On this cold and dreary November day here's a story that is sure to warm your heart...

Fed up with the "daily media drumbeat... too focused on war, crime, poverty and assorted social ills," Oregon rancher Bill Inman "decided to show there's more to America than the doom-and-gloom on the nightly news."

So Inman set out on his horse and started riding east to see what he could see and discover the "hardworking, honest everyday people in America."

God love you Bill Inman!

Amid the din of bad news piercing our consciousness 24/7/365 it's all too easy to lose sight of the good in our country; to be swept up into the stream of negativity, and forget how lucky we are to be Americans.

Ride on Bill, into the heart and soul of America. Defy the naysayers and newsmongers who tell us America is no good. Reinforce what we already know, that which rarely gets focused on anymore: that we are a good people, a gentle people, a benevolent nation.

Get out there as Inman has, off the beaten track if you will, on horseback or foot or bike or whatever. And as soon as you slow down and look around and talk to people you begin to discover, or rather re-discover, how wonderful a place we live in and how good a people we are.

Let the nightly news blather on. Out where Inman rides, that's the real America.

Keep us posted Bill. We want to hear more of your journeys. Safe traveling my good man!

OK, so I'm home for three days now, and finally catching up with myself. Well, sort of.

Re-entry from two weeks on the road has been slow. Exhaustion and semi-dysfunction has reigned, and I've basically been roboting it since pulling in on the red-eye early Sunday afternoon.

Gear is still strewn far and wide around the house, laundry is half done, mail half opened. Lethargy appears the solid winner vs. getting any one task checked off the list.

So it goes.

It's not easy getting home from the middle of Vancouver Island I discovered. Especially now, post-peak season. Travel scheduling is a challenge, and like a good puzzle, not all the pieces want to fit where you'd like them to.

Me and my hiking buds tromped off the West Coast Trail after eight days last Thursday noonish. Then it was six hours of wild-riding through the rugged interior of the island on the West Coast Trail Bus to reach Victoria. The ferry to Seattle wasn't until the next evening. In Seattle the following day our flight out wasn't until 11:30 PM.

But finally the plane arched gently over the coast of southern Maine, the familiar beaches coming into view, then the beautiful skyline of Portland from the final approach up the Fore River. Home!

Three days, it was, getting back to Portland. Ouch! Such is the toll of time away. But really, I'm not complaining. It's worth it. This time, every time.

Travel, big trips, remote hikes, far away cities--it's all so invigorating, exciting, eye-opening, even mind-blowing.

You come back, but never all the way back. Your eyes have captured images, your hands have touched places and things, your voice has spoken with people you will never see again, your mind has expanded beyond old boundaries, absorbing a wealth of new data to process, much of it in the sub-conscious.

Travel changes you, enriches you, makes you beg for more. And by the grace of God there will be more. Until they close the lid and shovel the dirt over me.

So, of this latest venture to the Pacific Northwest, I have stories and photos to share. But for today just a few images and snippets. More rest is needed, a little time for reflection required before the whole story can be told.

I hope you all have been well, my dear Trail Head friends, taking advantage of this fine September weather. Here at home, in Maine, this most beautiful place on Earth.

Have you travel plans coming up? Somewhere you too are returning from?

The inspiring words of Jack Kerouac (On the Road) posted in the kitchen of the Green Tortoise Hostel, Downtown Seattle.
Carey Kish photo

The skyline of beautiful Seattle from the stern of the Victoria Clipper on Puget Sound.
Carey Kish photo

The parliament building in the magnificent city of Victoria, British Columbia.
Carey Kish photo

Phil D. of South Portland awaits take-off on the West Coast Trail Bus, our connection to and from the West Coast Trail.
Carey Kish photo

Bill C. of South Portland on the West Coast Trail near Tsusiat Point.
Carey Kish photo

A grand Pacific sunset from our campsite at Tsusiat Point, West Coast Trail, BC.
Carey Kish photo

Ahhh, the good old red-eye. Now that's the way to travel. Real adventurous like.

A little under nine hours from coast to coast in the dark of night. The majority of that time spent slumped over in the seat, passed out cold from exhaustion, drool seeping down the chin.

Palm Springs CA --> Las Vegas --> Philadelphia --> to that most excellent and beautiful arc over the Casco Bay islands and the final approach up the Fore River past the pretty skyline of downtown Portland.

Home sweet home again. Where else can you find a "welcome home" sign on a jetway that has a big red lobster next to it? No suh mistah. Not no ware but hee-yah.

So, I see we've added a little snow cover in a week's time. Any reports on the ski conditions from you downhillers? How about from the hiking trail? Other fun outdoors stuff?

You tell me, and then maybe I'll tell you about a wild week in the great outdoors of California, from the Sierras to Death Valley to Joshua Tree and lots in-between.

Deal?

OK, let's talk!

Meanwhile I think I need a nap...

All photos by Carey Kish
Yucking it up with Cowboy Bob in the old mining town of Randsburg CA.

Geothermal hot spring (and campsite) near Mammoth Lakes CA.

Snowstorm, Mammoth Mountain CA.

The Sierra crest, Yosemite National Park CA.

On the road to Eureka Dunes (and camp), Death Valley National Park CA.

At Badwater, 282 feet below sea level, Death Valley National Park CA.

Hiking through a Joshua Tree forest, Joshua Tree National Park CA.

Time to head west again. To the high desert of southern California. Another winter visit to the warm sun and blue skies of Yucca Valley and longtime bud and former Mainah Tim.

Got an evening flight out of Portland tonight and should be touching down on the other side of the continent right about the time (1:30 am PST) that you're still snuggled under the quilt with a few more hours of sleep ahead of you.

The climbing gear is packed. So are the hiking and camping goods. Ski clothes are stowed (I'll rent equipment out there). Golf shoes and a dozen balls too (my buddy's got a spare set of clubs).

And the traveling library, of course: The Best American Travel Writing 2006, edited by Tim Cahill; Wandering Home by Bill McKibben; Temple Stream by Bill Roorbach; and Writing About Your Life by William Zinsser. That should suffice for eight-plus hours each way on the plane(s) as well as the odd moment or two of downtime.

The R&R plan for the quick six-day jaunt goes roughly like this:

A round of golf at Roadrunner Dunes in Twenty Nine Palms. Several forays into Joshua Tree National Park for hiking the wide open trails and ridges, and climbing on the sunny granite faces at Echo Rock behind Hidden Valley. A road trip north through the Mojave Desert and up the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada Mountains for some fine alpine skiing at Mammoth Mountain (they've got a ton of snow apparently), topped off with a good soak in the local hot springs.

In-between all this will no doubt be moments of pure peace and quiet at Tim's cabin homestead atop a desert hill, cup of coffee or cold beer in hand, overlooking miles of glorious nothingness.

Be good. And I'll see you in a week (provided there's no loose rivets on the plane and the wings don't fall off or something).

In the meantime I sure hope you all will get on the horn to the snow gods. Tell 'em we need SNOW here!!!

Photo by Carey Kish
Evening among the Joshua trees in the high desert, Joshua Tree National Park, California.

Photo by CMK
Cholla cactus garden beneath the Pinto Mountains, Joshua Tree National Park, California.

Photo by CMK
My climbing, hiking, skiing, golfing, mad-cap buddy Tim holding a California-size pine cone.

Photo courtesy Mammoth Mountain Ski Area, California.
Sprawling Mammoth Mountain, a dormant volcano in the heart of the Sierras.

Photo courtesy Mammoth Mountain Ski Area, California.
Looking forward to some sun and snow at Mammoth.

Merry Christmas to all my Trail Head friends! Hope yours was enjoyable and relaxing and filled with good family, friends and food.

I made a quick jaunt down the highways and byways to New Jersey for the holiday. And despite the short visit, it was good fun.

Besides all the socializing with family, unwrapping of gifts, football, endless platters of food, beer and wine and all that stuff, one of the highlights was a refreshing walk through the countryside midday on Christmas.

Six of us struck off for a six-mile hike on the nearby Patriot's Path, a lovely walk through fields and farmlands and woods along the Raritan River through Long Valley.

This is exactly the New Jersey I used to know and and still love (I've been in Maine nearly forever, but I'm still a native NJer), not the much-maligned Jersey that most people hear about.

For several delightful hours we strolled along old paths and up the abandoned rail bed, never far from the placid Raritan River (one of the best trout fisheries in the state).

Through the bare branches of the oaks and poplars we could see the long mountain ridges rising up into the gray December skies; mountains that once impeded the forces of George Washington's army during the Revolutionary War.

Horses in the fields were cloaked in colorful blankets. A dark-furred marten scurried along the river bank, while a great blue heron posed statuesque on a gravel spit. Sparrows flitted about the trees. A sheep peaked at us warily from behind a barn. Wreathes with red bows lined a white fence. And a handful of overlooked balsam firs stood on their posts at a farmstand.

All the while the cool, damp air and brisk pace infused our bodies with spirit and energy, enough to carry back to the house and the dinner table and a continuation of the holiday-ing.

I'm back home in Maine now and trust that you are too. A bit weary and bloated but ready nonetheless to take on the coming winter. Well, I think there's a winter coming anyway.

At week's end I'll be shuffling off to Sugarloaf for the New Year's festivities. And you? What are your New Year's plans? Skiing, hiking, couch-potato-ing? And how was your Christmas holiday?

Starting out on the Patriot's Path.

Trout pool on the Raritan River.

On an old RR bed trail that stretches from NJ to PA.

Through the woods on the Patriot's Path.

Following the lovely Raritan River.

The delightful farmland and mountains of northern NJ.

Passing a colorful silo.

Christmas presents to myself (stuff you can only get in the NY-NJ-PA area): Pork roll and Yuengling beer!

Woo-hoo... I got my patch from the Adirondack Mountain Club for completing the entire Northville-Lake Placid Trail last October!

Another long distance trail to check off the dream list. And what a terrific hike it was!

The Northville-Placid Trail in upstate New York is an outstanding 11-day backpack trip not too far from home.

But there's so many more hikes to be done...

Where to go and what to do next year?

The West Coast Trail, a challenging backpacking route along the coast and through the thick rain forests of Vancouver Island, British Columbia is under serious consideration for next September.

Maybe, too, a return trip to the Alps and a circumnavigation of Mont Blanc through France, Switzerland and Italy. I sure love those cozy mountain huts and the incredible scenery.

Or a circuit around Jebel Toubkal in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco? A little mingling with the Berbers in North Africa?

Or maybe another coast to coast trek, this time across the green of Ireland? Maybe a pint of Guinness here and there?

So many trails, so little time...

Kamchatka in the far reaches of Siberia has also been on my mind. A long string of active volcanoes, glaciers and the world's highest concentration of grizzly bears is mighty appealing.

Closer to home I'd like to knock off New Hampshire's tough Cohos Trail, maybe in long weekend chunks.

And of course, there'll be the usual hikes and backpacks and paddles and mountain bike rides around good ol' Maine.

Winter is such a wonderful time for planning. What to do? What to do? Got to save those pennies, that's for certain!

What are your big adventure plans for 2007?

If your upcoming adventures include air travel, be advised: The rules for carry-on items have changed yet again.

In the continuing up and down saga of color threat levels the TSA says you can once again bring liquids and gels onto the plane in your carry-on baggage.

Thank goodness.

Don't know where I'd be without my shampoo and hair gel.

But they'll be no bringing these trusty little items from home, my weary traveler friends. No no.

You can bring 'em on board only if you buy them at "secure" stores in the airport.

I give up.

Most common sense people can tell you that the real threats to secure air travel lie somewhere 180 degrees in the other direction.

Yes, I realize that at one point, sadly, nobody thought box cutters were a security risk.

But there's bigger fish to fry in this security shell game. And I sure hope the TSA is getting to it behind the scenes. Because playing around with carry-on gels and liquids is merely the tip of the safety iceberg.

My recommendation: Take your aisle seat, buckle in, order a cocktail and don't think about it. It's the Alfred E. Newman approach: "What, me worry?"

Happy traveling!

P.S. For the first time in a long time, I am driving my car to my next hiking adventure. To New York's Adirondack Mountains later this week. I'll deal with the airline hassles on the next go-round.

Trains.

Who doesn't have a soft spot in their heart for them?

How many books have we read about hobos riding the rails across the US, free as the wind?

Trains stir up the nostalgia in all of us, signaling adventure to places distant and unknown.

It was such excitement that my Mom (she's up visiting from the summer blast furnace they call Texas) and me jumped aboard the Maine Eastern Railroad in Brunswick last Saturday bound for Rockland.

We settled into some plush seats up front and started to relax. Until we were told that this was first class and were promptly ushered to the rear of the train.

Ooops.

No matter.

The coach car was comfy, too. And just one car down from the bar car. Bonus!

And so we clicked and clacked our way up the rails, watching out the window like a couple of kids as the countryside rolled by.

Soon enough a real live conductor came by announcing, "Tickets, please. Tickets."

Cool.

Somewhere around Wiscasset a young man pulled out his guitar and harmonica and strolled through the cars playing music for tips. Nice.

The Rockland station came all too soon. We piled out onto the platform and into the beautifully refurbished station. Then into the streets of Rockland in search of, what else, lobster!

We found our prey at the Rockland Cafe and gorged ourselves on succulent hard shells, hand-cut fries, cole slaw and sweet tea. Mmmm.

Then we wiled away the afternoon poking about the waterfront and nosing through the downtown shops.

Weary travelers, we were happy to board the 4:30 train for home. We alternately dozed and stared out the big window as the train rumbled down the tracks and transported us back through time.

What a wonderful experience! A trip that will only get better as the beautiful late summer and fall weather arrives...

My Mom waxes nostalgic for the old trains.

First class is nice, eh? Too bad we got kicked out!

Coach class was comfy.

Real conductors!

Our on-board enterainment.

The view from the caboose.

Pulling into the station in Rockland.

It's easy to enjoy a day in downtown Rockland.

You can't visit Rockland without gettin' a lobstah hat!

Mom ready to ride the rails home.

Are you an old train buff? Have you ever ridden on the Maine Eastern Railroad?

Twenty-one hours on the go yesterday...

From taxi to puddle jumper across the Mediterranean to a short hop across mainland Europe (right over Mont Blanc and the Alps!) to a long haul across the Big Pond to a bus up the Maine Turnpike.

I'm beat.

But it's sure good to be home!

On trekking in Corsica and the GR 20 Route: Many photos (about 1,250 or so) and many, many stories to tell. But gimme a little time to catch up with myself and then we'll talk some more.

In the meantime, how the heck have you all been?

What kind of fun outdoorsy stuff have you been up to while I was away?

Tell me all the details of your summer adventures so far, 'cause inquiring minds want to know...

The purchase date on my British Airways and Air France plane tickets reads 3/9/06.

Wow! Three months ago. Where did the time go?

Tomorrow afternoon I'm off. To Corsica. Via London and Nice.

Headed square on for a 15-day trek across the mountainous interior of this ancient and mysterious and beautiful and rugged island, on a route called the GR 20.

I've been assembling my kit for weeks now. Sorting and sifting. A little pile here, a little pile there. Thank goodness for the check list!

Everything's on my living room floor now. Set for the final viewing and the ultimate stuffing into the pack.

Packing up for Corsica, with a little help from my cat Molly (upper right), and my gear check list.

If I had two more days to frig around with it all, I'd take them. But I don't. So tonight is it.

As we speak, of course, I'm confident that my two wily but lovable cats are continuing to rearrange and hide a few items. Ever adding to the packing adventure.

But it'll get done. And then I'll be off.

And some 24 hours after take off from Boston, I hope to be nestled in a comfy gite d'tape in the tiny village of Calenzana, ready to find a Corsican pub where I can practice my French once again.

"Deux grand bieres sil vous plait madame."

Yes, it will be a good adventure. I can finally feel it.

Talk to you all in a few weeks. Have a safe and fun June in the Maine outdoors!

Often times the trail to the trail leads us through the friendly skies.

What, you say?

That's right.

To get to the trail sometimes, whether it's out west or down south or Europe or Patagonia, you've got to fly.

And flying is an adventure in itself, especially in this post-9/11 world. It's at least always interesting, provided you approach it with the right attitude. Which mostly involves patience.

I made yet another plane trip just a few weeks back. Per usual I scribbled a few notes down during my half-day excursion to the west. And thumbing through my notebook last night I came across these random thoughts on my latest bout with plane travel:

* Note to self: When traveling by Concord Trailways to Logan on a Saturday, get to the bus station early. Very early. Must be that I've never bussed it out of Portland on a Saturday before, as I was totally not prepared to find the station teeming with people at 4:45AM. I got the last seat on the 55-person bus. I don't honestly know what I'd have done if I'd been just one step back in line. I didn't stick around to find out. Just grabbed by ticket and bags and slipped through the door to my waiting bus.

* How is it that people still show up at travel ticket counters with no ID? And then yell at the agent when they are denied boarding. Uh, what rock do you live under?

* Arriving at Logan via bus I noticed a very long line queued up for the sky cap desk, my usual MO. I walked past the line into the terminal to see if the indoor check-in was any less busy. Of course I went right for the new, faster self-check in kiosks. Again, a long line of people slowly shuffling forward, clutching cups of coffee and kicking their bags ahead. Around the first bend in the check-in merry-go-round, I noticed their was nobody--nobody--in line for the regular, old fashioned human check-in. Under the rope I went. And was headed for security, boarding pass in hand, in seconds.

* With time to kill I experimented with security by not removing my shoes. And I didn't beep. But rather dumbly, my Swiss Army knife set the machine off. But rather than having to turn over my precious knife to security, never to be seen again, I was able to mail it home. For $12. Note: Ignore the supposed rule changes to acceptable carry-on items (knives with blades less than 3" were OK, so I thought). They vary from airport to airport. Pack the knife in the checked bag next time just to be sure.

* I love getting to end of the security line with carry-on bag, laptop, laptop bag, jacket, hat and whatever else in hand and shuffling out into the terminal walkway looking for a place to get re-packed and re-dressed. At least this time I still had my shoes on. It'd be funnier I guess if security wasn't so serious these days.

* Why is it that the airport bar isn't open at 7AM? Is it just me? Or is no one else interested in a breakfast beer with their morning paper?

* Why is it that loading a plane is like watching a clip from Night of the Living Dead? Seems people lose all ability to move along at anything more than a snail's pace down the ramp and up the aisle of the plane. Where, of course, you are met by people who loaded fifteen minutes ago still standing in the aisle fussing with their carry-on and blocking 150 people behind them from advancing toward the rear of the plane. Can you say "awareness of your surroundings"? I knew you could. Shove it in and sit down, will ya?

* Why must the person behind me jerk my seat when they get up to move each and every five minutes? At this rate she will surely set a record for trips to the restroom on a five hour flight. And I may set a record for high annoyance factor. But then, that's maybe why the flight attendant is now handing me a second Bloody Mary. Happy place, happy place...

* Did you know that the new airline seats have a head piece you can fold out to cradle your head? And keep you from slumping over your seat mate and drooling on them. Maybe they've always been there, but I'm just now noticing? In any case, they're cool, and they keep my head from jarring violently every time the jerk behind me gets up for the john. Nice touch.

* Jeez, where are my meds anyway? Hope they're not in my checked bag...

* I love the roar of the engines. The going. The ability to cover thousands of miles in just hours. The view from above.

* Are those rivets on the wing loose?

* What really happens in the hour between the time you land and the time your baggage pops up out of the chute and slides its way toward you on the carousel? Do the baggage handlers stop to pee? A smoke? Ten smokes? A couple of pops? And why is it that anyone in an airline uniform can't tell you why your bags haven't surfaced yet? And why baggage claim displays never match the actual carousel? A little game of "find it if you can" maybe. That'd be fine if my bus home hadn't just driven off.

* I love flying. I really do. And I really am patient. Honest.

The view from seat 11F.

This chilly Maine boy is headed west, my friends. To sunny southern California. The Mojave Desert. Yucca Valley. Joshua Tree National Park. For an extra long weekend of outdoor fun in the sun with my age old buddy and climbing and hiking pal Tim.

The climbing gear has been rummaged up and packed. A dozen golf balls, tees, glove and shoes. Pack and camping gear too. Shorts, cotton Ts, Tevas, the whole nine yards.

Tim's hilltop hovel is an awesome spot and lends itself well to relaxation and recreation and contemplation. And winter warmth.

To the west, you can look out to Mts. San Gorgonio and San Jacinto, both 10,000 desert peaks traversed by the Pacific Crest Trail. Looking east, you can see far down the valley and over into Joshua Tree.

Can't wait.

So don't look for me for the next few days... as I'll be off scaring myself half-silly on some rock climb, or sweating it up on a trans-desert mountain hike, or whacking the little white ball around the links, or hanging out on the hill with an Ed Abbey book in hand catching some rays.

Somebody's gotta do it.

Sunset in the high desert of Joshua Tree National Park, California.

I received an email today from someone touting the ski programs of their outdoor travel agency.

In the subject line it read "Mt. Ararat Ski Tours".

OK, I thought. That sounds cool.

Clearly, their was either a) a lack of oxygen flowing to my brain b) an insufficient level of caffeine in my system c) too much tryptophan-tainted turkey gravy in my gut, or possibly all three.

Because as I scanned the message and opened up some of the attached images it began to sink in that this wasn't Mt. Ararat in Maine that they were talking about, it was Mt. Ararat... TURKEY!

Oh, uh, I get it now. Duh!

Anyway, the name of the company is Explorer Outdoor Specialists, based out of Ankara, Turkey, and operated by Yasemin Kececi.

They've got a pretty fine looking calendar of ski mountaineering tours, hiking treks, rock climbing trips and other tours. And some wild looking guides to boot who look like they might just know how to throw back a Turkish beer or two and have some serious fun. Definitely worth checking out.

I guess I hadn't considered Turkey very high on my ever-lengthening "to-do" list, but maybe that will change now. Life is short and there's lots of things to see and do. Gotta get on it...

Yasemin says "We are ready to welcome you to the undiscovered paradises of Turkey!" 'Nuff said Yasemin. I'm with ya bud.

Could be the weather. Or boredom. Maybe it's the burrito I ate.

Hard tellin'.

But something made me Google for "hiking in Iraq."

And the results are...

Not much. No organized treks. No instructors or guides. No hiking accomodations. No equipment rentals.

What gives? You'd think there was a war going on over there or something.

But there's at least one brave (insane?) soul, however, who's been hiking in Iraq on his own. Bet the IEDs make for exciting hiking!

Hmmm. Where else off the beaten path can I try?

North Korea maybe?

... by 9PM, same day.

Pretty amazing, eh?

It is, if you happened to go to the Traveler's Club last evening at the Maine Audubon Center at Gilsland Farm in Falmouth.

We enjoyed an interesting talk and slides by Sonja Johansen, who, at the tender age of 70, volunteered for a stint in the Peace Corps and was stationed in Uzbekistan, a country of the former USSR.

If you like to travel and have a thirst for adventure, then you'll enjoy these monthly programs, which can transport you to all parts of the globe and back in a brief hour and a half.

The next program on Thursday, December 1st will take us to Wyoming!

In last Sunday's Maine Sunday Telegram, I wrote about trekking in Europe, which is an awesome thing to do if you haven't already.

When overseas it's nice to keep in touch with folks at home, of course. And in my "travel tips" I said that US cell technology was not compatable with European cell technology (theirs is more advanced), so don't bother taking your cell phone with you. I touted phone cards as the best communications solution.

Reader Nate from Greenfield MA tells me other wise, so I thought I'd pass on his info to you potential Europe travelers:

In the US, there are two cellular technologies in use, CDMA, which is used by Verizon and Sprint, among others, and GSM, which is used by T-mobile and AT&T/Cingular and many others (http://www.gsmworld.com/roaming/
gsminfo/cou_us.shtml ). The GSM standard is the most commonly used standard in the rest of the world, and most GSM phones in use in the US are compatible with the frequencies used in Europe. In the last year, I have used my GSM T-mobile phone in Paris, Congo and the Philippines. Calls were ridiculously expensive using my home service, but possible. If you know that you will be traveling and want to take your existing GSM phone with it's saved numbers, it is possible to get a prepaid GSM card in the destination country, which will allow cheap incountry calling (good for checking reservations, etc) and more affordable calls home. Depending on the phone, you may need to get it unlocked in advance to be assured that it will work with any carrier, anywhere. For more about unlocking, http://www.thetravelinsider.info/
roadwarriorcontent/unlockingfaq.htm

So I guess it can be done. Thanks for the tips Nate.

Just a little more than a week ago I was yucking it up in the Mojave Desert of southern California with my good buddy Tim, my oldest friend in the world (Union Street Junior High, Bangor!). Tim has lived out in the desert there for about 15 years now, and I can't seem to get him to move back this way.

But every time I visit I remember why he loves it out there so much. He lives in a little cabin high on a hilltop overlooking Yucca Valley, with tremendous views of Mt. San Jacinto and Mt. San Gorgonio (both 10,000 foot peaks along the Pacific Crest Trail) right out his door. And magnificent Joshua Tree National Park, world famous for its great rock climbing, hiking and mountain biking, is just minutes to the east.

So I was elated to get to spend four days hanging out with him, which ended up in the usual whirlwind of outdoor activity. We hiked, we scrambled, we rock climbed, we camped out, we cooked hot dogs and beans over a pinon pine fire, gazed at the stars in the clearest night sky possible, and fell asleep to the barking of coyotes all around us (and occasionally right in camp trying to snatch our food).

The desert was magical, as it always is, and now I can't wait to get back there for another visit. If only I didn't have to endure the ugly and unhealthy thick brown-orange smog of Los Angeles to get there.

So here's some pics from this brief, but action-packed trip to Joshua Tree.

Enjoy!

Joshua Tree National Park, a desert paradise.

Hiking in the high desert.

Late day sun over Barker Dam, one of the only places to find water in Joshua Tree.

Pictographs in a cave near Barker Dam.

The second stage booster at work from a rocket launch from Vandenburg AFB as it screams over Joshua Tree. I can't say I've never witnessed anything like this before. Wild!

Approaching Saddle Rock with climbing gear in tow.

First pitch of Walk on the Wild Side, a premier 5.8 climb.

Fixing the first belay.

Paying out the rope...

My turn on the awesome friction wall.

Hamming it up as the angle eases off.

A rather scenic belay spot.

Topping out on the airy pinnacle.

Happy feet.

Rappelling off the climb.

Packing up the gear.

Tim's dog Ringo in the twilight of evening on Mt. Ryan.

Sunset on the summit ridge of Mt. Ryan.

Dogs grilling on the fire in camp at Hidden Valley.

Sunrise over Hidden Valley and camp.

I've been riding buses since I was a little kid. To me, buses have always signaled adventure, excitement, being on the move, seeing the country. You know, that ever present travel bug thing. It's been with me a long time.

As a little kid, my Dad and I would often catch the evening Greyhound bus at the Port Authority Terminal in New York City for the ten-hour ride to Buffalo, where his mother lived. I'd try and stay awake as long as I could so I wouldn't miss anything, but I probably never made it past 8 o'clock, falling fast asleep to to the steady whine of the bus motor grinding along. But Dad would always wake for the 1am stop at the Horn and Hardart somewhere along the New York State Thruway, where we'd both have a donut. What a huge adventure!

Later on, as a young teen, my Mom would allow me to make the nine-hour trip from Bangor to UMass in Amherst to see my brother (silly Mom!!). The fact that I had to change buses in Boston was always a big deal. I was a real traveler now! More adventure, with a little taste of wild 70s college life thrown in. This was big stuff!

But not all bus trips have been good ones. Always interesting, but not always fun. Often times very sad. And sometimes downright dangerous.

Like the time I got mugged trying to get into the Phoenix Greyhound station, just barely getting through the door with me and my backpack intact.

Ditto the Atlanta Trailways station another time.

Or boarding a midnight bus in Flagstaff, Arizona and minutes later finding myself smack in the middle of a brawl between a busload of very drunk migrant workers and native Americans. The driver actually pulled over in the middle of the desert and kicked half the people off the bus.

My favorite is the time my bus was pulling off the highway at 2am somewhere in North Carolina when, from the roadside darkness, somebody decided to shoot a double-barrel shotgun at the bus. Rather than continue to exit, the bus driver smartly floored the thing and never stopped until the next exit miles down the road. We all got off the bus at the station and were, as you might expect, stunned to see the two round patches of pock marks as well as the shattered, but intact, windows. Miraculously no one was hurt. Pretty damn shaken up though.

A lot of this stuff was running through my head last week on a rather interesting bus trip via Greyhound from Anaheim to Palm Springs CA, where my buddy Tim was to pick me up.

I took a cab from my hotel to the bus station in Anaheim, purchased my ticket and proceeded to a bench outside to wait. A man already occupied one end of the bench. He was slumped over, asleep, and reeked of alcohol.

But as I sat down, his head popped up, and he turned to me and asked, "Where you going?"

"Palm Springs," I said.

"Oh, that's a nice place," he said. "Spent some time there."

"Really?"

"Yep, two years in an alcohol rehab joint. Very nice. I'd like to go back there sometime."

I didn't ask whether to Palm Springs or to rehab.

Later, sitting in the San Bernadino bus station waiting for my connection, just a few feet from the Target Terror game, which of course, uses guns...

A man, dressed in a crisp white T-shirt, blue jeans and black workboots, approaches the game, throws in some quarters and begins to shoot. Another man, also clad in a crisp white T-shirt, blue jeans and black workboots, comes up and says, "Jesus, man, move back a little. You never shoot from that close in real life."

Uh, okay.

Bored with the shoot-em-up blood-and-guts game, the men saunter off. At that, the man next to me leans over and says, "You did notice their clothes, right?"

Well, yes, but...

"Just released from prison."

I see.

My connecting bus makes a roadside stop in Banning. A man boards and plops down in the seat ahead of me.

And proceeds to talk to, then pet, a cardboard box inside a plastic bag. Then leans the other way, presses his nose firm against the window, and begins to make airplane noises, and continues to do so for the remainder of the ride. Except for the brief moment when he leaned over the seat and announced to me that he was the "Boy Prodigy" of Palm Springs.

There's a very real, very sad part of life out there that is only witnessed by getting right down into it. And, on this short bus trip, I just got another big, eye-opening lesson in it.

Let's just say...

You have been traveling for almost 24 hours. First by bus. Then plane. Squeezed into narrow seats in confined spaces for a long time. Overnight in fact.

You arrive at London Heathrow stiff and cranky. Then take the Express train into Paddington Station in the center of the city.

You desperately need sunlight, air, coffee.

You jump off the train, swing your backpack onto your shoulder and head for the exit to find all three. Quickly.

Street level. Morning light. A breeze. Almost there.

Your eyes scan for a coffee shop. Must have coffee. Turn right and walk to corner.

You look down at your feet at the curb. And notice painted on the street in big white capital letters: LOOK RIGHT.

You see these words, but they don't fully register. Your synapses are firing slowly. Electronic impulses in your system are barely detectable. Your brain is processing information with the speed of chilled molasses.

But it is this very state of semi-suspended animation that you are in that actually functions to save your life.

Because it takes you a very long second to put your right foot out to begin crossing the intersection.

When all of a sudden...

WHOOSH!!!

A red double-decker bus blows by you a scant six inches from your face.

From the right.

You pull your foot back and stand there. Stunned.

But you are fully awake and definitely aware now.

You are thankfully alive. And can now proceed to the coffee place. And then free to embark on your hike in the Welsh countryside.

After looking right, of course.

I've been away for 26 out of the last 30 days. First to the United Kingdom, then to California. I'm a tired puppy dog.

I'm not complaining mind you, just admitting my travel weariness.

That weariness peaked last night on my way home from Los Angeles. My connection in Atlanta was delayed and delayed and delayed. I took it in stride, though, spending the long hours alternating between the Internet access area and the bar.

Seems my plane was coming from Baton Rouge, LA and was held up by Rita-related weather or mechanical problems or swamp creatures or what not.

Finally rolled into the Portland Jetport at the chipper hour of 1:30am.

Have you tried to get a cab at that hour in Portland on a Monday night?

The taxi finally rolled into my driveway around 3 and I dragged my butt and my bags upstairs.

But rather than go to bed like a normal exhausted person, I sat up and read through a pile of mail.

And played with my neglected beasts Molly and Katie, who have clearly indicated that Dad isn't to leave the house again for awhile.

The fridge contains beer, half & half, a carton of outdated eggs, and moldy carrots.

I have a beer.

Then I survey the house.

Clearly a remnant of Katrina has blown through in my absence. Mountains of cat hair, rugs all askew, piles of gear in the corner, papers stacked hither and yon.

It could have been worse I suppose had my dear friends Bubba, Evil Woman and Short Stuff not kept my cats and things in reasonable check.

Finally, I collapse in bed under a pile of magazines, sleep through my alarm, and am late for work.

Ain't adventure travel great?!

Possibly I failed to mention earlier that conference is in Anaheim near Disneyland.

Silly people, why would they go and do something like that? Just kidding.

I may just have to make a visit to Adventureland, Fantasyland, Tomorrowland... you know, just to check it out!

I haven't been there since I was a kid.

But then, having rather successfully dodged maturity, I'm still a kid.

So this should be way cool!

Magic Mountain, Space Mountain, the Matterhorn, whatever, here I come. Woo-hoo!

But that's tomorrow. Right now, as a brilliant full moon illuminates the sky over Anaheim, I just have to marvel at being lucky enough to live in a time when, in the course of a single week, one can travel 7,500 miles from the north coast of Wales to Portland, Maine to southern California.

But that's the world we live in, tied ever closer by information and technology.

The adventure continues...

I know, I know, I just got home and now I'm off again. To California. Tomorrow.

It's a tough life, but I'm up for the challenge. If it helps, this trip is work related. Well, sort of.

A transportation conference through the middle of the week.

Then off to Twenty Nine Palms in the beautiful Mojave Desert for a few days of fun in the sun in Joshua Tree National Park with my oldest friend Tim.

Maybe we'll hike, maybe rock climb, maybe mountain bike. Maybe all three.

Or maybe we won't do squat other than sit in the yard and throw back a few brewskies.

Hard telling.

In any case, it's always an adventure when I get together with my buddy Tim.

LAX, here I come. See you in a week...

Greetings fellow Americans!

It's good to be back on home soil, although I must admit I've taken quite a fancy to the United Kingdom, especially Wales.

I could surely live there for awhile and spend some time hiking their huge network of trails and putting forth a valiant effort in helping them to draw down their stock of real ale.

We'll see...

But for now, I'm back and you'll have to start dealing with my regular ramblings again.

Oh goody, you say.

Be nice now...

By the way, it goes without saying that flying is always quite an adventure since 9/11. But coming home I had a most interesting experience...

Seems the gentleman sitting directly behind me spent the first half of the flight from London to Boston consuming 2/3 of a bottle of Smirnoff's that he'd purchased at the duty free shop at Heathrow.

That's a big no-no, of course.

So, somewhere south of Greenland I woke up to quite a commotion behind me.

A number of flight attendants were gathered around this guy trying to take away the bottle of wine he'd ordered, and in attempting to do so, discovered the illicit bottle of vodka.

A good deal of kicking and yelling ensued (the kicking was done to the back of my seat mind you), when the wine bottle was finally wrestled away. But he wouldn't budge on the vodka.

He then proceeded to scream for the FAA rules prohibiting consuming your own liquor while on board a commercial airliner.

"Show me the regulations," he slurred, as the heavy odor of vodka wafted past my seat.

More airline people showed up and had no luck in dealing with the increasingly loud and belligerent jerk.

What exactly don't you get about not being able to drink your own booze in flight?

Duh! Moron.

Anyway, eventually somebody really important, likely from the cockpit, showed up and calmly read the man the riot act, which included landing the plane and having him forcibly removed and arrested.

No more warnings. Now or never.

I nodded my approval to the official looking man.

The I clicked on the GPS locater map on the seatback in front of me.

St. John's, Newfoundland seemed like a good possibility to dump off this loser.

This could be interesting.

But the incredible professionalism of the flight officer worked.

The bottle of vodka was relinquished, the man calmed completely down, and that was that. And the kicking of my seat stopped too.

The next thing I knew we were descending toward Logan.

So no side trip Newfoundland on this journey. But I'll settle for Massachusetts and a bus home to Portland.

Greetings from London!

A long way from home for this Maine boy!

It's 9am here (4am EST in my body) and I'm all out of whack. Definitely need more coffee. Nothing like sleeping sitting up all night! And what's with no more free cocktails on international flights???

The city is bustling with busy-looking morning commuters, but as I sit here looking out the window from this Internet cafe, I know I'm not going anywhere near work for a few weeks. Woo-hoo!

I've got a noonish train west to Wales. Then I'm on the trail. Clear skies, temps in the 60s. Gotta like that for walking...

Catch up with you at the next cyber access point. Maybe.

Cheerio!

I drove down to New Hampshire last night to visit with family near Manchester.

It was rush hour, traffic was thick, and it was hot out. Perfect conditions for road rage.

Exiting I-95, the toll booth leading onto Route 101 was backed up solid.

That's okay. Stay cool. Relax.

After passing through the toll, the mass of cars were forced to queue into a single lane because of construction.

I noticed a car coming up on my left. Massachusetts plates. So I slowed and waved the car on.

But he didn't move.

Instead the driver waved me on.

No, no, I thought. Please you go.

He wouldn't budge. And waved me on again. With a smile.

Hmmm.

So I pulled out and onto the ramp and drove off.

And gestured thanks with a wave and a nod in my rearview.

What just happened?

A car with Massachusetts plates. A courteous driver. With a friendly wave. And a smile.

What the hell is happening to the world?

Not to worry.

Returning home this morning on the Maine Turnpike I looked in my mirror to see a car barreling down on me at high speed, seemingly intent on driving straight up my tailpipe.

But at the last possible second he changed lanes, nearly clipping my bumper, and passed me just inches from my driver's door.

The plates on the car: Massachusetts, of course.

Now that's more like it.

Ahh, all is well with the world again...

Taking a year off between between high school and college is one of the best things a teen can do. To travel, see the country, see the world, hike some long trail, volunteer for community service, get involved in a humanitarian project. To have an adventure, meet different people, learn a few things that can only come from exposing yourself to what's out there, away from home. I don't know why more American kids don't do it.

Life gets busy and complicated much too quickly. Nine-to-five jobs, student loans, car payments, house payments, credit card debt. So if you don't seize the opportunity at this critical time, it can be years before the chance comes around again. Make a plan, then do it.

One of the best things I ever did was to take some time off between Bangor High School and the University of Maine. I spent the better part of six months hiking the Appalachian Trail. And when I returned home I spent even more time hiking and climbing and carousing around Maine. That was good for a year.

I probably didn't need the second year off, however. Because I inevitably got into the usual trouble that often plagues teenagers with too much time on their hands (no, you don't need to know!).

But the upside to that was, when it finally came time to go to college, I was soooooooooooo ready for it! And with a couple of years of travel and outdoors stuff under my belt, as well as some time spent slinging burgers for minimum wage, I knew college was the right direction.

And just look at how well I turned out!

Did you do anything fun and interesting between high school and college?

Now you know darn well that I love Maine with a passion. I've been here a good many years now. And although I can never be a "native" (You know... "if my cat had kittens in the oven, I wouldn't call 'em biscuits" and all that), nowhere else will ever be "home."

But...

I sure do love the West. And I've just returned from there, so it's fresh on my mind.

I love the big open spaces, the big sky, the smell. There seems to be more room to move about, to breathe. There's a real sense of freedom there that doesn't seem to exist in the more congested, tree-covered East.

The last of the sun's rays over the plains of north Texas Sunday evening.

I don't know if I could ever live out there, but I sure do love to visit. Often.

But I'm back home now and am quite happy to see the trees and smell the ocean...

Everything is bigger in Texas, so the saying goes. And that's where I'm headed for a couple of days. To check in on Mom at her house out in the ranch lands of Crowley just south of Fort Worth.

No big adventure. Just a lot of little ones. Since Dad's passing last fall Mom needs a little extra help and support. So there's yard work to be done, the garage needs cleaning, paperwork to put in order. Trips to the mall and the supermarket. Things that were easier with Dad around, but not now.

But that's just fine. The wildflowers will be out. The backyard will be full of wild turkeys, and deer and armadillos. And the sunset across Lake Benbrook always inspires me. I'll think of Dad for sure and remember how much he loved this little place.

Sunset over the Lone Star State.

Mom has promised me a fridge full of Shiner beer, always a good motivator. And a trip out for Spring Creek BBQ, the best BBQ on the planet. Maybe some good Tex-Mex food too. And I'll take her out for a nice Mother's Day dinner somewhere. So we'll have some fun.

For me travel of any kind is a good thing. And the long plane ride will be good. Precious time to just sit and think. For the first time in awhile I've picked a window seat, and I'm looking forward to staring out at the diverse, ever-changing beauty below that is our wonderful country.

So that's my Mother's Day weekend adventure. What are your plans with your Mom?

Gray skies, cold rain. I love Maine and all, but geez...

I've had enough. I need sun and I need it now.

You know that ad on the tube for Southwest Airlines? The "wanna get away?" one?

Well, I wanna get away. To some place sunny, warm and dry.

So, naturally I googled for a place that might fit that description and up popped 6 sunny places: Cook Islands, Honduras, Northern Mariana Islands, Palau, Tonga and Vanuatu.

Tropical getaways all of them. And right now, any one of them would do.

Palm trees, warm water, sand between the toes. Sunshine!

I need to get on the phone to my favorite travel agent...

Wanna join me?

I have to be in Boston on business today, but I don't mind. I love the occasional day amid the urban walls of Beantown (hey, even a Yankee fan like me can enjoy it sometimes). The noise, the cars, the people, the smells, the T--it's all quite a contrast to the comparatively sedate, but lovable city of Portland.

When my conference is over in the afternoon, I plan to visit my favorite hangouts, starting with Hilton's Tent City, where I thoroughly enjoy poking about the five dusty floors of outdoor gear arranged willy-nilly. It's kind of like the Filene's Basement of outdoor retailing and I can always find something I need.

All that rummaging will no doubt elevate my thirst level, so I'll have to stop in a the Black Rose for a pint. For proper hydration of course.

Refreshed, it'll be on to the Globe Corner Bookstore to delve into their huge collection of travel books, adventure books and maps. A very dangerous place for the travel hungry (and for the credit card).

For sustenance, a couple of slices of good thin crust pizza at Pizzeria Regina should do on my way over to catch an IMAX show at the Boston Museum of Science Mugar Omni Theater.

I plan to see Mystery of the Nile, the daring adventure of the first descent of the Nile River (via raft and kayak) from its source to the Mediterranean Sea, 3,000 miles and 114 days later. Should be a wet and wild ride!

By then I trust this armchair adventurer will have earned a good nap on the bus home...

My friend Bill from Swanville has quite a sweet tooth, especially for Swiss Rolls. You won't find him too far from a box of them.

Bill is quite the hiker and paddler and all-around outdoors guy. And now he's quite the world traveler, having just spent the last three months trekking through Thailand and Laos. He kept us posted on his whereabouts and his adventures through frequent emails relayed through a friend.

I caught up with him last night at the MOAC meeting in Bangor, and, as you might imagine, he had lots of stories to tell of his travels. But one tale in particular, which actually had little to do with his trip, made me laugh uncontrollably. It was just very Bill...

In January, as Bill was waiting for his early morning ride to the Belfast bus station to catch a bus to Boston and his flight overseas, he scurried around the house making sure he had everything. Needing a bit of nourishment he naturally tore open the cellophane of a Swiss Roll and took a bite. And then set it down on the counter to finish packing.

But his ride appeared and he hurriedly threw his gear in the car and sped off.

And left the half eaten Swiss Roll on the counter. Forgotten. For three months.

Bill returned home a few days ago.

The Swiss Roll was still there, a couple of bites missing, right there on the counter where he left it in January.

Well, settling in after being away for that length of time takes a little doing. He turned on the gas. Got the water heater going. Unpacked his bags. Went outside and tried to start his truck. No luck there.

All this activity made Bill more than a little hungry. But he wasn't going anywhere with a dead truck. And there wasn't much for food in the house except for...

The Swiss Roll.

On the counter.

Right where he left it.

Three months ago...

Bill looked at it. Closely. It still had the same brown and white factory colors. It hadn't bulged out any. No bugs on it. Smelled fine.

So he ate it.

And lived to tell us about it.

Better living through chemistry I guess.

Ever on the prowl for new places to adventure, a friend just sent me over a link to a cool place for hiking and climbing in West Virginia called Nelson Rocks Preserve.

So I clicked through and took a look.

And it looked pretty cool. Trail hiking opportunities, lots of rock climbing and a via ferrata, which is basically a trail consisting of bridges, ladders and cables that takes you into wildly exposed places.

Well, that all sounded pretty good. Definitely worth a visit, I'm thinking.

Then I scanned a bit further down the page and came to the disclaimer, and my jaw dropped. It is like no disclaimer of any kind I have ever read. Did Hunter S. Thompson's attorney draft this, flying high on coke and a bottle of Wild Turkey?Reading through it, I thought I was going to pee my pants with laughter, until I realized they were serious.

Here are a few of the more "interesting" excerpts. Hmmm. I'm still scratching my head. You read them and tell me what you think...

Trail features made or enhanced by humans, such as steps, walls and railings (if any) can break, collapse, or otherwise fail catastrophically at any time. We don't promise to inspect, supervise or maintain them in any way. They may be negligently constructed or repaired. They are unsafe, period. Live with it or stay away.

A whole rock formation might collapse on you and squash you like a bug.

...climbing is extremely dangerous. If you don't like it, stay at home. You really shouldn't be doing it anyway.

The Preserve does not provide rangers or security personnel. The other people in the preserve, including other visitors, our employees, agents, and guests, and anyone else who might sneak in, may be stupid, reckless, or otherwise dangerous. They may be mentally ill, criminally insane, drunk, using illegal drugs and/or armed with deadly weapons and ready to use them. We aren't necessarily going to do anything about it. We refuse to take responsibility.

Oh crap, you're killing me here!

If you are lucky enough to have somebody try to rescue you or treat your injuries, they may be incompetent or worse. This includes doctors and hospitals.

We promise you nothing. We do not and will not even try to keep the premises safe for any purpose. The premises are not safe for any purpose. This is no joke. We won't even try to warn you about any dangerous or hazardous condition, whether we know about it or not. If we do decide to warn you about something, that doesn't mean we will try to warn you about anything else. If we do make an effort to fix an unsafe condition, we may not try to correct any others, and we may make matters worse! We and our employees or agents may do things that are unwise and dangerous. Sorry, we're not responsible. We may give you bad advice. Don't listen to us. In short, ENTER AND USE THE PRESERVE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

And my favorite:

... have fun! NRP Management

Oh, that's too good. Sounds like more of a Jurassic Park than a place to hike or climb!

No plans, you say?

Well then, how about coming to the monthly meeting of the Maine Outdoor Adventure Club in Portland. Mix it up a little with a hundred or so other outdoorsy MOACers, hear a program on hostelling in the U.S. and Canada, get in on the trip planning, and have some serious fun.

Been trekking the Nepal Himalaya? Climbing in the Swiss Alps? Road-tripping it across the U.S.? Riding the Siberian Express across Russia? Knapsacking through Australia and New Zealand? Sea kayaking the coast of Maine? Sightseeing in Paris?

Whatever your travel adventure, you might consider showing a handful of your slides or digital photos at the next meeting of the Traveler's Club on Thursday, January 6th. The folks there are departing from their usual scheduled program and are having a "Travel Medley" with multiple mini-presentations instead.

Local travelers are invited to bring 10-12 of their favorite travel slides (and some goodies to share with the group) for a quick presentation. It'll be fun to see where everybody has been and hear some adventurous tales.