All Aboard!

I recently took an Amtrak train  to San Francisco with a good buddy a month or so ago.  We were going to a SF Giants game at AT&T Park where they were also celebrating 50 years of the Grateful Dead.  Yeah, it's kinda nice that our home town baseball team happens to be from a city that also has an outrageous rock scene that dates back to the 1960's.  We're fairly blessed too when it comes to local rock luminaries hanging out and sometimes singing the national anthem.

I've seen Jerry, Bob and Vince all sing together (which goes back a ways since two of them are now truly gratefully dead), Huey Lewis and the News, the two guitarists of Metallica doing a stunning instrumental version, and Santana, also doing an instrumental, to name a few.  We also routinely get Steve Perry, the former lead singer of Journey, directing the crowd while they sing his song, "Don't Stop Believing."

This 50 year Grateful Dead Anniversary was a little different national anthem wise.  One of Jerry's daughters, Annabelle Garcia, was going to sing a duet with Bill Walton, former NBA superstar and long time Dead Head.  Only the powers that be I think shut Bill's mike down after the first few warbled words left his mouth.  Either that or he shut it down himself and lip synced when he figured out he was really just a retired athlete and had no business trying to sing the national anthem.  Anytime.  Anywhere.  Even in the shower.  He couldn't hold a candle to Annabelle, who did an exceptional job, making those high notes soar.

They also gave away free anniversary t-shirts, which we were going to forego except we ran into a chum who was like 20th in a line of about 25,000.  So we hung with him and his wrecking crew for a while, but it was still an unbelievable fiasco.  The shirts didn't arrive until about the 2nd inning.  Some folks waited in line the entire game, we fortunately only had to wait about an hour.

I bring up the shirt because I wore it on the train ride back the next day.  A youngster in his early twenties saw it and then excitedly exclaimed he just saw the Dead when they recently played in Chicago.  He asked if I was there.

"Nah," I said, "I saw them quite a few times back in the 70's at Winterland."

"Ah," he responded, "The real Dead.  With Jerry and everything."

"Yep," I smiled, "Weren't nothing like it."

My lovely wife and I also took the train to the Bay Area another few weeks back for our youngest Grandson's first birthday.  It was the third weekend in a row we were traveling to the bay for family obligations and I just didn't want to drive the Daytona 500 speedway one more time.

The train offers a lovely diversion from all the non-signalling tail gating speed freaks that have now become rampant and the norm on California's highways.  Which brings me to my road way pet peeves.

This one kills me.  Every time.  The folks that turn on their signal as they begin their turn.  Like, why bother?  We already know, NOW.  It would have been nice to know about ten seconds ago though, when you first began your speed descent and dropped me down to 10 MPH..

I love most of the folks out here in the country on two lane roads.  If someone is behind them, and they know because they actually use their rear view mirrors, they'll flip their blinker on about a quarter mile ahead of their upcoming turn.  I'm not quite that insane, but if someone is behind me, and I know because I actually look in my rear view mirror too, I'll give them a good hundred yard heads up.  If I'm dropping someone behind me almost down to zero mph I think they have a right to know why.

Like, is there a hazard in the road up ahead?  A lost child?  A vagrant dog?  A goat?  A clown with a kazoo?   

Folks, use your mirrors and give the person behind you some advance notice if you're turning.  Please.  Especially if it's me.

Speaking of the person behind you, what's up with the prevalence of tailgaters these days?  I mean, it seems like everybody in this state is now driving like they're from Southern California.  All the time.  You used to have to go down there to experience that wide open assault.  Now it's everywhere.  Ever wonder why when there's a highway accident these days it usually involves a motorcycle, a semi and 57 cars?

And then when you do leave a reasonable space between you and the car in front of you someone comes along and pushes their booty right in.  I remember one time we were traveling north up the middle of the state on Interstate 5, returning from a Thanksgiving feast at our son's in San Diego.

Traffic was fierce, and if you left an inch of space between you and the car in front some butthole pushed their way right on in.  I remember honking at one fervently crazy bitch that almost clipped our front bumper.   She backed off but then gave me a dirty look like I was the bad guy.  I mean, W.T.F.  What's wrong with people anymore?  Whatever happened to safety and respect?

People, be safe.  Leave at least four seconds of space between you and the car in front of you.  If you're tailgating anywhere above thirty mph you cannot react in time to avoid hitting something.  Like the idiot in front of you that just hit his brakes because he's turning.  Had he used his signal properly maybe he saves both your sorry asses.

Then there's the vapidly vacuous pathetically unaware moron blithely cruising along on the two lane highway just below the speed limit.  Then, when a passing lane appears, he speeds up, making passing him more difficult than it should have been.

It happened to me so often when I was on the road for a few years that I began to think these really were  mean people.  Passive aggressive BS.  But when I looked at their faces as I passed I became aware that these people had not a clue.  They had no idea another vehicle was within a hemisphere of them, let alone behind them.  They were just mindlessly ambling along in their own little world.  When a passing lane comes along the asphalt expands.  So they feel safer or something and speed up.   Or maybe they feel they have to obey the speed limit signs which bumped up the limit by 10.  But then they ignore the ones that say "Slower traffic use right lane."

I dunno.  I'm baffled.

And then more than half the time you end up having to pass them in the right lane, you know, the lane slower vehicles are supposed to move over to.

Sigh.

I don't know about you, but I hate it when someone is on my rear.  I pull over as soon as it's safe.  Or, if we come to a passing lane I maintain my same speed and pull into the right lane.  Pretty simple, really.  It's just a matter of, um, paying attention when you're behind the wheel of a couple ton, steel angel of potential death.

Then there's that same oblivious chimpanzee behind the wheel on a three lane freeway, passing the car next to him at the same speed.   Only, you know, if he's going the same speed he's not really passing anything.  So then you get a snarling pack of Daytona drivers stacking up behind the chimp and the asleep at the wheel next to him.

In the meantime, the right lane is completely open for miles sometimes.  Which is where you'll find me, zipping along in the lane less traveled.

My daughter and I have developed a couple alternative routes as far as getting from here to there is concerned.  Several routes designed to completely avoid Interstate 80.

Nope.  I'm not sharing.  Otherwise, well, you know, they won't be alternate routes anymore.

In the meantime, we, as a family, have discovered Amtrak.  From our locale here in the Sierra Nevada Foothills we can pick up the train at three fairly close locations.

We can do the Capitol Corridor, which is the commuter train that runs mainly from Sacramento to ultimately San Jose, a couple of ways.  We can drive to Sacramento, an hour away, and pick it up almost any time.  They run just about hourly out of there westward as they do eastward.

If we don't want to drive to Sacramento, we can pick up the Capitol Corridor in Auburn, a scant thirty minutes away.  But they only have two times of the day that the train runs all the way to Auburn.  An early morning commute leaves westbound around 6:30 and arrives from it's Eastbound run around that same time in the evening.  You can still park at the Auburn station at any time of the day and then take an Amtrak bus down to Sacramento.  That, also, runs almost hourly.

Another option, the one I most recently took, is the Zephyr, which you can pick up out of Colfax, Ca, a scant twenty-five minutes away.  The Zephyr runs from Emeryville in the West to Chicago in the East, with a zillion stops in between.   There's a few stops between here and Emeryville too, but they typically only last a couple minutes.

Before I forget, an absolute must watch hilarious train adventure movie is the 1976 Silver Streak.  This flick is the first of several combining the genius comedy buddy team talents of Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor.  It also stars a rather gorgeously steamy Jill Clayburgh.  If you haven't seen it, check it out. 

I went on this last train adventure all by myself.  I was ultimately heading down to AT&T Park for a father daughter date to see the Giants and Dodgers.  It was her idea.  She'd never seen the Dodgers and bought the tickets for us as a Father's Day present.  As a matter of fact, I got three pairs of Giants tickets for Father's Day this year.  Like, someone must think I'm a fan or something.

The morning of my departure my world was frantic as usual.  The train was passing eastbound through Colfax around 11:50 AM, so I did have time to get most of my chores and obligations done.  I came up here to the office about an hour and a half before my train departure time, about an hour before I was planning on leaving for the station.

I opened up all my usual half dozen windows, and on one of those intuitive hunches I thought I'd better check my train status.  They've been known to run late.  I might have a little more time.

Or not.  Holy cow, the Zephyr was running 45 minutes early!  I had no time.  I had to fly.  Good thing I'm  OCD.  Or ACDC.  Or whatever I am.  I had pretty much been ready to go four days prior.  Checked and re-checked. 

It's two lane country highway all the way to Colfax from here, and I made pretty good time cruising at 45-50 MPH with minimal resistance.  You know, other cars.  It was all going great until I hit the part that had a flagman and about fifteen stopped vehicles in front of me.  Aaaargh!  I looked at my watch.  I was still five minutes away.

"I can still make it," I thought.

"Or not," I thought again.

Somehow I managed to breathe throughout the five minute delay and then resumed the eight minute, 25 MPH, fifteen vehicle parade ride into Colfax.

Fortunately it's a very small town and the train station is right in the middle.  Once I arrived I breathlessly discovered something that every train traveling novice should be aware of.  Your train will NEVER be ahead of schedule, they will never leave before your station's scheduled departure time.  They may be late, but they will never be ahead of schedule.

Whew!  So then I had an extra forty-five minutes of time to kill.  So I bought a Powerball ticket and discovered the little town of Colfax is named after Schuyler Colfax, who was a US Representative and Vice President under Ulysses Grant.  Apparently he was somewhat instrumental in getting the railroad over the Sierras.  Or something like that.  The old dude is also remarkably popular.  No less than eight towns across the country are named after him.  So is a county or two.  Go figure.

The train was right on time and the conductor met me at the bottom steps.  I was the only one hopping aboard from that one horse country stop.  He scanned my ticket and within a minute we were rolling down the tracks.  I ambled up to the top deck and easily found a double window seat on the side I wanted.  The train was not crowded at all.

The Zephyr is different than the Capitol Corridor in a couple ways.  First of all, there's no Wifi.  No interstellar surfing, better enjoy the scenery.  The Cap Corridor does have Wifi, probably because it is primarily a commuter train.

The seats are different too.  Although spacious and graced with a number of tables, the leg room on the Cap Corridor has nothing on the Zephyr.  Basketball players can lounge in comfort on the Zephyr.  There's almost enough room to play a basketball game between you and the seat in front.  It's quite expansive, with reason, of course.

That would be because many folks, those traveling economically and who don't want to pay for a sleep car, can actually set up camp and sleep in the seats.  The back tilts waay back and there's a number of inventive leg rests and pull outs to make what I will surmise is a decent enough sleep space.  If you're into public slumber.

The actual train ride is ultra fabulous.  It's like riding in a 1973 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, only better.  The only thing really missing was a sub woofer, which, to be effective on this sized vehicle would need to be about the size of Canada.  Then we'd a been really happening.

The scenery coming down from the Sierras is lovely.  I guess that's why I live here.  It looked tinder box dry, but still lovely.  We passed right by Auburn and picked up speed as we came out of the hills, blazing right into the Roseville station.  A quick stop there and we were off to Sacramento.

There's a big difference in train stations in all these towns by the way.  Colfax and Auburn are quite small as you might imagine.  Auburn's almost non-existent as a matter of fact.  If you need to you can buy a ticket from a machine.  There's no human interface.  Colfax, on the other hand, has a lovely little station with marginally attractive humans.  The station includes a wonderful little museum, hearkening back the days of railroad yore and lore.


Roseville also serves as a freight train station and hence has about 147 tracks compared to the 2 at Auburn and Colfax.  The human station at Roseville looks small but nice, although I've never been off the train there.  I have no idea if they have a machine or humans, marginally attractive or not. 

The Sacramento station is obviously the largest of all four, an old brick anthem to the industry's glory days.  The interior is currently undergoing a face lift with tarps and scaffolding everywhere.  There are a number of humans at the Sacramento station.

It's also a few hundred yard hike from the actual Sacramento station over to the railroad tracks.  Plug that into your equation if you're running behind.  You'll really be running, trust me.

Access at the other three stations is easy.  They all sit about twenty feet from the tracks.  Parking is also free at Colfax and Auburn, not sure about Roseville.  It costs $10.00 a day to park at the Sacramento station. 

Parking at Colfax or Auburn and taking the Amtrak bus to Sacramento ends up being a bit cheaper, but it also takes a little longer than if you drove your own vehicle to the Sacramento station.  The bus has stops in Roseville and Rocklin on the way to Auburn.  Plus, if you have a lovely wife like I do that is traveling with you, it's doubtful you'll be taking the bus.  Anywhere. 

Every town you pass through, whether little or big, offers it's own kind of railroad track ambiance.  Typically commercial and industrial areas of a town or municipality surround the railroad tracks.  And usually all the crap of those business get stacked in the back near the track.  Cause you can bank this: there ain't no front yards  facing the track, it's all back.

You also get an invasive look into many decrepit residential back yards.  It seems like most of the homes sitting on the railroad tracks are rentals.  Or are owned by individuals whose potential interest in landscape or home improvement is usually obliterated by the first beer of the morning.  Their sole mission of the day will be to go down to the corner liquor store for more beer and a pack of cigarettes.

There's also a lot of homelessness along the tracks, which is where the previous homeowner is going to eventually end up if he doesn't stop smoking cigarettes.  Those things are expensive.  Ramshackle tarps, tents and plastic shanty's dot the train track landscape, as did a lot of surrounding litter and many tell tale blackened remnants of spot fires.  It appears many of our homeless population are a bit derelict when it comes to flames.

Once you're a mile or so out of a town the homeless camps cease and unabashed glorious scenery comes back into view.  The train flew over the Yolo Bypass, keeping abreast of the many Datona drivers jockeying along the interstate.  There's a quick stop in Davis and then out to the bad land flats behind Vacaville and Fairfield.

Initially we cruised by tidy crops and orchards, with many classic old farm houses dating back to the 1920's.  Some of them probably in the same family since that time.  Then we pushed into quite fertile delta land, with water filled canals winding around and through.  This terrain was mostly uninhabited except for a number of well maintained duck hunting clubs situated here and there.

We crossed over the Carquinez Bridge, which is the largest railroad bridge West of the Mississippi.  The bridge was not as nicely painted as, say, the Golden Gate Bridge or a Norman Rockwell painting though.  As a matter of fact, most of the massive steel beams seemed to be sporting an inordinate amount of rust.
I guess since each one is about sixteen feet thick there's a little room for decay.

I like the right or north side of the west bound train because it offers extraordinary views of the Carquinez straight and shoreline.  Although the south side of the train affords a better view when passing through the flat lands and delta.  The good news is that I've yet been on a train where I couldn't move around to catch the best view.  There's always been a ton of room.  Which is why maybe the bridge is rusting.  They need more passengers.

Once you cross the bridge you cruise along the south shore of the straight along the Carquinez Straight Regional Shoreline, an East Bay Park comprising of 1415 acres of bluffs and shoreline between the towns of Crockett and Martinez.   Both town have rich histories dating back to the late 1800's.  You can still see the remnants of many old rotting piers, a throwback to an almost forgotten commercial fishing industry. 

That side also offers a great glimpse of the still functioning wonka land looking five story C&H Sugar plant, which sits right between the tracks and the shore.  C&H moved in to what was originally the Old Star Mill in 1906, the brick building dates all the way back to 1880.  That refinery still processes over 700 thousand tons of cane sugar annually.  You barely get a glimpse of the C&H sign when you're traveling the highway, you get a great view of the entire facility when cruising Amtrak.

The train also passes through a huge oil refinery mega palooza land near the town of Martinez.  Massive, towering tanks of flammable ooze are everywhere.  A maze of all sorts and sizes of pipes connect these to smaller, steam emitting orbs that are interconnected to another maze of pipes and fantastic things.  It's endless.  A million miles of metal connecting everything to nothing.  It's a petroleum matrix.

Apparently there are two refineries in this vast lola palooza land of crude, noxious vapor.  Shell owns one, and it's been in operation since 1915.  It sits on about 1,000 acres and converts 165,000 barrels of crude oil a day into automotive gasoline, jet fuel, diesel, petroleum coke, industrial fuel oils, liquefied petroleum gas, asphalt, and sulfur.

The other refinery is owned by Tesoro.  It sits on 2,200 acres and converts 166,000 barrels of crude oil a day into cleaner-burning California Air Resources Board (CARB) gasoline and CARB diesel fuel, as well as conventional gasoline and diesel fuel. The refinery also produces heavy fuel oils, liquefied petroleum gas and petroleum coke.  What ever that is.

Martinez is also a train stop, and from there it's a scant thirty minutes into Emeryville, our usual point of debarkation.  Both the Cap Corridor and Zephyr stop there, with the Cap continuing on all the way south to San Jose.  But it's the end of the line for the Zephyr, which turns around for its return trip to Chicago the following day.

If you're going to San Francisco this is also your stop.  From Emeryville you take an Amtrak bus over the Bay Bridge into the city, where there are a couple different bus stops.  It's actually a pretty darn efficient system.

Our kids live in Oakland, about ten minutes from the Emeryville station.  Our son in law works about thirty seconds from the Emeryville station.  He's taken the late Cap Corridor numerous times up to Auburn.  It's a family affair.

I had to wait a few minutes for my daughter to pick me up, my train actually arrived in Emeryville about forty minutes early.  So I guess it can arrive early when there are no more passengers to pick up.  She'd had a pretty hectic day, dialing in three kids and their separate after school activities.  All that fun stuff.  We hit her house, met the babysitter and then were off on our date.

It was a quick ten minute drive down to Jack London Square, where we parked the car.  Then we ambled over to Heinhold's First and Last Chance Saloon, which has been open in its current location since 1883, making it the oldest bar in the San Francisco Bay Area.  It definitely has a lot of charm and history, and looks a little out of place amid all the newer finery that Jack London Square has now become.  It's a little quirky, but definitely worth a stop and a sip if you're in the area.

From Heinhold's we ambled over to the ferry terminal.  There we boarded a boat with a couple hundred other Giants fans, it would drop us off right outside the ball park.  It's actually cheaper to take the ferry than it is to park at the stadium.  By the way.  Plus the ferry folks validate your parking ticket so that becomes free.  That's ferry by the way, not fairy.  Which, by the way, I have no problem with.  Depending on what we're talking about. 

The only negative for me is the ferry arrives about ten minutes before the first pitch.  I breathe baseball, so I don't mind sipping some stadium air for a while before a game begins.  Ten minutes ain't a lot of time, we had to hustle.  I got the brats, she got the drinks.  We found our seats.  We also lost the game.

We were still in the playoff hunt going into that game, but we couldn't afford one more loss.  Which happened.  We had to walk out at the beginning of the ninth.  We were behind 8-0 at that point, Kershaw was cruising and there was NO WAY I was going to sit there and watch LA celebrate their division clinch on our field.  No way.

So we listened to the crowd instead as we waited to board the ferry for the return trip.  There's also a ferry that runs up to Vallejo, so there ended up being a couple of lines forming for the ferries.  When folks wearing LA gear asked specific line location questions I sent them in the wrong direction.  It was the least I could do.

Although the game was terrible, I cannot say how wonderful it was spending some time with my darling daughter.  Alone.  It was simply marvelous.  The last time we did it was a couple years back when we went to see "The Sound of Music" at the Julia Morgan Playhouse in Berkeley.  We used to date all the time when she was a little girl.

We didn't have to do anything specific back then.  Just go somewhere.  Anywhere.  Down the block.  Just spend some time alone with that curious, innocent little mind.

Sigh.  That's enough right there to make a grown man cry.

I spent the night on the living room sofa and was greeted in the morning with the warmest of hugs by another little girl who has also captured my heart.  Then I got to be a part of that amazing pre-school week day/work day morning when chaos and pandemonium abound.  I saw the grand kids off to school and then was dropped off at the train station for the 9:00 AM departure of the east bound Zephyr.  A kiss and a hug and I was on my way.

There were about fifty people waiting to board the train, which wasn't that many considering the size of the beast.  Some were going all the way to Chicago, many, like me, stopping somewhere in between.  Your destination predicated which car would be your "home" base.  Once you were "ticketed" at your seat you were free to roam where ever.

There was, however, a crew car which was off limits.  Also, if you weren't sporting a sleeping car ticket that neck of the train was also off limits.  Still, there was ample room to roam.  They have a restaurant car on the Zephyr for sit down meals and they have a snack type cafeteria bar on both the Zephyr and the Cap Corridor.  You can get sandwiches, snacks, sodas, beers and cocktails.  Besides the dining car, the Zephyr also has an observation car, with floor to ceiling windows.  All aboard!

The bathrooms are quite spacious as compared to air travel, although I didn't notice any showers for those long haul over nighters that are riding economically in coach status.  Without ample perfume that stretch could become onerously odorous.  There are, however, showers in the sleeping cars.

It turned out to be the same train crew that I had the day before.  They're on for the entire fifty-one hour haul, with Chicago being their home base.  They get about five hours of sleep a night according to the cafeteria and bartender guy.  They stay pretty busy too, there's quite a few folks getting on and off the train as it moseys along.

For the most part I have not had a problem as far as the trains running on time.  Unless you consider the old, frail guy in a wheel chair that died somewhere between Emeryville and Sacramento a problem.  That'll slow you down by a couple hours while they wait for the coroner to come.  Trust me.  Where's Angela Lansbury when you need her?

I think I'm going to begin a love affair with the train.  It's a nice, comfortable and roomy ride, and a lot more scenic than a plane.  I mean, how many cloud formations does it take before they all look alike?

It's not much more expensive than driving, especially if it's just one person traveling.  I think I paid about $20.00 more for the convenience of train travel for my round trips to the Bay Area.

I think there is probably enough train travel around this country for a book.  Just traveling the states.  I could be the guy to do it.  I just need to find an editor willing to pay me to do it.  In the meantime, I think I would like to take the Zephyr to Chicago.  For a steak.  And maybe a deep dish pizza.

That would be a great start.

So What The Heck Is Glutathione?

Simply put, Glutathione is the cornerstone of the human immune system.

There, I said it.  Now let that sink in.

-"the cornerstone of the human immune system."

The human body is one of nature's finest miracles and researchers are still unlocking many of its secrets.  Recent discoveries have shed important light on the role glutathione plays in maintaining health and fighting disease.

Most individuals have never heard of glutathione (GSH), however, given the accelerated course of research publications on the subject and the large impact it will have in future health care, the term "glutathione" will shortly become integrated into our everyday language, the same way we use the words "antioxident" or "cholesterol".

Think of GSH as an "AID" for the immune system-Antioxident, Immune Booster and Detoxifier.  This small protein, produced naturally in the body, maintains these three crucial protective functions.  In fact, your life depends on it!  Without GSH your cells would disintegrate from unrestrained oxidation.  Your body would have little resistance to bacteria, viruses and cancer, and your liver would cease functioning from the accumulation of toxins.

In the last thirty years the volume of research on GSH has grown immensely.  A huge variety of theoretical papers, bench-top laboratory experiments, epidemiological studies, animal projects and-most important of all-clinical trials on humans, has linked GSH to an extraordinary variety of illnesses.  The list is long and would be hard to believe were it not for the strength and credibility of the research.

Hundreds of articles have described how elevated GSH levels help combat the infirmities of aging, such as Parkinson's disease, Alzheimer's disease, cataract formation, macular degeneration and cancers of aging (e.g. prostate cancer).  GSH depletion is linked with the major causes of morbidity and mortality in North America, including heart disease, stroke, diabetes and infectious disease.  Cancer specialists, pulmonary doctors and physicians dealing with AIDS and hepatitis are paying special attention to natural GSH modulation, as more traditional means have proven less than efficient.

GSH is the body's master antioxidant.  Advances in the study of antioxidants have grown to the point that a whole new branch of medicine has developed called "Free Radical Biology" which focuses on oxidant/antioxidant balance.  These scientists have elaborated upon several hundred different disease processes where antioxidants play a vital role.  The shelves of natural food stores and pharmacies are resplendent with a large array of different antioxidants offered.  What's extraordinary is that none of these antioxidants can work without the presence of GSH.  GSH is responsible for recharging and recycling all of the 4,000-plus antioxidants known to science.

There are over 100,000 articles on GSH in Pub Med, which is the U.S. National Institutes of Health (NIH) free digital archive of biomedical and life sciences journal literature.  It is the world's leading source of research on scientific and medical articles.

So if GSH is so good for you, how do you raise your levels?

It is vital to clarify one particular aspect of the glutathione story.  When people find out about GSH they want to go to their health store, buy some and "take" it.  Although it can be found as a supplement, eating GSH has negligible effects on your health.  It is quickly broken down in your digestive tract and eliminated.  GSH MUST be manufactured within your cells-which is exactly where it appears-in every cell of your body.  The only way to accomplish this effectively is to give your body the building blocks (precursers) it needs to manufacture GSH for itself.

Some pharmaceutical drugs such as NAC (N-acetyl-cysteine) have been developed to provide these precursers, but there are also natural ways to raise GSH levels.  The most effective way to raise GSH as borne out by medical research is by feeding the individual specific cysteine and cysteine-rich proteins as found in undenatured whey protein isolates.  Immunocal, initially developed at McGill University in Montreal, Quebec, is a nutraceutical product specifically based on whey proteins designed to raise GSH.

This type of natural approach to addressing health concerns is a welcome complement to traditional medicine, which has traditionally marginalized nutritional therapy.  The key to bridging this gap between Western Medicine and Natural Medicine lies in appropriately studying supplements with solid research.

-GSH is a small whey protein that exists naturally in almost every cell of your body
-We could not exist without GSH.  Low levels are associated with sickness and death
-There is a constant demand on your GSH levels from pollution, exercise, aging, infections, stress and
 countless diseases.
-Raising your GSH is not as simple as eating glutathione
-GSH is produced within your cells, therefore, your cells need to have building blocks (precursers)
 to manufacture GSH
-Immunocal is the only natural protein supplement patented to raise GSH

"No other antioxidant is as important to overall health as GSH.  It is the regenerator of immune cells and the most valuable detoxifying agent in the body.  Low levels are associated with early aging and even death."  -The Immune System Cure, Lorna R. Vanderhaeghe & Patrick J.D. Bouis, Ph.D.

"It is well known that aging is accompanied by a precipitous fall in glutathione levels.  Lower GSH levels are implicated in many diseases associated with aging, including cataracts, Alzheimer's disease, Parkinson's, atherosclerosis and others."  Journal of Clinical Epidemiology 47: 1021-26 1994

"Raised GSH levels fight the oxidation of circulating fats in the bloodstream, including cholesterol, retarding the process of plaque formation in the arteries-the underlying cause for most heart disease and stroke."  Nutrition Reviews 54: 1-30, 1996

"Diabetics are prone to infections and circulatory problems leading to heart disease, kidney failure and blindness.  GSH protects against the complications of diabetes."  Clinical Science 91: 575-582, 1996

"GSH protects the body from the inflammation of gastritis, stomach ulcers, pancreatitis and inflammatory bowell disease including ulcerative colitis and Crohn's disease."  Gut 42: 485-492 1998

"Immune depressed individuals have lower glutathione concentrations.  Healthy people also drop their glutathione levels when fighting disease.  Lymphocytes, cells vital for your immune response, depend on glutathione for their proper function and replication."  Immunology 61: 503-508 1987 

"GSH deficiency contributes to oxidative stress and therefore appears to play a key role in the pathology of many diseases..." Glutathione in Health and Disease  Dr. Patricia Kongshavn, MSC, Ph.D. January 2005

Immunocal is scientifically proven to raise glutathione. 

If you are interested in trying Immunocal you can order it directly from any of the Immunocal links on this post.  Just hover and click.  If you have any questions about the product feel free to email me directly at davet19@gmail.com

 

Our Trip To Spain

Back in 1970 when I was a sophomore in high school, I was in a Driver's Education class along with a couple other crazy fellows.  One assignment had the three of us penning a story together about a road trip.  It was pretty funny.   It was called "Our Trip to Spain", which is funny itself because it's pretty hard to drive a car across the Atlantic Ocean.  At least it was the last time I checked.   The teacher thought it was pretty funny too, and if I recall correctly we had to read it aloud to the class.  That's how comedy writers are born. We got an "A".

Roughly twenty six years later one of those co-authors asked this author if he would actually like to go to Spain.  You see, author number one had become quite successful in the fiber optics industry and had to attend an international conference in Madrid.  Ostensibly I was asked along to be his Spanish interpreter, but since 8th grade Espanol is the furthest I pushed that envelope I know otherwise.  Obvious life long chums, our birthdays are also only six days apart.  I'm pretty darn sure it was more of a birthday present than anything else, and because of all his frequent flier miles I am also pretty certain my tag a long cost was minimal.

Since some of our recreational proclivities from high school apparently never left us, we were going to fly into Amsterdam first for a weekend of romping and cafe hopping.  Then it would be off to Madrid on Sunday, four days of business and then another day and night in Amsterdam.  What can I say, that Dutch town is a pretty darn fun place.  Ranks right up there with Paris and San Francisco in my book, and of course it also retains a certain allure for a few of the faithful. 

We left Seattle sometime in the evening, essentially taking a red eye over and arrived at Schipol, Amsterdam's airport, around 8 AM.  We took a train from there to the hotel and amazingly were allowed to check in.  A quick shower and coffee and we were ready to go.

My pal was quite an experienced traveler and had been to Amsterdam before.  Hence I took a back seat and let him drive, only he didn't really drive because we took a train.  Which was great.   He really knew how to get around economically, which we'll get into more once we arrive in Madrid.

It took about ten minutes by train to get to Amsterdam's Central Station, about the same amount of time it had taken us to get from the airport to the hotel.  In case you were interested.

Central Station in Amsterdam is a statuesque, picturesque, glorious work of art.  As opposed to many cities in Europe or anywhere in Germany for that matter, most of the centuries old buildings in Amsterdam are still intact.  Obviously out manned by insurmountable odds when the Nazi's came marching across the border, the Dutch threw up their hands.  Saved the buildings, was still hell for the people.  Just ask Anne Frank.

Looking down Amsterdam's main avenue at the beautiful brick train station always reminds me of Disneyland.  For grown-ups, of course.  Central Station also almost always looks a little like that picture to me.  A little blurry. 

We hit a cafe right off the train, twisted one up and then we were off and running.  Amsterdam is a lovely city, interlaced with bustling streets and flowing canals.  Bicyclists are everywhere, and the "ring ring" of their little bells is a constant sound.  While not overtly rude like many of the brightly colored spandex crowd here, you still stand more of a chance getting run over by a bike than a car.

Historic buildings are everywhere and the city is rife with museums.  With over 60 Amsterdam has the highest museum density in the world.  Absolute highlights are the Anne Frank House, Van Gogh Museum, National Rijksmuseum and Hermitage Amsterdam.

There are a lot of cafes too.  Everywhere there is art and everywhere there is something to help one appreciate art.  Just a little bit more.  Especially Dali.  And Van Gogh.

We ate lunch or dinner somewhere I am sure and then took a stroll through the jam packed with mostly young men streets of the red light district.  There, scantily clad live art sat or stood quite seductively behind glass windowed doors, a small room behind them and a curtain contained a bed.  What few really notice is that the Rossebuurt (what the locals call it-Dutch for ‘pink’ or ‘red’ neighborhood) is in fact one of the oldest and most beautiful parts of the city with its long, winding, narrow, cobbled streets and utterly charming 14th century architecture.

After quite a long day without essentially sleeping the night before, we trundled back to Central Station and hit our hotel around 11:00 PM.  The next morning we awoke about 9:00 AM Europe time, one of my Bud's traveling secrets.  When you first get there stay up and ride 'em hard and as long as you can.  Then when you get up the next morning you're acclimated to Europe time for the rest of the trip.

Coming back is a mother though for me.  Anytime I get back from the East Coast or Europe I'm a mess for days.  I have no idea which way is up.  Something about that time space continuum thing.

We did a quick wake and bake and then went back in to explore the city on our recently acquired elevated awareness level.  We did discover that the hookers in the red light district changed appearance from night to morning.  College coeds and Playboy looking playmates made up the eye popping lingerie or bikini clad sizzlers behind the glass windows at night.  Quilt clad middle-aged Mothers and Over Eaters Anonymous members made up the choice cuts in the morning.   They all did business.  Night and day.

There's something for everybody. 

We ran the city into the ground once again, merging cafe's and culture and simply soaking up and adding to the fabulous energy of that city.  This time we returned to the hotel around 10:00 PM, we had a plane to catch to Madrid at 6:00 AM the next morning. 

Since we did not want to import any of the merriment we purchased in Amsterdam for fear of you know, life incarceration in a foreign country, we endeavored to get higher than the plane was going before we left Schipol.  We did, and we also ended up leaving some merriment on the bench since we had already hit an altitude of 8 Miles.  We figured what the heck?  Someone else might need a little adjustment before their flight.

It was a quick hop from Amsterdam to Madrid, probably just over an hour or so.  My pal had a couple trunk size pieces of luggage with him that contained necessities for the trade show.  However, they could have been filled with contraband and merriment since nobody, not even no one, looked at our passports or luggage as we entered the country.  Apparently customs was still asleep.

That was OK, we figured we'd have to score merriment in Spain anyway.  My Pal and I used to be really great drinking buddies, but that aspect of my misbehavior had to go in the early 90's due to health considerations.  I had a liver about the size of Wyoming and was going to drink every last drop of alcohol on the planet.  There wouldn't have been enough for you, so I had to stop.  My Bud was still partaking of course, but that particular vehicle was then Out of my league.

So we needed to find some weed.  Simple.  And apparently that was going to be my job.  I mean, I was the interpreter after all. 

I also learned from this very experienced traveler friend of mine a great travel tip.  As soon as we arrived at the airport in Madrid he got a copy of the Metro Map and a regular map of the city.  Above and below ground.  That was it.  With those in tow and a week's metro pass we ended up traveling all over the city for five days for about twenty bucks each.  That would have been one cab ride anywhere.  We went just about everywhere underground, returning a few times rather late at night.  We were never accosted nor did we see any, except at the park one day.  Which I'll get to later.

With maps in hand we took the metro into the city, landing a few blocks from our hotel.  It was way too early to check in, but we got the luggage stashed by bellhop and then off we went on the streets of Madrid.

My companion needed to find a new pair of black dress shoes.  I needed to find some weed.  Since I was the designated interpreter and since I had graduated 8th grade Espanol, I started developing some sort of phrase or question that I would ask someone.  Like a Spanish hippie.  Or Spanish surfer.  If they had those in Madrid.

I developed and I rehearsed.  It was, after all, apparently the main reason I was in Spain.  So that I could score drugs.

"Conozco a la marijuana un picante?"
"Sabe tu marijuana en la suerte?"
"Que tu sabe un marijuana por favor?"
"Donde esta mi pantalon?"

And so on.

Somewhere in our meanderings, besides reveling in all that is Madrid, he found some black dress shoes and we both found a little shop that sold little pipes.  That, you know, you could put some form of merriment in.   Since I was still rehearsing when I bought a pipe, I sort of motioned at the bowl as I looked inquisitively at the sales clerk.  Then I smiled and nodded with arched eyebrows.  As if I was a foreign fool.  Somehow it got through though, he smiled but shook his head no.

Sigh.  Looked like I was still gonna have to come up with something to say.

With empty pipe and new black shoes in tow, we continued on with our Sunday city stroll.  The streets were packed and bustling, pedestrians were everywhere.  It looked like many of Madrid's inhabitants were enjoying a beautiful, leisurely, sunny, big city day.

Meandering the streets of Madrid is still my favorite memory, reveling in the energy filled foreign vibe.  Somewhere along the line we came across yet another packed park or square, where throngs of people would be found hanging out, playing games, enjoying the sunshine.  This park was a little different though, there appeared to be a younger crowd that had congregated.  Some were drinking brown bagged wine, a couple were strumming acoustic guitars.  And then, as I continued my survey, I noticed a couple fellas about twenty feet away passing a lit joint.  Eureka!

As I looked, one of them caught my eye.  Or I caught his.  Maybe both.  However it happened, our eyes met and he motioned me over.

'This is it," my Pal said, nudging me with his elbow.  I meandered over and my new friend handed me the lit joint.  I took a puff, smiled and then passed it on.  Then it was showtime.  The line I had been rehearsing all day.  With perfect enunciation.  In two part harmony.

I began, "Tu sabe marijuana donde a la el adobo?"

He gave me a quizzical look.

"Conozco a la marijuana el donde sabe tu con carne?  Se incendio mi pelo?"

And then, in perfect European English he asked, "What is it you're trying to say?"

Fifteen minutes later we were walking away with a few grams of hash.  That was apparently a lot easier to import across the water from Morocco than marijuana was from elsewhere.  That was fine with us.  We already had a pipe.  Plus I was still smoking cigarettes back then.  Ain't nothing like a little hash laced nicotine coursing through your veins.  That was almost as good as the first smoke of the morning with your first cup of coffee.  Oooh, sigh.  They both still sound pretty good.  Been a while now.

Here's a shot of the pond and fountain at El Parque de Retiro, Madrid's main park.  It was both popular and magnificent, with works of art intermixed with lots of grass and trees.  And people.  Lots of people.

It was at the park that we experienced some local color.  Both fair and foul.  Now that we had a pipe load of happiness to partake of now and again, we were having a great time.  Especially me.  Plus I didn't have to keep repeating some insipid line in my head that wasn't going to work anyway.  As we were strolling along in the park, our mellow Sunday afternoon ambiance was broken by some loud, shrill foreign screaming.

We turned around and noticed a couple of older Asian ladies about a hundred yards away.  One of them had a purse.  The other one, the screaming one, was watching her purse run away in the arms of a thief.  Had the bad boy been somewhat coming in our direction my compadre and I would have certainly engaged.  But since he was running in the opposite direction at a rapid rate of speed there was no way we two middle aged crazies could have caught up.  He was already a few hundred yards away.  That poor lady certainly had better days.  Loose your purse or wallet in a foreign country?  Can you say embassy? 

Smoking merriment can sometimes lead to hunger games, and happily we found a little food trailer type establishment in the park.  He made salami sandwiches, that was it.  Kind of like a hot dog stand, only different.  Which was fine with me, sandwiches are my favorite food.  They're so versatile.

We both ordered a ordered salami sandwich, I mean, that's all he had.  It was real Spanish salami and rough crusted French bread.  How European could you get from one simple meal?

So we got our salami and french bread sandwiches, and that's what we got.  Salami and french bread.  That was it.  No mayo.  No mustard.  No lettuce.  No tomato.  No condiment or vegetable of any kind.  No fruit salad, nothing.

We shrugged.  What the hell, we wanted local color, that's what we got.  Snacks Spaniard style.

Maybe the guy got the bread a few days earlier, maybe rough crust was the way it was.  Either way I could only eat about half the bread.  The roof of my mouth was so tore up from the other half of rough crust that it felt like a tank with steel tread had just done a week's worth of artillery exercises inside up there.   

Once we had finished shredding our mouths, we were off to Plaza de Toros to see the bull fights.  Ole!

I had never been to a bull fight before, I probably won't go again.  It was pretty gruesome to me, and the odds are way stacked in favor of the humans. 

It coulda been the pipe and merriment, it coulda been the fact we were in a foreign country at an event neither one of us had ever witnessed, it doesn't really matter.  We quickly discovered amid all the equine and bovine gory pageantry and hoopla happenin we had no idea what the hell was going on.  Ole!

Fortunately we also quickly discovered we had a bilingual English speaking guy sitting right behind us.  It's amazing how easy it is to find like tongued folk in a space inhabited mostly by other tongued folks.  Especially us speaking English in a jam packed arena mostly speaking Espanol.  He overheard our conversation and stepped right in.

He became our bull fight announcer, explaining what the heck was going on.  Basically in colorful pageantry, a host of folks on horseback kinda stab and gore the bull with a series of slices to several areas of it's anatomy, essentially weakening it before the matador ever enters the arena.  Apparently a bull that had not been gored open in a few strategic locations is much too much of a match for a matador.  So they slice and dice a few choice tendons and ligaments here and there rendering it a veritable roast before the game begins.  Ole.

Then the matador tosses around his colorful cape thingamaroo and eventually he, too, pulls out a sword and tries to hopefully end the bulls life with one quick, decisive slice to the groin.  Or where ever.

If the bull doesn't fall after all that stabbing and goring, he gets let out to pasture, never again to fight.  They won't let him because now he knows and will be even more difficult to try and kill.  Plus, at that stage I think he's earned the right to screw cows and laze about in a meadow filled with daisies.

We saw one bull make it.  Our announcer said that it is very rare.  Ole!

The next day my compadre began his trade show.  I began my solo assault on Madrid.  Walking the streets, my favorite thing to do in any foreign city.  Map and go.  Immersing myself in the bustling vibe.  Having a ball. 

I did go to the Museo del Prado, saw lots of priceless art and antiquities.  I also bought a scarf for my lovely wife from a street vendor.  It became a major Antiques Roadshow find.  I saw the same scarf at the De Young museum in San Francisco a year later selling for almost twenty times what I paid.  Plus it was a scarf.  It folded up into nothing and weighed like two grams.  Nothing like the antique brass candle stand I had to break down and take back with me in a box on my second trip to Amsterdam.

Here's a shot of the Royal Palace.  We went there together I think on that leisurely busy Sunday.  One thing I definitely know, if I ever bought a castle it would need to be in a Mediterranean climate.  Those places are drafty!

Since my Bud had Friday off we took the train out to Segovia, to see to see the remains of the Roman aerial aqueducts.  We had no idea what we were getting into.

Segovia is Spain and old Castile at its best - twisting alleyways, the highest concentration of Romanesque churches in all of Europe, pedestrian streets where no cars are allowed, the aroma of roast suckling pig around every corner - all surrounded by the city's medieval wall which itself is bordered by two rivers and an extensive green-belt park with miles of shaded walks. On the north-west extreme of the wall is the famous Alcázar castle, source of inspiration to Walt Disney, and where Queen Isabel promised Columbus the financial backing he needed to discover America. On the south-east extreme is the world renowned Roman Aqueduct, the largest and best preserved of its kind anywhere.he city from 1455 to 1864.

And we were just going for the aqueduct.


We also encountered a dear little old lady outside the cathedral selling absolutely stunning linens.  Incredible stitchery.  Fine detail.  Would have been another fabulous Antiques Road Show purchase but for some idiotic reason we declined.

Then we had some local color for dinner.  It was a pretty upscale establishment with all sorts of military type antiques.  Besides shields and swords, there were helmets and boar heads.  Heavy timber tables and chairs, all with a nice Armada flair.   No Formica there.  We had some pork or sheep or goat meat which was prepared at the table.  Lots of flashy fanfare.  It was almost like we were at a Beni Hana only way different.

We left Segovia about eight that night for the couple hour trip back to Madrid.  Packed the next morning and were off for another play date in that most wonderful of cities, Amsterdam.

I think we stayed at the same hotel, but who cares?  We dropped our luggage off and were off ourselves within an hour.  I have now been to Amsterdam three times.  I think the best way to explore the city is by total immersion.  Hit a cafe, imbibe and then wander.  Or just wander if you don't imbibe.  I have done this both with a map and without.  That Saturday afternoon we went without.  If was fabulous.  We easily got lost and didn't care.  Lovely neighborhoods interlaced by canals were everywhere.

The good news was at our pinnacle of lost-ness we found a cafe, way the heck out somewhere.  I have no idea where.  Besides merriment, they also had a wall of hookahs that were available for in-store use.  So we did.  As we sat there, feeling wonderful about being lost in a simply marvelous city, my eyes wandered over to a bulletin board with a few Polaroids on it.  For all you youngsters out there, a Polaroid is the ancient version of an instant photo.

And one of those photos was of international country superstar Willie Nelson.  Stoned to the bejeezus.  Of course Willie's been known to get "oiled" up now and then, but on this trip it looks like he fell into a whole can of grease.  Kind of like we had.  And who cared?  Certainly not us.

Somehow we found our way back to Central Station, which I swear looks just like Disneyland, especially at night.  A little blurry, but Disneyland nonetheless.  And then we found the hotel.  And the plane the next day.  Back to the states, where I got to be a sputtering mess in a time warp for about five days.  Once again.

It was a memorable trip with a great friend, and like most excursions there's always a few stories to tell.  That's another wonderful aspect of travel.  Besides the initial adventure, the memories can be relished forever. 

Gone Fishin

I've gone fishin most of my life.  Never really gone catchin, pretty much just gone fishin.  There's a difference, you know.  I can be standing next to a buddy, using exactly the same everything he is, and I will watch him pull out fish after fish while I meditate upon still waters. Cast my fate to the loons.

I have caught a few fish over my lifetime, just enough to keep me coming back for more.  Kind of like the frequency of jackpots at any casino out there.  But a big part of the deal for me is just getting out in the wilderness and leaving my obligations behind, if only for a moment or two.  And if you're minimally Type A like I have a propensity to be, having a line in the water means I'm actually doing something. Then I can almost convince myself to relax. 

I guess my fishing preoccupation all started with Dear Old Dad.  I can remember tossing a line out in the Truckee River near Lake Tahoe when I was an elementary school lad.  I also remember trying to toss a line whose hook was then piercing one of my cousin's ears.  I was yanking like hell while she was screaming like hell.  I thought it was caught in the bushes.  It was actually stuck in her ear.  Who knew catching a human being with rod and reel could be so loud?

We also rented a small outboard motor boat a couple times and tossed a few lines out in Lake Tahoe trolling for the famed and elusive Mackinaw Trout.  Used all kinds of fancy and expensive jigs and lures and down riggers and such.  Had rods and reels and nets and all sorts of other specialized trout weaponry.  Sandwiches and soda pop.  Beer. 

I like boat ride picnics, especially on one of the most beautiful lakes on the planet.  I don't think anybody else caught anything either.

Then there was the time we went up to Southern Oregon on our summer vacation.  I was ten.  We went to a lake appropriately called, of all things, Fish Lake.  And it was.  We rented a small motor boat and DOD, my older brother and I chugged out to a snag in the middle of this little lake.  And we limited out on Rainbow Trout.  That was one of the only times I really went a catchin.

There were a few times in my late teens and early twenties I went out with DOD on an ocean vessel to go salmon fishing out of the Golden Gate.  Out of a half dozen trips I think I brought home one salmon.  But the boat ride and beer were always a grand part of the scheme.

We also went Striped Bass fishing in the San Francisco Bay one time.  It was ridiculous.  We were a party of eight out of about twenty fisher people on the boat.  As we left the harbor, just for fun, half the folks had their lines in the water.  The other half, which included me, were getting a good pregame beer buzz going.  Besides, the Captain already said it'd be about thirty minutes before the real fishing began.  He had a plan, and apparently a map.  He was gonna scoot over some little shoal or big rock.  Maybe an enchanted city or Big Bass Hall.  Whatever.  When we did that, he said, we'd be catching some fish.

When zero fish thirty arrived, we cruised over the underwater Bass Basilica.  Every single person on board got a bass on their line.  It was a frantic ten minutes for the deck hand.  When he recovered we made another pass over the forbidden city.  Every single person got a bass on their line again.  After another ten frantic minutes we went back to port since everybody had limited out.  

That was a quick trip, we barely got our beer buzz on.  But it was on enough when I got home.  My lovely wife's Grandparent's were over for dinner at the little just after marriage house we were renting and I arrived a few minutes late.  Late and half lit.  Not a great start.

But Grampy was a fisherman and appreciated my predicament.  Plus after we poured him some wine I enlisted his aid in cleaning the two fish I brought home.  Had I not been half lit, or maybe if I had been more of a catcher than a fisher, maybe I would have thought my next move through a little bit better.

Nevertheless, off to the bathtub we went.  I won't go into extreme details here, but let me say this: NEVER EVER clean a fish larger than a guppy in your bathtub.  EVER.  It may seem like a good idea at the time, but trust me, it isn't.  I was picking up scales for months afterward.  And they weren't the kind scale that usually sits in the bathroom either.  The bathroom also smelled like the inside of a fish monger's locker at the Santa Cruz Wharf for about the rest of the time we lived there, which fortunately was not too much longer.

There was only one other time I was out on the ocean in search of fish.  OK, two times, same trip.

Back in the early 1980's I embarked this lovely foothill locale with my erstwhile brother in law, who, for the sake of this story, we'll call Chuck.  He was living with my lovely wife's twin and he was an avid hunter and fisherman.  So avid, as a matter of fact, people paid him money to take them hunting and fishing.  He was a guide!  Surely I would have good catching fortune on this trip.

We arrived in the South Bay Area the evening before our plane's early morning departure from the then very small San Jose airport.  Our final destination was Mazatlan.  We were going to hook up with two other guys the next morning at the airport.  These were the guys that were paying his freight.

In the meantime, we had a pre-vacation night to contend with.  So we landed at a country rock bar in Woodside, CA, a popular establishment where Chuck used to tend bar.  As it happened, some old friends were playing music that night, friends that had played at our wedding and I hadn't seen in a half dozen years or so.  It was old home week and great to catch up.

As the night progressed, we found ourselves losing energy yet still in full blown alcohol blossom.  OK, we were raging degenerates.  As it sometimes would happen in the early 1980's from time to time, when this sort of situation developed we'd go off in search of an illegal energy elixir that was generally imported from Columbia.  Fortunately Chuck was still well connected in the area, and once that elixir set sail we stayed up all night, continued to drink copious amounts of alcohol and solved most of the world's problems.

Five AM always comes way too early when one has been up all night dancing with the devil.  When we lethargically meandered into the very quiet and non-crowded airport, we found two male humans, our future traveling companions, much in the same sad deteriorating condition we were rapidly becoming.  They had been up all night too, dancing with that same nasty fellow.  I also discovered I knew one of them, we had been all star baseball teammates when we were fifteen!  We miserably kibitzed along, that horrible feeling of insidious overindulgence slowly consuming my core.  It felt like I was beginning to simmer in a steeping cauldron filled with pickled pork intestines and dirty socks. 

As we sat, it was becoming more and more apparent that I was fighting a losing battle of consequence.  I was but a steaming pile of obnoxious vapid vapor.  I felt like it too.

It was about this time in my slow death spiral that a true miracle occurred.  I first heard the clip clop of shoes on the polished floor of the very quiet airport.  Then I witnessed what could only be considered a Saint in casual middle age male clothing walk over and unlock a metal gate.  Without saying a word he lifted it and pushed it open, the doorway to Nirvana.  Angels began to sing.  My heart skipped a beat.  Hallelujah brother, it was 6 AM.  I was saved!

Without saying a word I rose, left my reeking brethren and ambled into the bar.

"Bloody Mary," I said, sitting down on a stool.  Soon I was sipping a little lifeblood.  The vapor began to dissipate.  As did I.  But boy oh boy did I ever begin to feel better.

Chuck was only a couple minutes and half a Mary behind.  He was followed by our other two companions shortly thereafter.  Soon we were all joyously laughing with four full cocktails on the counter.  The first round was already gone.  Rather than go for BM3, Chuckadoodle and the All Star switched to Seven and Sevens.  A couple of those later and we barely made the plane.

This part of the story gets a little sketchy.  I vaguely remember Big C flirting with the stewardess, but my only solid memory of the flight was viewing the magazine pocket on the seat in front of me, which was filled with empty little vodka bottles.  Fifteen or twenty of  'em.  Maybe more.  While the other two traveling companions smartly slept soundly all the way down, we endeavored, apparently, to get higher than cruising altitude.

We arrived in Mazatlan and they found our hotel.  They also found us dinner I'll assume.  Because that's what arrived in the bottom of the toilet bowl a few hours later.  Whatever it was.  I have no idea.  The last thing I remember, after imbibing about 20 or 30 Bloody Mary's throughout the day, was walking down a side street near our hotel with a warm Tecate beer.  I think that put me over the edge.  My eyes started to spin and apparently so did I.  Somehow the boys got me up to the room where I briefly passed out before puking most of the night.  I didn't drink a Bloody Mary again for over a decade.

The next morning, one of our big bill fishing days, we all accidentally slept a little late.  Can't imagine why.  It was fine with me.  I felt like death, or a boiled fish head in a dirty sock.  Once we got marginally rolling, we took a taxi down to the harbor where there is usually a big fleet of beautiful fishing vessels.

Since we were so late, instead of the big lovely fleet Mazatlan usually boasts to take tourists bill fishing for such trophies like Marlin, Swordfish, Dorado, Tuna, or Anchovy, we discovered there was but one sorry, sad, floating piece of shit remaining.  It was unkempt tub.  The Captain and his mate could have been Laurel and Hardy, only they were tan.  Didn't have a lot of teeth and didn't speak English either.  It all looked sketchy, especially the boat, but fishing was the reason we were in Mexico.  Chuckster made the arrangements and we were off.

It's been over a couple decades since I've had a hangover, but if I recall, generally speaking, a loud engine boat ride on the rollicking ocean is usually not conducive towards overall well being.  I was still dry heaving, only instead of a reasonably nice hotel toilet seat on which to rest my cheek I was dealing with a scrap metal hunk of unclean junk that I wouldn't even want to put either one of my other cheeks on.  Ewww.  I was  miserable for hours.

The other boys were up on the deck drinking beer and pretending to fish.  When I wasn't dry heaving into a metal rat hole I was in the cabin, laying down on the stained vinyl seat, my head about six inches from the reverberating and incredibly LOUD sound of the engine.  It was not purring like a cat, it was screeching like a barn yard owl.  It seemed like it would blow a rod or piston at any minute.  Sleep was not an option.  Neither was vertical.  For a while.  After a few hours I slowly began to massage my beleaguered system a cold Modelo or two and I began to feel partially alive.

I eventually clambered up deck to find my compadres hanging out and drinking beer.  It's what fishermen do. Four lines were in the water and the boat was loudly trolling along.  Suddenly one of the poles bent sharply, a fish was on!  Laurel ran over to the pole and set the hook.  Then he brought the pole over to one of the two captain type chairs with the holder thing in the middle.  Crazy Bob was first up and away he went.

Here's the deal with these party boats.  You pay them money and they take you for a boat ride.  There's no skill involved.  Just blind luck.  The Captain's are supposed to know where to go.  What to do.  The deck hand baits the hook and lets out the line.  When there's a bite they set the hook. Then they bring the pole over to whoever.  In our case, we drew lots.  Crazy Bob was number one, I was two, the All Star was three and Chuckarooni, since he was getting paid, was drinking beer.

It was a battle and a fight, a good thirty minutes, but Crazy Bob finally and triumphantly brought the Marlin aboard.  Then he threw up.  See how much fun bill fishing can be?

When we got back to the harbor most of the berths were already occupied by much nicer boats.  They were already back in from their day's voyages, probably because they left hours earlier than we did. When the boats come in they usually proudly display different colored flags representing the fish that were caught that day.  Blue for Marlin, Yellow for Tuna and so on.  Obviously you want to go out with a boat that hoists a lot of flags, but most of them only had two or three flying.  Chuck found what he considered a good one and made arrangements to take it out the next day.  Then we went back to the hotel and actually behaved ourselves so we could make the 5:00 AM departure time.

Next day out, I was first up and got to reel in a Dorado, which is like a snub nosed tuna only different.  The Bass I caught were larger, but the Dorado, by far, put up a much bigger fight.

That was it as far as the fishing was concerned.  We caught nothing else.  I probably brought my usual good luck along for the trip, totally usurping Chuck's usual good guide juju.  We went back to the resort and then out to Carlos and Charlies for dinner.  Dancing on tables and drinking Tequila.  Not us, but it was fun to watch.  We had to blow off a little steam, we were leaving the next day around noon.  Yeah, it was a quick two day fishing trip to Mexico.  Whose idea was this anyway?

The next morning before the flight left I wanted to go into town to find a present for my kids.  Chuck and the All Star accompanied me.  Somewhere in the shopping experience, around 10:00 AM, we stopped in at the Shrimp Bucket for one of their colossal Margaritas.  When it was time for the third, Chuck and the All Star switched to 7 and 7's.  Again.  Detect a pattern here?

We decided, after three cocktails, that we had been too busy since we got to Mexico and we needed to stay a couple more days.  The other two started laughing, they both knew our other traveling companion.  Crazy Bob was beyond type A.  They figured it would take immense conversation and a head lock to convince him to stay.  They said he was so type A that he would have all our bags packed and would be at the front desk waiting for us since we were then running late.

After four cocktails we moseyed back to the hotel.  It was, after all, almost noon.  There, as anticipated, was Crazy Bob, pacing back and forth in front of all our packed bags.  It looked like he might explode.  He came running up to us, three happy, hapless drunks in full relaxed and give a shit regalia.

"Where have you guys been?" he cried, "You're late!  You're late!"

The All Star looked at him and said, almost laughing, "We've decided to stay a couple more days."

Chuck and I were chuckling.  And leaning.  It was all we could do.  It was almost noon and we were already turning into puddles.

Crazy Bob immediately deflated.  He looked at us, and we definitely looked happy, shrugged his shoulders and said, "OK."

That was it.  Easy.  No fight, no argument.  Total capitulation.  We found a suite for the four of us instead of two double rooms and played for a couple days.  Which means we drank.  A lot.

Four guys on a fishing trip to Mexico can be a dangerous thing.  But somehow we all survived.  We made it all the way back to the airport, where we sat, half lit and a lot disheveled.  Four monkeys on a bench, laughing all the way. When nicely attired arriving travelers glanced us a look of concern, we assured them not to worry.  They'd look just like us in a couple days.    

Except for the aforementioned ocean excursions I have mostly fished lakes and rivers.  Streams.  Ponds.  Puddles.  My most memorable lake catch didn't really even involve me actively fishing.  But it did involve me actively pursuing that other most sacred fishing activity, drinking.

It happened one weekend some forty years ago.  A loud and boisterous crew of about twenty-twenty somethings from the bay area converged on Fuller Lake, a lovely little lake in the high sierras.  We were camping and we were playing.  Getting out of the big metropolis.

My lovely wife and I with two others had arrived on a Thursday, assuring the best campsite right on the shore of the lake.  And then the hordes descended.  Four or five tents.  Coolers, ice, beer.  And just for good measure so it wouldn't look like we were too citified, we also had a half dozen lines in the water pretty much all the time.  Then we went back to partying.  Every once in a while one of us would get up and check the lines.  And one of those times I heard an almost angelic male voice, "Dave, you've got a fish on your line."

I scrambled over, and much to my surprise I actually reeled in a nice eighteen inch German Brown Trout.  He sizzled quite nicely with a little butter and lemon over the fire that night.  And that's my most memorable catch.  Pathetic, huh?

There are literally a hundred places within an hour of our location here in the Sierra Nevada foothills to go fishing, Fuller Lake is one of them.  When we first moved up here in 1979, every once in a while after work I would take an evening drive up to Scotts Flat Lake. which is closer.  Toss in a line, smoke a cigar, sip a couple beers.  Those beers and cigar were good.  Never caught a fish.

A few years back my lovely wife wanted to learn how to fish.  From me, I inquired?  I knew she couldn't be too serious.  Part of the deal is just getting out in nature, right?

So one weekend a decade or so ago we went way up high, rented a cabin out of Sierra City high, Yuba Pass type high.  The tippy top of the Sierras high.  And Saturday morning we drove over to Packer Lake and rented a row boat.  Besides having facilities to rent a boat there, Packer Lake also boasts a charming restaurant, lodge and cabins.  The lake itself is small and charming, no motors allowed.

We gathered all our gear into the boat, and as we were rowing out in the small lake another fisherman was coming in.  He had limited out.  He said, "Salmon eggs over by the dam.  It drops off, that's where they're biting!"

We rowed over to the spot, tossed out the anchor as well as a couple salmon egg laced lines.  Within minutes my lovely wife had her first trout on the line.  She was exhilarated with her first catch!   I don't think we limited out, but we did catch five or six, and yes, I caught one or two of those.

We went up to Packer Lake another time later in the fall.  It was bitter cold.  Not Wisconsin ice fishing cold, but high Sierra Nevada Mountain Autumn cold.  Which is cold enough.  We started rowing out, and after we were out about a hundred yards I looked back at the dock and started laughing.

My lovely wife asked, "What's so funny."

I pointed back at the dock where our all our gear and poles still lay.  The boat was empty save for us.

"That's funny," I said, laughing, turning the boat around.

I think we caught two or three trout that outing, but more importantly my lovely wife learned about one of the more subtle and sacred attributes of fishing.  There we were, very early in the morning, bundled up and casting our lines.  There were also about twenty or so other small boats, rafts and canoes dotting the lake.  Shoreline anglers were also scattered here and there along the beautiful, tree studded shoreline.  It was a high sierra morning, quiet and serene.  Then, magically, around 7:30, as the morning sun crested the surrounding peaks, the lake was awash with sunlight and a foreign sound like a lot of tires losing air pressure fast.

"Phissh. Phissh. Phissh."  The parade of sound was bouncing off the granite peaks.  It was the only phish I caught that day.

'What's that?" inquired my lovely wife, looking all around at the surrounding community of anglers and the popping of phish.

"Why darling," I responded, "That would be beer."

Fuller Lake is still a favorite place to go.  It's easily accessible and also on a road that leads to many other high sierra lakes.  If the fish ain't biting at Fuller you can head on up the road.

One memorable excursion and now hallowed family tale involved Fuller Lake and my wonderful father in law.  We two ran up there and had our usual no luck.  But rather than come home empty handed we stopped at the Grass Valley Safeway.  There we bought three two packs of already cleaned Rainbow Trout, a total of six fish.  Making sure to cover the tracks of our ruse, we un-packaged the fish in the grocery store parking lot and put them on a stringer, much to the amusement of several passers by.

When we got home I hosed them off before presentation to the women folk just to top the icing on the lie.  Then we proudly displayed our ill got catch to oohs and ahs of amazement.  Dad and I never caught anything.  Ever.  A complete BBQ trout dinner was almost beyond belief.  Unfortunately the story got stretched too far later that night when "uncovering bark beetles and using them as bait" entered the equation.  Neither Dad nor I could keep a straight face and it all unraveled.

Another time my son and I took our grandson up there to go fishing for his first time.  I think he was four.  Yeah, a little young, but what the hell.  I packed a goody bag which included some yummy hot chocolate and we were off.  My son got in some good fishing, I was pretty involved with our grandson.  It was freezing cold and way early in the morning.  He had an accident and a melt down.  We spent a lot of time in the car with the heater on drinking hot chocolate.

 

When we returned home my lovely wife inquired how the trip went.  I gave her a skeptical look.  While he had played with rod and reel briefly and had brought in a bit of algae, he had tripped, had an accident and a meltdown and had spent most of the time in the car.

But when he was asked how his time went, he excitedly said, "Great Momo.  I even caught some seaweed!"

Ah, perspectives.  It was on that excursion I learned from a couple avid looking fishermen that if there are Osprey present then the fish are surely biting at Fuller.  If they aren't present, not so much.

The next time I was up there with my lovely wife and our son.  Not only were there a couple Osprey in surrounding pine peaks, we witnessed a Bald Eagle dive bomb and yank a trout out of the water.  My lovely wife and son each caught a few fish, I got to watch a Bald Eagle catch one more fish than me.  But I'll tell you what, catching and keeping that vision was better than any old trout might taste.

We were back up at Fuller a month or so ago for my lovely wife's birthday.  Fortunately she caught the first and only trout out of the three of us.  It's in the freezer now.  There were no Osprey or Eagles present.  No wonder we only caught one.

We were using worms for bait that day, and since I wasn't catching any fish I started thinking about this post and a day in the life of one of those worms.  At least that day in the life.  It wasn't pretty.

I mean, first off he was prepackaged in a little Styrofoam cup with eleven other like species.  I mean, what if he didn't like one of his new cell mates?  There was no where to go. 

Then, all of a sudden a couple fingers root around in the cup, eventually pulling his wriggling, slithering body out of the mix.  Next, as he's being ever so roughly handled, a hook gets jammed up either his ass or head, depending on if he's upside down or not.

If that ain't enough, then a little needle gets inserted in whatever end wasn't hooked and air gets blown in so he begins to look like the Nutty Professor.  Only smaller.

Obviously that has to feel remarkably uncomfortable, but the fun continues.  He's then hurled through the air, probably the only true fun of the entire ordeal, but that ends quick when he smacks into the water, eventually getting drawn deep by lead galoshes.  Then he gets to hang there, holding his breath, writhing in agony, until a fish first nibbles and then devours him.

Next time you think you're having a bad day...

Baja or Bust

-with Marty Rudnick, Sittin In

Some folks, at the age of twenty, are off to college.  Some folks, at the age of twenty, are off on their chosen career path.  And we all know how long a gas pumping career lasted.  Some folks, probably the more intrepid ones, at the age of twenty, are planning their assault and conquest of Everest.  Not Mt. Everest mind you, but Everest brand reclining chairs, with built-in beer cooler and bong holders.  Some folks, at the age of twenty, are simply off in hilarious pursuit of the next adventure.

In 1974, at the age of twenty, I, along with two cohorts in crime, now in the Witless Protection Program under the secret identities of Johnny Larson and Rudley Martwick, planned out and executed, more or less, an intrepid, alcohol fueled road trip into the bowels of the Baja Peninsula.  Otherwise known as the Great Baja Bowel Movement of 1974.

Our vehicle of choice was a 1959 Ford short school bus.  Johnny's father had a penchant for picking up interesting and unusual vehicles.  He knew how to repair them inside and out, it was apparently a fun and lucrative hobby for him.  Out of the many vehicles that rolled through their garage Johnny managed to retain the bus as his own.  Besides taking it on a luxurious ride into the bowels of Baja, he also utilized it when he was the equipment manager for those several bands our mutual Bud, Pat, from the previous post, sang with.

Another interesting vehicle that rolled through their garage was an old black and white California Highway Patrol cruiser.  And politely enough Johnny's Dad sold it to another compadre of ours, Uncle Jack.  Besides being quite roomy it was also fast as hell.  It still had the spot lights on the both sides, but otherwise it had been stripped of all its official business.  Still, it looked official enough.  Every once in a while we'd park it a little down wind from my old house and smoke doobies as we'd watch oncoming vehicles slow down thinking we were a cop.  If that isn't situational irony I don't know what is.  It was also funny as hell.

In April of 1939, Dr. Frank W. Cyr, a professor at Teachers College at Columbia University in New York helped establish a national school bus construction standard, including the color "National School Bus Glossy Yellow."   Since Shorty, our bus, was published at auction, it legally had to be painted a different color so that it could not be confused with a real school bus in service.  Being a natural artiste, Johnny did not want to merely rip off “Further,” Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters' psychedelic bus.  Instead he painted it “National School Bus Dog Shit Brown,”  in honor of his dog, whom we shall for these purposes call “Useful.”

 

Yeah, we Buds were having a couple Buds for breakfast.   

Shorty was the kind of bus the slow kids rode back in the day, just ask Rudley.  This was also more than apropos for we three amigos.  Keep in mind though, we made the ride quite custom.  Gone were the bench like pew type seats.  In were two incredible plush and comfy arm chairs.  Yeah, they were from Salvation Army, but so what?

They weren't bolted to the floor nor were we strapped to the chairs.  In the event of collision, we would have gone airborne.  To the moon.  Another potential side excursion.  But there wasn't, we didn't.  So there.

Besides the plush and comfy second hand arm chairs, we also had a couple coolers, sleeping bags, some snacks, a couple of dogs and an incredibly stellar 8 track tape collection owned by Johnny.  Yeah, we had music, we had comfortability and we had beer.  Nine cases of Lucky in bottles to be exact.  Come on, I mean, we were heading into a desert.  We'd need something to drink.  Besides, it was only 99 cents a six pack, under four bucks for a case.  Plus all the bottle caps had those Concentration game type riddles on top.  Always a late night favorite after imbibing 12 or 40 of 'em, some of those riddles could be stumpers.  The more beer you drank the stumpier they got.

Our point of departure was the South Bay Area, suburbia land where we three grew up.  Besides us three amigos and our two dogs, we were also taking Johnny's girlfriend to LA.  What the hell, there was plenty of room and it wasn't like it was out of our way. 

Traveling in the bus made a few road trip essentials a piece of cake.  Naturally we switched drunk drivers every so often.  This was made easy because the person next up to drive could get up and stand right next to the driver's seat.  Once a moment arrived that seemed safe the driver would take his foot off the pedal, stand up and slide out of the way.  In the meantime the new driver already had his hand on the wheel and simply slid in and hit the gas.  We'd slow by maybe 5 MPH during this exercise, essentially losing no time at all.

Another absolute fantabulous situation, especially for drinkers while driving, was the urination situation.  When someone had to take a squirt they'd get up and stand over by the door, ironically called the "safety exit".  The driver would then maneuver to the right lane and open the "safety exit" door.  The urinator, his arm wrapped around the safety stair pole, stood on the bottom step and let fly.  Watching the landscape quickly pass by.  You had to make sure your arm was wrapped around the pole though, there was some emergency bobbing and weaving from time to time.  We risked a gruesome death, potentially bouncing out and skidding on our back or front for hundreds of feet until we stopped, a bloody, stumpy heap of a mess of ground up meat.  But we saved at least five 5 minutes of time, so, you do the math.

Seven cases of beer later we found ourselves somewhere in LA.  In case you weren't counting, that's over two cases each.  It was epic.  We dropped Sue off, good thing she was with us or we'd have never figured out where she was going.  And somehow we managed to find our way back to the freeway, without GPS.  We weren't all that concerned with making time though, we were a living, breathing, party on wheels. Who cared whenever we got to wherever we were going, we were there already.

We crossed the border into Mexico around 10 PM and blew into Ensenada around midnight.  Good thing they sold beer in Mexico, we were running low.

Here's where those over achievers planning their Everest ascent got nothing on us as far as intrepidness and coolness is concerned.  What did we do when we three amigos blew into a new town in a foreign country after we'd been drinking caustic amounts of beer for fourteen or fifteen hours?  Why, go bar hopping, that's what.  Find more cold beer.

Somewhere in one of the dingy dives we rolled into we met Fred, Ensenada's only acid head.  He was tripping.  And Rudley was given a golden opportunity to bang a hooker, but his prudishness got the best of him and he declined.  He probably also said no to a thousand golden STD's since the only condom we had among us had had been in Rudley's wallet for about three years.  You know, the foil wrapper was in a couple pieces.  There's more lubrication on fifty grit sandpaper than there was on that rubber.

After a couple hours of debauchery in and out of the streets of Ensenada it was time to hit the road.  Johnny and Rudley hit the sack, which is probably what I should have done.  I took the wheel instead.  What the hell.  I'd been up for 20 hours and been drinking more than half that time.  Probably three cases of beer.  Of course, I was fit to drive.   In my own inebriated way I was climbing Mount Everest.

Somewhere in the wee hours before the sun came up I side swiped a concrete marker on the side of the road.  You know, one of them things that's about the size of a two foot baseball bat and marks the asphalt boundary of where you shouldn't be driving?  Makes a big noise when you hit it?  Wakes you up real fast?

The swipe sounded like heavy metal traveling at 60 MPH bashing into concrete should.  LOUD!  I quickly woke up and pulled over to the side of the two lane highway, looked back and found my two compadres still asleep.  I started to think up a story to tell Johnny, you know, like I had to swerve to avoid a rowdy pack of Aardvarks or something.  But when I got out to survey the damage, I found the bumper was barely scratched.  The concrete marker was toast, gone, powder, poof, but there was barely any paint missing off the metal bumper.  Based on the noise I figured there would have been an indentation the size of Montana, not so.  America made back when.   Or it could be a testament to the non veracity of concrete south of the border.  Sand and water with a little oatmeal?

Fortunately daylight was just around the corner, as was a little open air road side cafe.  It was definitely time for me to get out from behind the wheel before I hit something else.  Like a camel.  Or a pink flamingo.  I was starting to see some of them.  I pulled over, rousted my two companions and we ambled over to the thatched hut with tables underneath.

The motherly major domo Senora flashed a missing teeth here and there smile and handed us menus.  Here, we all found, our junior high school Spanish completely useless.  Nothing made sense.  We looked over at one of the other four tables that was occupied.  His breakfast looked great.  We pointed, nodded, smiled and held up three fingers.  Easy.  Who needs conversation?

When the plates came they were festooned with a fabulous home town rendition of huevos rancheros.  With a little more food in my belly it was time for this one to hit the sack.  Johnny took the wheel and we were off.

The excursion down the Baja Peninsula was otherworldly, with cacti looming large throughout the barren and hilly landscape.  They were the only green amidst a forever parched, bland brown background.  Mars?  The moon?  Hell, it could have been.  Our adventure meters were on high.  So were we.

As Johnny cruised down the desolate highway, he slowly became aware of a small figure in the distance standing in the middle of the heat swirled phantom dancing asphalt.  As we approached, the figure became a young girl and she was holding a stop sign.  In the middle of freaking nowhere.  Johnny stopped, and in a conversation that he simply could not have comprehended, discerned she was seeking donations for the Greater Baja Society of Potential Banditos.  Or she was just begging.   He gave her a dollar.  What could we do?  She could have had relatives hiding behind the nearby cacti.  With bad teeth and guns.  We considered it a highway toll. 

Initially the drive took us down the Pacific Coast, but after a couple hundred miles or so the highway heads inland, where it was much warmer and less colorful.  Before too long though we came across the road to Bahia de los Angeles, which sits on the Sea of Cortez.  A cousin, who wintered over in Baja many seasons, spoke very highly of the place.  We took his recommendation, veered off the main highway and within an hour we were sitting next to some of the bluest water we'd ever seen.

That first night was amazing, camping out under the stars.  And I mean, there were stars.  Millions of them.  Well, I actually lost count at 23, but I'm sure there was a cubic shitload of 'em.  More than we ever could have imagined existing since we normally viewed the evening sky from a light polluted suburban metropolis that usually shone brighter than a diamond during a night game.  At least we could count the stars at home.

Bahia de los Angeles was a lot different then than it is today.  I mean, back then there was like a gas station and a bodega.  Maybe a cafe.  Now it's a major bill fishing destination.  Hotels, motels and a Taco Bell.  I guess it's been over forty years.  Maybe it's time for another visit.

I think we only spent one night there.  We were on a mission at that time, originally planning on driving all the way to Cabo, at the very tip of the peninsula.  The next morning we drove back to the main highway and again headed south, through the middle of the desert until we came into Guerrero Negro, back on the Pacific Coast.  From there we hop scotched across the middle again, finally landing on the Sea of Cortez side late in the afternoon.  We tooled down the coast a few more miles, eventually stopping near the little hamlet of Mulege, a scant 615 miles south of Tijuana.  Yeah, you could now say we were in Mexico. Ay! Ay!  Opa!  Opa!  Arriba! Arriba!

Mulege was very similar to Bahia de los Angeles back then, only the beach we landed at had thatched huts for us to lounge under.  And so we did.  We drank beer, lounged and played some cards.  I think at this point there was some serious discussion about kicking back a bit.  Maybe not race down to the tip so we could say we did.  We could always fly down later.  Becoming lounge lizards was definitely striking a chord.


The Odyssey Begins

I think it was the second afternoon we were there.  We were drinking and lounging like we were supposed to be doing, when all of a sudden in slow motion a drunk Mexican guy weaves up on a bicycle.  The bike looked like it was right out of a Sears catalog, circa 1956.  Besides the overwhelming appearance of rust gracing the frame, it looked like it had been run over by a garbage truck a half dozen times.  Even the front wheel was warped.  As if being drunk wasn't enough, Homlito was contending with a crooked wheel.

Homey was a short, thin perdido that looked like he had his hair done straight out of the Homeless Bum catalog, circa 1964.  His hair and clothes were quite unkempt and the gray and black stubble adorning his sweaty face put him in his forties.  He was wearing an off buttoned short sleeve shirt and light weight mechanic pants.  The straw Panama hat on his head looked like it was a decade old and had been slept on recently by donkeys.  Other than that he didn't smell too bad.

When he started drunkenly rambling, it looked like half his teeth had gone wandering in the desert, the remaining ones looked like they had been bathing in tobacco swill and dank coffee for days.  We three could not understand a word.  Could have been his slurring, could have been the fact we all only had junior high Spanish to assist us.

I mean, the most effusive statement we could utter was, "Donde esta la Biblioteca?"

Or, "Tres mas cervezas aqui, por favor!"

After one of our beers and a whole lot of conversation with himself, the drunk Mexican decided he wanted to gamble with us.  We all exchanged concerned glances, like, was this guy trying to take us?  And if so, where?

He drunkenly slurred the rules of some game, none of us understood.  We hadn't a clue.  Then he started dealing, tossing cards face up to each of us, including himself.

After four or five cards were dealt face up he cried, "Aye Carumba," in disgust and tossed down a US Dollar.  Apparently he lost.  We looked at the cards and had absolutely no idea what he was doing.  Face cards meant nothing.  Neither did little ones.  Fives?  Sixes?  Sevens?  Who knew?

He dealt again.  The same thing happened, different cards.  After he dealt a few more times and lost all his money, he tried to give us his less than scrap metal for value bike as payment for his imprudent, drunken gambling debts.

We politely declined, and he left, somewhat offended.  I mean, what were we going to do with his only mode of transportation, that he probably stole just before arriving at our play area?   We were four dollars richer and confused as hell.

"What just happened?" we muttered to each other as we drank another beer.  We stayed that night, but the next morning we decided to heave ho.  We had no idea what that drunk was up to.  It could have been simple incoherent innocence, or the conspiracy theorist in each of us was multiplying and dividing.  Just what the hell was he really up to?

It was somewhere along here in the story line that the bus started to hiccup.  Hiccup?  Every so often the engine would sort of gasp, and then emit a little bit of burnt oil smoke.  What made the situation a little less tenable was the fact the engine compartment access was inside the bus, right between the driver and the steps to the "safety exit".  So every time the bus hiccuped we'd get to inhale a little blast of smoke.       

While Rudley and myself were less than useless, like one of the dogs, Johnny was reasonably adept at minor mechanical ailments.  But this was becoming something beyond his ability.  Especially when his only tools were a screw driver and a plastic fork.  We definitely decided we were going no further south, we only hoped now we would be able to make it back to the US.

And so we limped along.  We were doing 30 MPH now instead of 60, it was taking a lot longer to get anywhere.  It was a lot hotter too without a little open window air conditioning at 60 MPH.

The going was slow but OK for a while, but then we started to burn up roughly a quart of oil every ten kilometers or so.  It was getting tough.   We could only go roughly 50 miles on one tank of oil!  Hell, with a 26 gallon gas tank and getting 12 MPG, we could go a hell of a lot further on gas than oil.  Something was definitely wrong with this picture.  We stocked up on oil every chance we could, but somewhere in the middle of the desert we ran out.  No mas.  We were then about 300 miles south of the border.

We held a meeting and every one was present.  It was decided I'd hitch hike into the next town, get some oil and hitch hike back.  The boys would stay and guard the beer.  Hey, this is beginning to sound like De ja vu, only this story happened first.  I ambled out of the bus and stuck out my thumb.

Now, somehow my Scandinavian and Irish heritage conspire and usually allow my skin to get quite dark in the summer.  I know, more irony.  Lazing about the Sea of Cortez for a week didn't help this affliction.  I was dark, Mexican National dark.  I was darker than some of the natives.

I would say that eighteen to twenty vehicles filled with US adventurers much like ourselves passed me by.  Didn't even look at me.  Maybe we should have made an articulate sign.  Finally the first Mexican that came along stopped and picked me up.

It was about a twenty mile ride into town, which I am now guesstimating was Punta Prieta, about 200 miles south of Ensenada.  I gathered up a half dozen quarts of oil and hit the road back.  The same thing happened.  Not a single US adventurer gave me a first look.  Finally a pick up truck with a young Mexican couple stopped.  I hopped in the back.  They gave me a couple mangoes.  I definitely got the hint I no doubt looked, with my dark complexion on, quite native.

When I got back to the boys they were outside sweltering.  Apparently they had been inundated with some sort of flying bugs just sitting there idle.  They had to roll up the windows, which made the bus an oven.  It also didn't help the odor, which by this time was becoming really ripe.

Besides the engine oil hiccups, there were a couple nice big sea shells inside that we had bagged.  Ordinarily that wouldn't be a deal, but we had neglected to remove the living mussel or organism inside.  Hence we had a few simmering shells that were just beginning their odorous ascent.  Oh yeah, we were traveling with a couple dogs too and had been essentially living and sleeping in the bus for a couple days.  The odor from  otherworldly intermittent gas emissions was embedded in anything fabric.  Spent beer and re-fried beans.  It was getting beyond ripe.  Only, you know, we didn't know because we were swimming in it.

We limped the twenty miles back into the town I just left and landed at the only garage in town.  We spoke to the only mechanic in town.  Sort of.  You know, junior high school Espanol?  And it sounded like he had failed junior high school English.  Somehow we communicated.  He looked over the situation and discerned that probably a couple pistons were blown.  That and a head gasket.  We had figured the head gasket was blown, that much was obvious.  Otherwise we probably would not have been eating smoke for miles.  But the pistons?  That sounded like a foreign mechanic trying to take advantage of some young Americans.

It was a little disconcerting too.  Half the town, about fifty people, had gathered about the bus, eying us and everything inside.  I mean, our smelly, rumpled sleeping bags probably looked like swan down comforters to them.

And then the mechanic asked us if we'd ever seen this certain kind of fish fly.  Like, fish swim, dude.  Birds fly.  Why are you asking us this?

It turned out the low quality fuel in Mexico had burned out the head gasket and a couple pistons.  The mechanic was right.  But we didn't know that then.  I spent about twelve dollars calling my mother in San Diego on the town's only telephone, a hand crank type radio unit.  Ah, those exciting days before cellular.  I spoke to her briefly, we just wanted someone in the states know we were stranded in the bowels of oblivion.  Just in case.

And then we explored our options.  We thought about ditching the bus, taking it out on some deserted dirt road and blowing it up.  I have no idea why.  Then we'd hitch hike to America.  I already had some experience with this.

Somewhere within this desolation exploration, Johnny ran into a US adventurer who had forty feet of stout water ski rope.  He didn't have a vehicle to tow us, but he had some rope.  Soon thereafter a couple of Mexicans in about a seventeen foot flat bed truck happened along.  For forty bucks they said sure, we'll tow ya 200 miles to Ensenada.

Let me tell you, that was some couple hundred mile trip.  No beer this time.  Once the rope was tied and taut, we were about twenty feet behind the flatbed.  Which also had a three foot high wooden corral around the bed.  Which contained one damn ugly llama.  Or alpaca.  Or camel.  One ugly beast, whatever it was.

Probably dinner for them.

Being tied up so close behind our tow vehicle left Johnny essentially without a view.  Except for that damn llama.  Which spit on our windshield almost the entire journey. 

Good thing there were three of us.  With Johnny behind the wheel we other two derelicts were on either side of the bus with our heads out the window.  We were his eyes and would let him know when turns were coming up and how sharp they were.  It was an intense four plus hours.

We landed in Ensenada around ten that night, and rather than paint the town again I think we all passed out.  In the bus.  The next morning we bought about ten quarts of oil, figuring that would get us across the border.
Keeping in mind my previous mention of the growing odor inhabiting our surroundings, it had only increased it's unholiness by the time we were encroaching on America.

Fortunately it was relatively quiet early in the morning and the line was not too long as we hiccuped, burped and smoked along.  An odorous, smouldering shit brown hunk of rolling metal.  We looked like a prime smuggling operation, all the smoke being a diversion.  We figured we'd be tossed and turned, blasted and burned, every article and stitch subject to scrutiny.

We slowly hiccuped and limped right to the finish line, Shorty letting out one last gasp as we stopped for the border guard.

The guard approached the driver's window and stopped about a foot short, a grimace of disgust enveloping his face as he covered his nose.  He stepped back and emphatically waved us through.  He didn't utter a word.  We could have brought all the drugs in the world back with us.

From the border we limped to my mother's home in San Diego, where we all had our first shower in a week.  A very soupy and soapy Rudley magically removed a foreign tick from his leg. Which had to be infinitely better than trying to rid himself of a foreign STD.  We also discovered one of the prime contributors to our monstrous smell condition, the sea shells.

We had forgot all about them, and by this time whatever had been inside them was now only a very formidably smelling ooze.  At least it was now easy to pour out of the shell.  Rinse with water.  Repeat.

We all flew back to the Bay Area.  Johnny and his Dad returned a couple weeks later and fixed Shorty.  They brought real tools with them.  Shorty since went on a number of other memorable adventures and currently rests peacefully up in Skykomish, Washington.  We're all happy we didn't blow him up in the deserts of Mexico.