This is not a blog post.

It's more like a long form status update, with more pictures. So please no expectations that this will be well-written or regularly updated or anything of the sort. I've done an astounding amount of living in the few weeks since I've left Portland, and I am hopelessly behind in writing things down and putting up pictures.


If I believed in such things, I would say that the trip got off to an inauspicious start. After leaving Portland late in the afternoon the day after Christmas, we drove 5 hours or so to Grants Pass. By then it was late and we were looking for a place to spend the night. We were in high spirits, playing music and chatting after a successful departure and first day and the road. I was still reeling a bit from the suddenness of our exodus, but also stupidly excited for the life we are embarking on. There were two bikes and a surfboard and top of the car, and the back is loaded with all our worldly possessions, snacks and supplies. 

We saw a cheap motel up the road and decided to pull up to the office and see how much a room was. As we did so, a sudden and horrific crunch could be heard from outside the car. Hunter hit the brakes and there was a second or two that I sat there, looking about uncomprehendingly. He realized it first and jumped out of the car. Then I realized what had happened. I got out of the car into the freezing cold to survey the scene: the motel had a very low carport and we had our bikes upright on the roof rack. I saw my bike first. It was knocked back and askew, handlebars at a strange angle and the seat had been ripped right off, but no major damage had been done. But Hunter's bike, which was much taller and more brittle, had not fared well. It was a shiny red rubble of painful looking bent and broken tubes. It was bike carnage.

It had been such a pretty bike, too.