, his triumph came at the cost of a rock that shredded his bran new tire! His response was typically far from concerned as he relished in the victory.

One night down and it was already shaping up to be an eventful gathering! To our dismay, however, the heavens thought to rain on our parade. Instead of waiting out the weather in our individual tents, the resourceful men and women erected a sort of hang out shelter in no time and with great effectiveness!

The two bikes literally holding down the fort were, in fact, my top two favorites. The one being pampered by its own miniature tarp belonged to none other than Nickolas. It sported a tank with a custom paint job to represent the symbol of the motorcycle club as if it were the standard bearer bike. The military motif gave it a hearty look that gave Chance and I some great ideas for down the road. The artfully executed cafe racer reminiscent of the Honda my brother had recently acquired was owned by a quiet fellow by the name of Brad. His brother Jeff was also the silent type. Unfortunately our shared reserved natures kept us from interacting much so I can only give them both the benefit of the doubt that they were men of merit if they rolled with the Gulls.

Once we got the fire going it wasnt so bad! In fact the shelter forced me to be rather intimate with these strangers on their way to becoming friends.

Jared set up a sturdy log bench for his girlfriend Kimmie and I. There seemed to be a longstanding game about the cutest couple which always seemed to go to David and Tera who's playfulness was undoubtedly adorable but I always seemed to catch Jared and Kimmie in the most heartwarming moments. Kimmie, herself, struck me as having a huge heart as she always seemed to go out of her way check up on how I was doing be it keeping warm or just to make sure I was having a good time overall.


Also making sure I was getting a piece of the fire, the fellow in front of me consistently scooting his chair to open up the circle a bit was Greg. I liked this guy. He gave me the impression of being a man's man but still managing to be sensitive enough to having a heart of gold. He told amusing stories often involving himself in awkward situations - my favorite kind!

Jon was another paradox of being rough around the edges but possessing an inherent kindness. He rocked many scars, many as badges, others were lost to memory but the tales behind the ones he could recall were both shocking and funny. Although, none were more hilarious than the mouth of the group, Chance.

No one could get away with saying anything without a snide or witty comment to strike it from the air. Truly a man not afraid to say what everyone's thinking, I admired that as well as sharing in my motorcycle's name. Initially I pegged him as a cynic but over time he came to prove himself as the most grounded member - like an anchor amidst all the shenanigans. His sense of humor hiding his inherent concern for everybody oddly made him one of the most well-rounded there.

Then there was one new face that rode in last night who shared in the category of fairly balanced between saint and rascal known as Angie. Maternal vibes were what I got right off the bat in how she seemed to both scold some of our more juvenile acts yet take pleasure in the fact the boys will simply be boys. She was no stranger to shenanigans, though, as I would later learn that night during drunk story time.

Speaking of which, to help pass the time under the tarp, Lyuba whipped out a book and began reading the poetry of Walt Whitman. At first I groaned because poetry was just one thing I didn't get, finding it to be elitist in nature and a maker of sheep of the spineless listeners who aren't bold enough to admit to its impractical silliness. Take my opinion with a grain of salt as it's coming from someone who is spartan about saying what I mean and meaning what I say with little to no grey in between. But then she shoved the book in my direction saying a particular poem reminded her of me and requested I read it aloud. "One Hour to Mandess and Joy," it was. At first the stumbling of arbitrarily contracted words got under my skin but once a proper cadence reigned me in, dare I say, I kind of liked it? The last stanza was where I found affinity.

O something unprov’d! something in a trance!
O madness amorous! O trembling!
O to escape utterly from others’ anchors and holds!	20
To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts—with invitations!
To ascend—to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!	25
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy.

Hm! It was definitely food for thought... Something that would ring truer as I chronicle these events in retrospect.

When I closed the book, regaining a view of my audience, I smiled remembering fond childhood memories of the books Peter Pan and Where the Wild Things Are and thinking how cool it would be to run wild among the Lost Boys or the wild forest monsters. I think I just may have found them.

Some folks took a car into town earlier to pick up more alcohol today as Utah apparently doesn't sell liquor on the sabbath so it was time to stock up. They were also waiting around for another handful of friends to show up and be guided to camp but those who remained were getting rather antsy, myself included, especially when the rain clouds pushed on. Ever dependable Dan expressed his discontent and proposed to ride up to the nearby lake, which I was quick to jump on... Or into, rather. Jon and Lyuba threw in as well and out of camp we rode.

On our way out a white car met us at the junction. Hanging back until introductions were properly made later, I still managed a nod of courtesy to the driver. More wild things joining the mix! Little did I know how wild.

High above the desert foothills where the scenery transformed from shrubs to tall alpine trees reminiscent of my home, the glittering Posey Lake invited a touch from my hand. To my surprise, at the shore, the water seemed tolerable, if not welcoming! We were definitely going for a dip.

Greg, Courtney and Chance appeared out of nowhere, beckoning the four of us to join them in a hike to a lookout post that could be seen in the forested hills from the lake. It appeared to provide a view most epic, so enthusiastically I charged the trail.

In no time I was pumping the brakes for the crew to take a smoke break, hah! Fair enough. Courtney gifted me some energy bars which went down well with my meager breakfast of coffee and bananas. Jon, too, had his fruit for the day: an apple fashioned into a smoking apparatus.

Eventually the expedition was on its way again. At some point the incline seemed to deter the group so we pioneered our own trail to circumnavigate the waters. The conversation on the trail was mostly recalling the night before. Lyuba still couldn't believe she ditched her top to which Courtney provided her a surprisingly vivid play by play of the event.

The troupe connected with Jared, Kimmie, Nickolas and his newly arrived friend Ada building a nice warm fire. Despite the open skies, the wind was still very much bone-chilling so they had the right idea. Ada, with alcohol already in her hand at midday either had the same warmth-inducing idea or she just really liked beer. She was an innocent-looking little woman with an Albanian accent which seemed to mask the dark humor and jaw dropping jokes that didn't seem becoming a lady! Every once in a while I had to ask myself, "Did she just say that?" Nevertheless, it was refreshing to count her as just one of the boys. She hailed from Vegas earlier that day with her friend who was with another hiking group making their way around the lake.

Meanwhile, in the idleness of standing patiently around the fire pit for the other group, Jared started disrobing. Squinting inquisitively, I demanded to know what he was up to, already guessing it rhymed with handkerchief, which he just took off. Going for a dip, he says. Grumbling, I started losing my attire as well. Ever concerned, Kimi questioned why I was reluctant, let alone following her mad boyfriend. My reply was something along the lines of not letting him have all the fun more than solidarity. Of course, Nickolas was already in just his boots... Again.

The trio marched down to the dock with the waning adrenaline being blown away by the bitterly cold wind. The water was clear but it seemed shallow to begin with so I cautiously dipped a leg in and instantly regretted it. Besides feeling the lakebed brush against my big toe, the sheer cold screamed bad idea. But between the three of us, our false courage reinforced by solidarity refused us a ledge to back down.

 

Like a cat springing instantly out of a bath, I looked around the dock to make sure neither of my brothers in jackassery had drowned. Only Jared climbed out and a brief moment of worry surpassed the horrible, horrible cold. Then I noticed the wet footprints leading from the dock back to the camp fire and even as I write now, I'm laughing aloud at the speed Nickolas must have sprinted for the flames.

Around the fire pit once more, we soon agreed that it was worth it. I, for one, felt damn refreshed and baking close to the pit was the coziest I had felt in a long while. Just then a grounds keeper pulled over, got out of his truck and lectured us with stories about able-bodied swimmers he personally knew who drowned due to, what we all assumed to be his personally coined term, "impact hypothermia." He honestly sounded like one of those only other extra characters in a Scooby Doo episode who is obviously the villain. My guess is he was keeping us meddling kids from uncovering dead bodies he must hide in the lake.

The second hiking party showed up with the new face, Ali. She was the driver I tipped my imaginary hat to earlier but when the proper opportunity to get acquainted presented itself I was still too busy trying to make smoke jerky out of my trembling hide. It wasn't until she called me out as being Australian to a "good on ya" comment I made did my ears perk up. Cool point goes to the blonde. She had joined Ada for the five hour drive out of Vegas practically on the fly. No stranger to travel, her genuine wanderlust found admiration in my directionless quest, even confiding a personal dream to do the very same with a van and her bicycles. Ali would later give me a great idea for the next chapter of this bohemian odyssey keeping in tune with Americana: working for my food and lodging on farms and ranches! More on that gig and this character later...

Soon the fire took on more company than it could accommodate. Besides a random fellow and his Labrador mix dog which stole my heart, pining for my own pup back home, four new bikes rolled in. Two guys, two girls of whom I unfortunately did not get to know well as they only stayed one night. I regret not being able to recall the names of the tall one in the classic riding jacket and bandana, the quiet lass with the curly brown hair, and the other who I refer to as the Rocketeer chick (because she actually called me out when the obscure theme song embarrassingly shuffled into play - cool points for sure). The last of the riders, however, was Tyler, who exuded nothing but goodness. I felt as if I had his blessing for my trip it would affirm I was doing something wholesome and worthwhile.

With the lake now old news and the fire pit lacking, the gang saddled up for a ride.


 

It didn't occur to me where we were going for I had assumed it was the campsite until we had been riding for quite some time. Eventually David as pointman raised his closed fist and motioned us all to come to a stop.

Apparently the destination was a place called Devil's Backbone but during the huddle it didn't seem like anyone knew how far until we'd get there. A passing truck showed up to give us the mileage to which the majority agreed to rise up to the challenge.

In no time at all, we had arrived. The view was spectacular! If only I remembered to wipe the lake water from the lens.

Once our eyes had all they could drink of the quintessential Utah landscape, a half mile long moving trail of dust through the forest trail made its way back to camp.

Apparently those who opted to skip on the Devil's Backbone convoy and returned to camp earlier in the day were the dreamers of the gang for they had long labored over creating a hot tub in the slow-moving creek below the commons. At some point the night before we had joked about hot springs produced in the ancient Chinese secret fashion of heating rocks. Evidently someone wanted to see if it actually worked, rallying a handful of the boys to build a makeshift hot tub wall of stone doubling as a dam and cooking the remainder of the masonry over a fire. Sadly, the sensation of heat, more akin to being lukewarm at best, would be fleeting when thrown into the basin. Tenacious as they were rambunctious, a second engineering attempt was made later that evening by routing the creek water through a found pipe that they buried under a bonfire, hypothetically heating the passing water... But alas, to no avail.

Normally I would be knee deep in a ridiculous project like that but I believe the lake adventure drained me for the day. My contribution to the camp was simply piping music through Chance's ghetto-rigged speakers which honestly was an anxiety every three minutes not knowing what embarrassing tune would pop up next, tarnishing my reputation. Nonetheless, after the proud moment with Rocketeer chick, I could sigh in relief knowing I was in good company.

That night, as the rolls and bottles were passed continuously like a merry-go-round and Nickolas woke from his mushroom coma to join the bonefire, David proposed we all take turns telling our most embarrassing drunk story. Lyuba opened up first with kind of a downer involving a comically depressing story involving the loss of her virginity. The threatened newborn pastime was saved by many more uplifting, truly shameful but always side-splittingly jolly good. There were quite a few involving Angie ending up in the hospital, another about a girlfriend-stealing bathtub, one involving a kidnapped toddler mistaken for troll, a fond memory of a friend knowingly bringing home a transvestite, and a hook up with a freak with perplexing sex toys and a rape fantasy. Wow.

When it was my turn I had absolutely nothing! I confessed, proudly as usual, that I was still a virgin - apparently in more ways than one! Also that considering how few and far between my bouts of drunkenness were, all my experiences behind the bottle were proud, not embarrassing! Naturally, I was riddled by the inquisition, which never gets old but for once even I joined in. Why the goody two shoes act?

While the uproar resumed, I took the opportunity to be withdrawn into my own thoughts. Sure, I identify with myself as being a good guy in general but I confess there are times where my role in society is a performance. To a few close people like my brother I even recently confessed that days where I'm socially drained, I'm simply out of "acting juice." Coming from yours truly who considers sincerity the one most essential pillar in keeping a society from crumbling from within itself, it occurred to me what hypocrisy I had been keeping under my own sleeves.

Even with the flames enlarged by the extra firewood Greg and I procured, it wasn't enough to keep two dozen of us warm. Some retired to bed, others built a second fire which I meandered over to for a while but despite physically putting myself in a social setting, I couldn't shake some thoughts and stayed rather quiet, even retiring to my tent without even as much as a good night. That night seemed especially cold even for a desert.

 

The Dead Sea Gulls & Company (Part I)

The famous archetypal story progression found in many narratives throughout history and cultures known as a monomyth, or the hero's journey, seems to have manifested itself in my own tale. From the call to adventure, crossing of the threshold, and even the road of trials, in the end I can only hope that this odyssey will conclude with the boon I seek and not in tragedy. One could surmise that having fallen twice now, I've fulfilled a prophetic aspect of the monomythical pattern in which the protagonist must undergo ordeals often occurring in threes and failing more than one before beginning a transformation. Third time, as they say, is a charm!

In the last chapter I mentioned I was due for a metamorphosis. The first was a shift towards reaching outside myself and sincerely bonding with my fellow man - to ditch the solitary attitude for a more social one, in other words. The next layer of change I had assumed to address my reckless nature. I wasn't too far off, however, the wisdom wrought out from deep within me by a very special group of people was not the answer anticipated. Instead, it was a revelation that would redefine me.

Chance having suffered that rough fall just outside the Grand Canyon prompted me to reconsider directions. The plan was originally to leave Utah and continue south and then east, circumventing the Rocky Mountain range. But with a broken shifting lever peg and who knows what else may have rattled the engine, I couldn't risk running my champion into the ground. Amidst deliberation, as if by chance, I received a message from one of the younger folks happened upon at that motorcycle swap meet in which I stopped in on a whim a week earlier. It was an invitation from David to join him and his motorcycle club for the camping trip that was first mentioned to me in person. At the time, if you recall, I politely declined, assuming I'd be well along my way but now the prospect of it gained serendipitous merit. David mentioned not only plans to hike to a beautiful waterfall but also see a famous denizen of Escalante, Utah colloquially known as the Desert Doctor. A quirky engineer with half a century of motorcycle knowledge, he sounded like the right man to head to. I was sold. Our compass readjusted 90 degrees and gunned for the heart of the Utah desert.

Those aren't bear paws; that's a biker's tan.

The road east happened to be one recommended to me by John and his wife - the couple I met at the coffee shop in Cedar City. I was happy to be honoring at least one of their passionate suggestions, even if by happenstance. The meager portion that I experienced of Highway 12 was more gorgeous and thrilling a ride than I had imagined!

 

We rolled through a small one horse town and it wasn't until I saw a sign promptly appearing with a "Thanks for visiting Escalante," did we hit the brakes. It was really a small hamlet in the middle of desert canyons that was easy to simply be a blur on the saddle. The motel I had called early to book a couple nights wasn't hard to find and on the porch a sweet lady called to me, "Are you Bonne?"

Why, yes, ma'am! I'd quickly find out Paige preferred her first name just fine. For my two night stay we would come to be earnest pals, sharing stories from one another's autobiographical libraries. She had lived in both Seattle and San Francisco but that was just the icing on the cake when it came to being on the same page about living life. She had moved here for the slower pace and to open this quaint motel that reminded me of Middlegate in the best of ways.

Honestly, when I saw the old fashion mouse trap in the closet I smirked, walked right back outside and requested to be extended a second night. My sense of charm must be so bizarre.

My ride and I ended a day of riding early by holing up here and just in time. A dust storm would blow through the canyon for a few days, rendering riding to a balancing act with a blind fold on. I would spend my time here writing about my previous misadventures while waiting for David and company to roll into town for a weekend of camping and motorcycle maintenance.

Much writing and reflection took place during those windy days indoors but there was still much to be said and thought through, especially concerning a moral to my recent brushes with a premature end. I figured I would spend the rest of the day at a cafe in town after parting ways with Paige.

Before seeing me off, my flattering inkeeper insisted that she would look for me in the movies or magazines, admitting to referring to me with the local townsfolk as the a tall drink of water who shamefully spent all his time in his room. Hah! I'll miss her.

At the cafe, I parused the area for a quiet place to sit, contemplate and await the horde of motorcycles coming down from Salt Lake City. Just then, my name was hurled into air in a tone that meant to test if it's owner was actually in the room. Has the motel owner chatted about me with everyone? Perhaps, but still, to my pleasant surprise, the man who beckoned me was none other than David's youngest brother, Mike! A Jesus-looking fellow who's personality reminded me of Peter Fonda from Easy Rider, he was quick to roping me into what would be the begining of a very memorable four days with life long friends.

Right then and there I was introduced to the rest of the scouting party consisting of his other brother Dan, a real friendly go-getter with a resilient attitude that made him seem immortal to life's lemons; their buddy Courtney, much like Dan in his ever-surprising humor but more so the daredevil, embracing the consequences of leading the charge into the unknown; and Lyuba, the youngest of them all - a well-read lady with a strong passion for words and the unquenchable discontent to venture to the places she has but read about.

"Want the rest of my pizza," Mike offered.

Either I hadn't interacted with people in the longest time or I honestly felt strong personalities in what initially appeared to be a ragtag group of everyday people. In retrospect, I don't think I was embelishing in the slightest. As I wolfed down the slices, I apologized in between bites if I spoke too much in due to my lonesome circumstances. We all shared a laugh over my comical desperation and established rapport with ease and a full stomach.

Mike, the owner of the only other Bonnie I've seen since the Pacific Ocean, was formally introduced to Chance. The crew was instantly fond of what was, for the longest time, a rather embarrassingly charming set up. I learned that day the term is "ghetto-rigged" and I was far from alone in the haphazard fashion that didn't exactly value pristine chrome or professionally manufactured accessories. Mike, himself, had gone down earlier and similarly lost his shifting lever arm but managed to ghetto-rig one on the fly with some house hold items. On that note, he suggested we just go swing by the Desert Doctor now just for fun. I thought about my journal for a moment then thought, why not?

Courtney had driven his car but for the sake of convenience and commaraderie he saddled up with Dan on his unique Harley Davidson with tiny new handlebars that suited his eccentric personality. My heart palpitated ever so slightly when I rode together with them for it had been the first time I had ever shared the road with more than one cycle!

The blissful ride was short, for it was a little town after all. The man's lawn announced that we had arrived. I should've known a notorious character who calls himself the Desert Doctor wouldn't have a sterile-looking workshop but rather a Disneyland to all motorcyclists alike.

Anyone who wasn't either a biker or an artist would've called his acreage a junk yard but there truly was a cheeky union of engineering and aesthetic purpose to every nut and bolt on his property. A hoarse voice welcomed us in.

I won't even dare to tarnish this man's reputation by trying to confine it to words alone. For all we knew, he was God come down as man to absolve us of our motorcycling sins and get us back on the straight - sometimes twisty - and narrow. As if ordaining us for making the pilgrimage, he gave all the bike owners in our group a homemade symbol to carry on our keychains called a "road warrior."

Once we came off our star-struck gratefulness, he asked if anyone needed some tinkering done. I mentioned my story and he instantly had a fix, saying he'd take a look at it after he had finished helping out his current stranded traveler.

The Doc nor I were in a rush as we were both sticking around all weekend so the party took our time admiring his place. All of these are the flat and blown out tires he's collected over the years of towing stranded bikers within a 200 mile radius. As you can tell, many riders have stories to tell about their chance encounter with the Desert Doctor from all around the world.

We could have spent the whole day there but the scouting crew had to find a camp site and I, an epiphany. When I mentioned I ought to head back to the cafe and make use of the time I had to myself before the rest of the gang arrived, Dan devilishly asked if I was on some kind of schedule. Firing Chance up I declared we go find ourselves a damn fine camping spot.

A considerable amount of off-roading needed to be done as soon as we left the main road out of town. The two bikes in front seemed confident enough as they struck me as misfits who probably take their non-dirt bikes off the pavement more often than not. Playing my well-worn bravado card, I kept pace like a shark in the water.

During the search, however, I would learn they weren't immortal in all elements after all as Dan and Courtney bit the dust. Honestly, the nonchalant manner in which they dusted themselves and the bike off made me feel both closer to them and more unafraid of dropping.

Eventually we found a decent spot not far from the main road into town. Mike and Lyuba opted to stay and prep the site while the other two head back into town to retrieve Courtney's four-wheeler. It seemed suitable that I now split off and take advantage of the free time to find the pending closure to my last journal entry.

Back at the cafe, I had what seemed to be my first case of writer's block. The flashing cursor on a blank white screen was all I saw for hours. In my mind, I imagined what lesson I needed to learn was how to make more responsible choices in regards to my well-being and out of respect for my worrying loved ones. Simple enough, one would think but for some reason it just wasn't resonating. Before I could beat it into the ground, the roar of what seemed like an army of motorcycles could be heard in the distance. Without even looking, I closed my journal to write another day, hopped off the balcony and surrendered to living in the moment for the a good long while.

Enter the Dead Sea Gulls motorcycle club! Hearty welcomes were received all around! Names, handshakes and salutes were flying at me in all directions! There was barely enough time for introductions for the sun was setting and we had go, go, go!

My first group ride was definitely one to remember! The camp site had been moved considerably much further away, albeit more suitable to sheltering us from wind and housing over a dozen bikes and twice as many people. As long and hazardous as the road to it got, especially with the kicked up dust in the setting sun, I secretly enjoyed the thrill of it all. Tera, in the Eskimo hood, David's sweet girlfriend who rocks one hell of a pixie haircut and always kept me well-fed as well as well-dared, boisterously made me feel at home by commending my off-roading skills - which I humbly assured her was purely bravado.

There were so many faces to become familiar with but for those with bikes, the personalities their rides represented already got me on my way to knowing them.

While some took to preparing dinner, typical of me to stay out of the kitchen, I meandered over to a group behind the main camp partaking in some recreational drug use on a lofty beam above a dried up creek (apparently it helps to be high when you're high).

Learning the ways of the tribe, I joined them in my first spliff, I believe it was called - an amalgamation of tabacco and cannabis. There, I sat next to a dashing gentleman by the name of Jared with a disposition that everyone insists is an 80s action star's look. The eldest of the group in his early thirties, he was a master story teller. I knew he had a personality just by the western clothing he wore.

Actually, there were at least three other pairs of cowboy boots at camp! Two belonged to another fellow with a big personality and an angelic voice - Jordan, and his wife Rachel who may have been the biggest sweetheart there. The two of them together always seemed to be sporting smiles that easily caught on just by proximity and found my circumstances to ever be a subject of curiosity and admiration. The last pair of shit-kickers were always found on a fellow by the name of Nickolas, even if he wasn't wearing anything else...

Believe it or not but of all the characters around that bonfire of intoxication, he would come to inspire me the most that weekend. A wizard with words, no stranger to danger, the apparent soul of the Dead Sea Gulls, and owner of a most charming motorcycle and manliest of beards on a face that demands the masses to say Ryan Gosling looks like him and not the other way around, Nickolas was definitely wise beyond his years. The answer I had been looking for in the past couple of days would reverberate through all these unique individuals, be reinforced by another joining the next day but initially erupt from this man's beautiful mind.

But not before a weekend of mischief, debauchery, recklessness and nothing short of misadventure! Let the wild rumpus begin!!