Transcontinental Transmissions

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Day 25 Long road home

As smoke laced with sunlight floated between the cracks of blinds drawn, my heavy eyes lifted to see Grimnir scribbling way a piece of paper.

Late morning, and the prior evenings toll wore heavily across our faces, Shanks signaling his exhaustion via snore transmission thru heavy doors.

Though the prospect of completing the blades hilt was alluring, home was calling like a siren at sea. We opted to leave a note by the now empty coffee pot, thanking our new friends for the southern hospitality and shared laughter. True outlaw grit was embedded into our memories, Texas an unexpected cornerstone of the adventure, but Appalachia is home.

As I rubbed my head and put on my boots, Grim mumbled something about heading out soon, and I laughed to myself at the thought of how little we had really spoken the past few nights together, we were deranged, and full of words ready for bleeding onto paper, the silent company held our own charm.

Opening the front door, the wave of heat hit me like a wood oven, my skin was dark red and blistered, it burned as I pulled my wind breaker to find some relief.

Next to the Sportster my Dyna faintly glimmered in the sunlight, mud and dust caked on its once “Vivid” black finish, testament to tribulations it would seem. I eyed the large dent on my tank from where Rekkr and I ripped around in the dirt at Waldgang, and smiled before noticing that Grim had nearly finished his packing. Quickly I thru my duffle on and bungeed it to the sissy bar, adding yet another love mark to my fender in the process.

We set off hard, pursuant of fond welcomes and homes repose.

The trials of a month in motion were written all over us, at each stop we somehow managed to look less human than the one prior.

In the early afternoon we stopped for a bite to eat and fuel somewhere in eastern Texas, the air hung thick and heavy, the faint scent of a paper mill adding sulfur to the concoction.

The breakfast haste did little to deter our eagerness to set back off, and after tempting fate by a tank of 89 octane, we blitzed toward the highway. As Grimnir took point and hurled up the ramp, I had to evade his battery pack which had been dislodged from the saddle bag it previously resided within. The Sporty rapidly became a faint olive drab dot while more personal artifacts plummeted to the road below.

I grabbed the battery pack and took off to flag Grim down. Motioning to the shoulder we quickly pulled over just between roadkill and a burnt SUV and checked the saddle bag to see what else had met such a tumbling fate.

The waterproof bag containing I.D. and credit cards was gone, our stomachs dove, and we started the search while the glowing hell above us mocked our efforts. Back to the fuel stop we rode, only to be halted by a Pig in a mans costume who sought to inform us of a stop sign we missed in our search. We explained ourselves and he took off, far too busy to assist the apparent low life’s his path had crossed.

A final pass up the shoulder and the bag was found, its treasures however were not. Grimnir rummaged thru his pack one final time and by chance, found his card at the bottom. Our luck had at least partially improved and we set back off with a vengeance.

The miles bled together on an infinite horizon as we battled with maniacal big rigs and counted the overheated vehicles abandoned along our way. 13.

As night fell we cut thru Arkansas, and finally found the empty roads we were looking for. We met up with some acquaintances in the area, who escorted us on to Memphis.

A terrible feeling took hold of me as I knew the Hornsmith and Jarneffr were hurdling ever faster towards Virginia, excited at the potential to beat us there. I shook my head and reflected on the resolve of the men I’d been riding with and knew that somehow, we’d all get back in one piece, albeit not the same as we left.

Crossing over the bridge into Bluff City, we said our goodbyes to the pair who’d guided us out of Arkansas, and agreed to ride as hard and fast as we could towards Nashville.

An hour and some change down the road, and we’d finally reached our last stop together, a fork in the road directing me home and another for Grimnir. We snapped a couple pictures to showcase the insanity in our eyes, and with a hug got back on our mighty steeds to embrace the twilight blitz.

The roadways were gracious and traffic was scarce, the howl of our death traps echoed long into the night like menacing beasts on the way to sack a city.

As the divergence in our journey neared, I signaled to Grimnir, and we split down our separate ways. I cracked the throttle wide and looked out over the quite Nashville skyline. Nearly there.

My mind paced over the collection of misery and ecstasy which defined the past 7500+ miles while my body gave autopilot its best go.

Arriving at the small gravel lot outside of home, I slumped off my bike into the cold mist. My hands ached as I took off my pack for the last time, longing for Lovers embrace being the fumes I’d been running on.

I stepped onto the stoop and attempted to make myself somewhat presentable, but if the farewell photos I’d taken with Grimnir were any indication, I looked like a lunatic.

I turned the doorknob and to my surprise found it was locked! Fumbling and cursing I took out my phone to make contact. Nothing. Perhaps my wanderlust had finally bested me, and the smiling face I’d been hoping for would have no filth such as me in their company.

“The yard it is”, I thought starting for my tent, but suddenly heard the door rush open and a familiar voice begin to apologize but before the full sentence could emerge, her face was buried in my chest and I was home at last.

ᚱᚱᚱᚱᚱᚱ ᚱᚱᚱᚱᚱᚱ ᚱᚱᚱᚱᚱᚱ

Time passes differently on a motorcycle, eventually becoming a vestige of the moments spent outside of that place where the act of riding takes you.

The destination is never actually where you end up, it’s story of how you got there.

Home is in the company you keep, and in the memories created.

And life?

Life is motion.

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Day 24 - Shanks

As a morning daze lingered on my road worn face, the sound of Grimnirs hurried packing roused me from bed. Exhaustion was an attribute that no sleep seemed to ward off, and I was grateful that my companion wasn’t in a chatty mood.

Indiscriminately, personal effects were stuffed back into my G.I. green duffle, and with a quick downing of burnt coffee commandeered from the lobby, we stepped out into the thick AM heat.

I looked over my fine steed, its vivid black paint now tarnished with insect genocide and gravel peppering, then shifted my gaze to the OD Green Sportster alongside. It was odd to be down to only two bikes, but before I was able to recount the prior legs of our journey, Grimnir had fired up his engine and was waiting for me to load up. The Man was ready to be home, but one last visit need be conducted to solidify the lessons learned from this great adventure.

The Texas heat was pummeling, and as we hugged along the border of Mexico, traffic became hellish. Our Light Calvary tactics approach had been thwarted. With a vague sense of direction we diverted to the local Harley dealer for a phone mount, goggles, and an overpriced kickstand spring for the Sporty.

After some time laughing at the various T-shirt and hat designs, we quickly installed the phone mount and punched in the directions to our hosts house for the evening, a Mr. Terry Shanks.

Winding through the out skirts of Fort Worth we finally arrived outside of the house, a low slung softail in the driveway and the remnants of a primary cover hanging over the stoop, the name “Shanks” plasma cut in like trve American folk art.

Grimnir and I poured over the details on Terry’s bike as we tried to get into touch with him, but to no avail. We decided to give it another 30 minutes before blasting on to Tennessee, and just as the frustration kicked in for a wasted stop, Terry’s wife rolled up.

As strange men on motorcycles, camped out in her front yard, seemed to be a common occurrence, Rachel quickly unlocked the door to rouse Terry from his slumber, and he emerged in an apologetic and groggy fashion to welcome us in for some coffee or beer, or both.

As the caffeine drip settled into our veins, another member from the Out of Time M.C. named Jaws showed up with his old lady on the back of a beautiful heritage softail, handing out brews and welcoming us from our travels.

In rare occasions, kindred spirits seem to congregate, like the sudden appearance of fireflies in summertime meadow, veiled by shadow as the Sun dips, then gleaming on into the damp night…

The conversation quickly shifted from that of introductions and motorcycles, to concepts of societal disenchantment and outlaw philosophy, each of us recounting instances of our own sound character and grasp on life(DEATH), only to be weighed wanting by the society we took breath in.

I found my mind trying desperately to absorb the wisdom that cut through the humid July air.

Living in a time of waning worth, with plastic filler force fed into the vacancy of Life, the only option is outright revolt and abandonment of “Their World”, for the creation of your own…

Grimnir leaned over to pass me his card with a grin and asked me to go grab some more beer, as we were obviously in good company and happy to share in the camaraderie.

I hopped on the Dyna for the little jaunt to the gas station as the Sun drifted behind the trees, offering a welcomed relief from its daytime embrace.

After loading my saddle bags with beer, I darted back to the house, making way inside to rejoin the discussion.

Terry makes his living by hand forging custom knives from tool steel, and surprised Grim and I with an invitation to not only watch him work(something very few get to experience), but to help in the process.

Soon, we made way to the shed out back, housing both the forge and indescribable character.

As preparations were made to bring a blade to life, Grimnir and I scoured the premises, enchanted by everything our gazes met.

Before the process began, Terry recounted to us a story from his childhood when he had seen an outlaw type in all black ride up to a yard sale on an old Harley, a long blade on his hip. He told us of that moment, melding two powerful images, the motorcycle and the knife, both symbolic of freedom and carving a path of ones own choosing. He reflected back on the thought of “how cool it would be to be a biker who made knives” and then shared the realization he had indeed become who he had imagined. To him, the possibility of being THAT character in our story, was the immortality he had been chasing.

We watched in awe as the master performed his craft. The hammer fell, the metal danced.

At a certain juncture, an older Navy vet emerged and began a very structured cleaning process, quietly sweeping the mounds of rust and organizing sanding belts, careful to never disrupt the delicate process unfolding.

The man eventually introduced himself as Terry’s apprentice, and for a moment I found myself not wanting to talk, but only observe…perhaps prematurely judging the humble apprentice by his meek appearance.

And then I listened.

He spoke of the way the atoms within the steel were physically moved by the forging process, that the act of human will was in fact rearranging something nature had constructed for its own purpose.

He spoke of the beauty found in the curve of a blade, and its potent potential should the human will again make it move.

He concluded that in this life of uncertainty and ugliness, to bring something new, and beautiful, into existence from raw material was enough to get out of bed in the morning. It was enough to not end it all.

As the night inched into morning, the blade found its shape, its first thirst was quenched , and we each found our crash pads, planning to build the hilt in the morning.

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Day 23 - Heavy Eyes

Plans had been made for a group breakfast, but as the morning light spread over the earth like a golden blanket, Karl awoke feeling less than ideal. He managed to send us off with a goodbye between vehement heaves, old JD having his AM revenge.

A quick stop at Walmart for some essentials, gulp of coffee and soon enough we were aimed at Texas, the sound of mighty Vril Twin master engines booming into dawn.

The first leg of the morning melted away rapidly and we passed thru vast cauldrons of arid oppression, occasionally interrupted by heavy storm cells looming overhead in all directions, with faint traces of sunlight to blister skin cutting thru the clouds.

Mountains sprung from the distance, reaching skyward to pierce the belly of the storm front above, a signal that preparations need be made. We pulled to the side of the highway to apply makeshift waterproofing, soon realizing that one trash bag was not easily shared. I wrapped my tarp around what I could, essentially creating an obscene blue sail off the stern of my iron vessel.

With the sky growing darker still, we darted into what looked to be the jaws of Hel, somehow managing to avoid little more than a sprinkle as we thread the needle between the rocky crests and howling winds.

The landscape became increasingly barren while the Sun and Moon began to exchange dwelling places. I found myself gazing long past the road into the emptiness before me, dived only by the constant threat of death via Big Rig.

We pushed on into the obsidian, carefully mapping out each fuel stop in the sparsely occupied area. Eventually we made the call to book a hotel rather than push another 90 miles to the next fill.

Tired and haggard, the appeal of creature comfort was apparent as we shuffled into the hotel room.

As eyelids struggled to stay up, and this log was poorly updated, Grimnir poured over The Sea-Wolf in his bed, one of the gifts he had received on our travels.

My eyes held blink for small extension, vision coming back into focus, Grim was asleep.

Another word formed by thumbs on phone screen, another blink…

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Day 22 - Somber Rebels

As each of us roused from the stone floor where we lay on sleeping bags, the need for forward momentum hit me like a tonne of bricks.

My mind lingered on thoughts of the fair maid I’d left behind, and how grateful I was to have the support of such a woman on this journey.

I began to reflect on the concept of “home”, I pondered on how the brick and mortar of such a place was constructed by relationships and experience, foundations of unwavering loyalty…

Eventually I made way to the kitchen, sleep still in my eyes, and located the dark elixir of mental lubrication, Lord Java the Magnificent.

A familiar smile greeted me as I sipped coffee and played an aged piano in the living room. The Hornsmiths Old Lady, Sigdis, had come out from where our journey first started in Virginia to see us.

We had spent much energy convincing Grandma that Sigdis did not actually exist, and was instead a figment of The Hornsmiths imagination, the jig it seemed, was up.

As the slightly haunting melody echoed from out of tune keys, we caught up, Sigdis telling of the storm that grounded her flight from Denver, and how our friends in the area had given her a place to stay, sharing fond company.

Another home away from home.

Soon Jarnefr came to use my phone to order a replacement for himself, the marine baptism of his the night prior, not lending well to its functionality.

By early afternoon, three of four were headed south-east to enjoy Smoked Ribs and again see Karl, this time as guests at his home. The Hornsmith and Sigdis shot off towards Tombstone for some time by themselves.

Karl met us at a Shell station, and after a slight detour to pose in front of the now dilapidated “Dusk till Dawn” club, we arrived at his house.

Karl’s wife Adrienne, had etched a Compass Rose with a “T” for The Transcontinental into some Zippos which she gave to us as gifts, alongside throttle hand wrist savers her husband got for our bikes. More tokens of the incredible bonds formed across our journey.

We drank Corona laced with lime while Karl manned the smoker, explaining bits of his master technique in all manners of BBQ. He stopped every so often to show us antique firearms and old black metal tapes, while the maintenance due on Grims bike was procrastinated a bit longer. Exhaustion had overcome Magic Matt and he lay sprawled across the couch.

Shortly after fresh fluids were cycled thru the Sportster, the intoxicating scent of mesquite had signaled the arrival of our feast. We ate until it seemed our guts had stretched into alternate dimensions, and cracked open an aged bottle of Old No. 7.

Grimnir found a guitar and filled the room with his best, The Hornsmith and Sigdis eventually arrived and had their fill of the smoked ribs, but left before it was too late, Jarnefr going back with them to wait for his new phone to arrive. By morning It would only be Grim and I diving eastward.

As the night drew on, Adrienne went off to sleep while we moved to the back porch. The heat of the day had left and an enjoyable coolness drifted in.

We listened to old rebel songs, fighting songs, softly singing the best lines to one another in a sort of outlaw embrace. Before long, the melodies moved from upbeat to somber, as we each chose songs that personally tugged at the soul.

Karl, wandered off to find rest as Grimnir and I listened to The Corries sing about the Massacre of Glencoe. We spoke of honour and loyalty, our headspace somewhere between gratefulness and sorrow, and eventually on the realization that we should have long since been asleep.

We listened to one final song, the Irish classic “Grace”, and headed off to bed.

Four was now two, and we had intent to ride as far and fast as we could come daybreak.

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Across shadowline rides knife to meet back, A cowards resolve amidst trivial misinformation,

Lazily combed texts, a mind set in its feeble way.

Allegiances form, a hardened spirit emerges,

While others scurry from the vessel like rodents rode cross ocean, to panic at tug of undertow,

The tempest churning, violent, relentless.

The sting of salt on open wound, the ache for Lovers embrace, an inclination to explain,

To preserve, to protect, or pass way…

Rest now, weary eyed dreamer, For Dawn leads passage to harbours new,

And the Devil they have long since craved, has made himself known.

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Day 20 - To Grandmas House We Go

I awake with amusement, the simple satisfaction of a cheap hotel bed not to be understated.

Our course for the day relatively straight forward, the morning rush accustomed to was less present, and we each spent a bit more time repacking. A small sampling of hotel breakfast, a brush ran thru hair, a full charge on the phone…all savored.

Walking out to load up the bikes it became clear that the desert heat would be an ongoing battle, the sun drenched landscape shifting shape like fumes relieved from fuel tank at fill up.

I grabbed my windbreaker to protect the skin beneath, and dumped water over my head with hopes it would help barrier my mind from frying. A moment later I’d regret not drinking the water instead, making clear my brain had started it’s scramble.

The ride progressed with ease, drifting between fill stations with little conversation and much hydration, a storm looming overhead.

As we slipped under 40 miles to our destination, a rare malfunction beset The Hornsmiths chariot, his rear tyre running flat. Upon inspection it seemed the valve stem was culprit, and Jarnefr headed to a local shop to seek a replacement.

First news of attacks on my livelihood were transmitted from home via text, while the scorching sun beat down on my dehydrated body. After attempting to find relief beneath the shade of roadside brush, I set off to get everyone water.

Returning to the highway gathering, I noticed broken tools, the hardware on the old Honda proving too much for the modest tool kit at hand. A tow was called, as Jarnefr, Grimnir, and I headed to a truck stop diner to find relief, and coffee.

An older waitress named Priscilla greeted us, she had a kind and genuine smile and asked if we were part of “Magic Mike”. Jarnefr proclaimed himself “Magic Matt” before taking a picture with the then blushing woman, and soon the mighty Honda Reflex rejoined the fellowship.

While the sun finally bestowed grace, we managed to evade the ominous dark clouds hanging overhead, their mist occasionally brushing over us in a welcomed coolness.

Before long we rolled down the driveway of The Hornsmiths Grandmother’s house, our home for the next short while.

Eyes lit like jack o'lantern, our excited host took us for the tour of the grounds, the pool out back calling at us like a true desert oasis.

For the next couple nights our road-worn selves enjoyed home-cooked meals between refreshing aqua dips, late night bar crawls, and debate with intoxicated locals.

Back home protests were staged against the business my brother Sky and I had created. With brash and bravado, support from all corners of the World flooded in, many ventured to stand and defend our vision, ultimately backing down the paid cowards scowling in opposition.

I felt immense guilt at being so far away, restlessness was taking hold.

The wonderful hospitality had not been lost on us, though the anxious feeling of sitting too long idle began to creep its way in.

Come next morning we would set off again, a step closer to home.

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Day 19 - Homesick

The night prior we had been tipped off by the young pudgy gas station attendant of two significant details. The first being, reservation cops were in dire need of quota, and the second, a natural hot spring deposited into a swimming pool some 30 or so miles from where camp was made.

Though the thought of a hot spring, in the middle of the arid desert, didn’t quite resonate with my overheated mind, we went forth to search for the healing waters; an innumerable amount of days having passed since any of us had bathed.

There, on the side of the road sat yet another apocalyptic shack, complete with red spray paint stating “keep out”, tucked behind a gate and down a golden gravel path. The mythical pool house found at last.

Hurriedly, we unfastened the chain holding shut the broad gate arm, and rode up to admire the swimming hole, emerald and steaming.

There was a thick layer of sediment all across the floor of the water which somehow never muddied the clarity.

Once our grime and sins had (hopefully) sunk to the bottom of the verde lagoon, we loaded back up and set down perhaps the longest stretch of nothingness in all of existence.

Joy was found at sight of a Shell station on the far end of the vacant landscape. We loaded up on food certain to be regretted later, the young clerk behind the counter truly distraught at his forgetfulness in the realm of condiment offerings.

To avoid Las Vegas, the detour of choice was a scenic route thru the Lake Mead National Recreation area, where the blistering Sun warranted a visit to the water, itself not all that much cooler than the hot spring of the morning.

We headed towards the Hoover Dam, but quickly aborted once sight was caught of the inspection checkpoint, our packs each questionable dependent on state law.

By nightfall we had covered much ground, and were in need of much rest. The level of frustration and exhaustion became most apparent after frantically searching for a campsite in the bush, a run in with an unruly cactus sending us on our way. The second option didn’t suit much better as we were turned away from the KOA because of concerns for our safety during monsoon season…better to send us off into the night than risk making camp in a concrete inclosure.

After some 666 miles of the day in the worlds oven, a hotel was finally settled on.

Jarnefr, Grim, and I slumped over a concrete divider, Budweiser Heavy living up to its namesake in our tired hands. The Hornsmith tried once more in vain to locate Planet of the Apes on the hotel's TV, a task near tradition at this point. We each did our best to crack jokes and not admit exhaustion, but the truth was written on our faces.

Home sings a song too sweet to ignore.

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Day 18 - Speed n' Freedom The light chatter of woodland Crows rouses me from rest, the blue glow of sunlight on tarp enveloping. As I peel back my makeshift cocoon, I see that Jarnefr is already awake and writing...he seems to be getting up earlier each day. Grimnir is in about as groggy a state as I am, and The Hornsmith has yet to materialize from whatever super natural realm he visits each night to gain is endless endurance. Our ride starts out in perhaps the strangest fashion of the trip thus far, as we stop by a local cafe at the base of Mount Shasta for breakfast. The Coffee sublime, but the overly-friendly new age atmosphere causes some sort of frequency disruption to those with a slightly more realistic World view. I started to wonder if my latte was laced with cyanid. This day the road somehow feels as if forward momentum is inconsequential, as if every mile covered has kept you in exactly the same place. Passing thru the backwoods of the 51st state, we make Reno by midday, exhausted after fighting with traffic and heat, we decide to pull over for some relief, and milkshakes. Everyone is in a shit mood, there is debate about wasting time, non-existent schedules, missed opportunities for sightseeing and gripes about each other's riding styles. It's apparent we are all ready to be home, and swallowing the reality of that being a very long way off. We set up the highway with grudges like loaded powder kegs, fuses lit. The eagerness to make ground is overwhelming, and as we pass into the Nevada desert, each rider falls Into their own pace. Jarnefr barrels ahead, Grimnir at a slightly slower gait, and Hornsmith maintaining a steady 70. I hang back for a bit, and then roll the throttle to its stopping point, hauling off into the horizon, chasing down the Sun. The route has more curves than expected, banking around a massive lake on our left and smoke filled mountains on our right. At a certain point Grimnir and I split off and ride down to the lake shore, a sign warning of live munitions being the only halt between us and diving into the cerulean stillness. We ride back up the gravel and glide thru the turns in sync. I pass between sprints off full speed assault, and slow embraces of the breathtaking, alien, atmosphere. On the long straights I hit cruise control, and stand with a foot on the seat and the other on the bars, surfing into what feels like perpetual vastness. We eventually regroup at the ruins of a seemingly ancient gas station, exploring the rubble and each telling our experience of bliss by the spurts of lone riding. Speed and freedom heal all. With the winds changing course, and the daylight expiring behind the mountains, we stop and grab beers at the only gas station in some hundred miles, eventually settling on a rather uncomfortable pit of gravel to sleep for the night. Although our lights attract insects from the depths of Hel, the smiles and gratefulness of a day spent riding in the desert lend well to the conclusion that this is exactly where we are meant to be.

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Day 17 - Lemuria After what seemed like a lifetime of sleeplessness, the daylight began to glisten thru the branches of trees holding shade on tent. There was a knot in my neck and a bruise on my hip from sleeping with my knife still on belt. I wanted to lay there a while longer, not out of comfort but out of dread for what was to come. I made a call to the Harley Owners Group (HOG) to again inquire about my roadside assistance, but as the dial tone droned on and on, coffee seemed to be a more fruitful endeavor. My trusty travel French Press again emerged from the military issued green duffel, and I started to heat water for the grounds to bathe in. After caffeine had lubricated my mind, the uselessness of (HOG) roadside assistance was made truly apparent, the conversation ending with an appeal to pay $100 of the $350 tow which was to get my bike to the Dealership in Salem. Attempts to shuffle insurance around to suit our predicament were made in vain, and the tow was requested, The Hornsmith not allowing me to turn down $200 towards the bill. True friends are worth everything. The anxiety over warranty services vs. out of pocket expenses was a plague on my psyche as I crammed onto the back of Jarnefrs Dyna, making way back to my own iron horse. We arrived back at the Casino parking lot just as the tow arrived, and the tale of the poor bikes demise was retold to the driver, complete with assurances of the faith lost in Harley Davidson customer service from our previous encounters. As the rig meandered it's way to the shop, I somehow managed to slip off to sleep in the cab of the truck, startled awake by the turn into the dealership parking lot. The bike off loaded, filthy, I was surprised at the immediate helpfulness of the service desk. The Dyna was wheeled back to the operation room and I was directed to a plush lounge on the second floor. Some two hours, and many cups of burnt coffee, later and I was back on my steed headed towards the Goodwill where the rest of the crew were trying to find something to keep them warm thru the coastal winds. As my saddlebags and pack were with friends, I thought it opportune to push as hard as possible to meet back up, a sense of guilt for dealing the trip sitting like a brick in my gut. Gear quickly loaded, we started off down the scenic Pacific Coast Highway, immediately let down by the insane amount of traffic. Begrudgingly, we abandoned prospects of Redwood communion and veered east into the mountains, pushing into dusk with the silhouette of Mt. Shasta guiding our way. Worn out, but with mechanical grace renewed, we made "camp", consisting of sleeping bags on dirt and a tarp blanket should rain bid a midnight rendezvous. And so began the long road home.

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Day 16 - Coastline The cool breeze off The Pacific has salt stained our window, like a distant cousin of Jack Frost making itself known. Our journey, The Transcontinental, had reached a heavy milestone, the fires lit in the Hills of Appalachia, now carried to the swells of the Pacific Northwest. We made way down the grassy ledge behind our hotel room, across the stretch of pristine sand, and dove into the gelid waters, like a baptism only amongst ourselves. Upon emerging from the frigid froth, we quickly load up for the final note of the first movement. The war horses must drink from the surf. Certain things are less thought out than others...riding fully loaded down motorcycles on loosely packed sand is on the less logical side of the spectrum, and no sooner did front wheels hit seashore than we were all fighting to get our bikes unstuck. The locals glared at us and our idiocy but we were determined. In my haste to get back off the beach, I became overzealous, and the drive belt on my machine snapped while the bike sunk into the sand. As Grimnir, Jarnefr, The Hornsmith, and Cody laboured to move the crippled Harley back to the parking lot, I started the agonizing process of trying to locate a new belt and secure a tow. After the Dyna was in the parking lot, and the damage assessed, Cody headed back to Washington to recoup some cash from his time with us, doing some variation of a burnout on the old Virago as he sped off. For what could only be deemed as fate, not a single dealership in the area had a belt in stock, and we were forced to make camp at the local KOA, the majority of us making use of the down time to write, and brood. Long distance excursions seldom leave room for smooth sailing, but the dread of limited funds did little to ease my mind. Sleep, did not see fit to lend company, and so I listened to the forest for the night.

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Day 15 - Cody, you're not in Muncie anymore. The ash on my face had helped seal my eye shut, I felt grit in the right corner. Discomfort, the initial thought, and then recollection of the night prior, a lingering since of awe. This would be our final day of riding with Cody, the Maniac from Muncie, but after a weekend at Camp Waldgang, we were itching to be on two wheels. We started to gather our gear, retracing steps taken, forever convincing ourselves that something would unintentionally be left behind. Goodbyes to Olfnir and Afi were said, Rekkr deciding to escort us thru Portland to convert Grimnirs Sportster to belt drive, and a new friend Logan joining for the sprint down by the river. The landscape truly awe inspiring, we winded way thru tunnel and tarmac, crossing the mighty Columbia and eventually arriving at the home of Eric The Mechromancer. Eric's garage was full of bikes to appease any appetite, and within minutes of arrival, the Sporty was in the air being prepped for surgery. Grimnir and Jarnefr chatted with Eric, while Cody, Rekkr and I researched methods of watercraft construction, pondering the potential of future escapades, The Hornsmith overseeing all. After a test run on the Sportster, and some attention to Rekkr's Dyna was given, he split off to head out for work, while the rest of us went forth to Rose City to visit with Mason and his flock, where we were shown only the finest hospitality. Though tales from the road are requested, the coastal siren's call was louder, and so we slipped into the night. For the first time on our journey, temperatures drop, and the wind chill thru acceleration brushed bone. The sleepy shoreside town was home to a Casino, where many a desperate soul purged coin, and where we found the Pacific by moonlight. Thru smile and whiskey we waded into the twilight, the first leg of our expedition complete, though far from finished. Intermission.

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Day 14 - Cascadia

There are places in the World, that exist outside the typical confines of time and space…places that seem to permeate an energy uniquely their own…

Rising, a vibrant excitement for the evening abound, the hurried consumption of caffeine, again takes place.

As the day starts it’s course, guests arrive to the property, some kindly introducing themselves, while others shyly stare at the forest floor.

The Eddas speak of the how the Earth was fashioned from the body of Ymir, his bones becoming the mountains and hills lending contrast to the seas and rivers created with his blood.

Death of a proto-god, birthing the World anew, destruction, a means of profound creation.

The Hornsmith, Rekkr, Cody, and I set out to build a circle of division around the Harugaz(Altar), seeking large volcanic rocks populating the landscape, spewed out in some long forgotten event of cataclysmic might.

As the compacted minerals were extracted, my mind drifted to the creation of Midgard, and the primordial void of Ginnungagap. The labor, exhausting, stimulating. I saw bones of ancients emerge from soil, placed round a pilar of stone to stand testament of an age only now breaking dawn.

Light fades, the stage set.

Mid day Rekkr led us to a small stretch of creek running under a bridge, where we did our best to wash up before the evening.

The Wind stirred groans from the lanky trees, the scents of wormwood and incense filling both nostril and headspace, ecstatic madness growing.

This place, a purpose built anomaly, amongst an empire of decay.

Our primordial howling, this moment out of time and space.

Leaves of the evening turned from ritual to sumbel, and again words of power and praise were spoken. Olfnir, Patriarch of Cascadian chapter, gifted each in our company a magnificent patch, displaying a longboat crossing the ocean under cover of darkness, the magical stave Vegvísir hanging overhead.

The night thundered on, stories of travel and travesty were shared and strong drink passed round, until at last the many became the few, and sleep again called home.

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Day 13 - Dirt track Dirtbags

Aches dissipate from comfort of mattress, stacked atop bunk beds, the small black cabin neatly tucked between oak and pine, as if part of some renegade summer camp.

There is a distinct sense of detachment from all outside of the perimeter, the tree line signaling a more primitive, more deliberate way of living.

Olfnir and Afi had built an outside, spartan-esc arena complete with a shrine, squat rack, and dip station, the necessitated task being to put the space to use. An odd side effect of hard traveling, the desire to exercise. We fell into a near trance like immediacy and began to lift weights, rhythmically cycling thru the various “stations”.

Mid-morning supplies are needed, and we set off to the small town nearby for an early lunch, and scowls.

The way of the wanderer affords One the capability of spontaneous, occasionally reckless behavior, and after essentially recreating scenes from the old Marlon Brando film, “The Wild One”, we left town, headed back to the property.

The route is a gradual loss of traction, as wheels move from well maintained asphalt, to gravel, and finally to loose dust, provoking each of us to blip throttle and let the rear slide about in only the safest fashion.

At the end of the lane, sits a round about, complete with stumps and rocks jutting out of the tan, moon dust surface.

Rekkr and I began to take laps, sliding around with smiles on our faces, inevitably laying both bikes down in a frenzied plume of powder.

Shadows began to crawl over the land, and soon consumed the forest in darkness. A fire ban in effect, lanterns served as mediators for critical conversations regarding the regression of the species.

With sore abdomens from deep laughter, we settled down in the bunkhouse once more, eager to work the land in the morning.

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Day 12 - Pioneers! O Pioneers!

There is a faint echo of generator in the distance, our neighbor on the grounds collecting the cans he’d downed the night prior…told us that his house had burnt down and was spending the summer at the RV park, growing various vegetables, bored, lonely.

Golden rays stroked the peaks of the mountains in the distance, and if only time had permitted, would of served as an enticing coax to reach their summit.

Park amenities raised electronics from the dead, a modern Lazarenthian spectacle

The local parts store hosted a round of morning maintenance on the Sportster, the test light gifted round the Sumbel fire, playing its role.

As we set out Westward once more, ducking into the cannons leading to another home from home, coastal winds charged forth, carrying the faint trace of salt on their backs.

The hills grew to mounds, giving way rocky crags, and eventually maturing into looming giants, gatekeepers to the destination at hand.

At sight of wide curves, and the accompanying steep grades, each of us hunched down onto tanks and snaked way between the more cautious traffic, euphoria overcoming fear.

We made way to a fill station where some children were selling snow cones. The Hornsmith waited patiently as they set up their stand, struggling to lift the bag of ice to the machine. After roadside bliss was found in the sugary, technicolor treat, he proclaimed the substance to be far superior to that of their competitors, while the young entrepreneurs shyly smiled.

In the parking lot, more gifts were put to use as Grimnir tended to Cody’s Yamaha, it’s carburetor dumping fuel into the cylinder.

We rode along a great river, seagulls starting to appear like introductory parade processions.

Soon we crossed over the body of water and found ourselves on the homestretch to Waldgang.

Upon arrival, the realization that so many miles from home were crossed, to again be home, took hold our minds.

As our hosts arrived, providing us with truly grateful appreciation to see our faces, the sun began its preparation for rest.

Stories from our travel were shared, along with rudimentary tattoos, the Tribal mind alive.

Sleep on my heels, I shake my head.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

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Day 11 - Wanderlust

A longing deep within my bones, A message, older than my soul.

Slip steam, mental clarity, Bound to the countless miles before me.

Convergence of adrenal ambitions pray;

Speak worth or none at all, And listen close, the Wanderers call.

For none soon dare forget, What wisdom passed, the road hath sent.

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Day 10 - Windborn Clear thru the distance, 45 min jaunt northwest to the Lincoln monument, reclaim Karl and the Hornsmith, then onto breakfast with friends. The meal is hurried, not out of disrespect for the preparation of such, or for those met at table, but in anticipation of the miles ahead. Engines fire, wheels turn, the song resumes, others now joined in the highway hymn. Stretches of asphalt bleed into mind, subconscious offerings to things unknown...romantic ideals of abstract purpose, melding together to form a grand tapestry drenched in gasoline. Somewhere between impatience and savoring, we ride a line. The gusts of wind do their best to thwart our western voyage, serving only to fan the flames within each of us... ...but when the last drop of fuel is expelled into combustion chamber, an Iron Will can only do so much to get the engine going. The Sportster donates what it can to its thirsty companion, gifting it range to the next fill station. Fuel stop push ups complete and it's off to the races once more, Karl and Joe eventually breaking off to head home, while Agnar continues his leg of the relay. Midday, we arrive at the fabled Geyser of Soda Springs. We patiently wait to see the column of water, but are far more impressed by the old graveyard out back. Rest among the dead might not be choice number one for all reading these Transmissions, but with only a modest parking lot between the pub and Camp Necropolis it's a no brainer for us. The local populace can't quite learn us, as we drift through the various levels of star treatment and awkward pause. We are asked to join a picture with the bar owner and an old timer buys us Jim Beam shots, wishing us well on our journey. Another patron warns us of the local cops and Motörhead sets the jukebox ablaze. Agnar departs before the setting Sun, and once more the core of us remain. On into the morning we share song, drink, and laughter, eventually meandering back to pristine cemetery grass. Collapsing underneath a canopy of oak branches, whiskey gives way to sleep. The witching hour upon us, eyes meet lids for their nocturnal embrace. The Reaper bested another day.

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Day 9 - TRVE COVNTRY

Final day in town before traveling west, and Grim has plans. Transcontinental memoir tattoos.

Jason, a Colorado Hell’s Angel, takes needle to skin on Cody, Grim, and I, leaving a crude but meaningful symbol on each of us.

Ink set, Jarnefr and I get a move on to secure a new front tyre for his Dyna. Knowing that the Harley dealer will charge an egregious amount, the Kawasaki shop is in our crosshairs.

New rubber mounted, we rejoin the troops outside of town for maintenance on the bikes.

We arrive as small droplets make way from sky, and all pile into the barn, tools and gear strewn about.

Grim grinds away, making new mounts for his tank, our temporary fix having served purpose. Cody chases the source of a leak on his primary, while Jarnefr and I look over the Dyna’s.

The paint marker comes out and we take artistic jurisdiction of our helmets, now wearing runes.

Burgers leave grill, and are soon devoured, as a summer thunderstorm rolls cross the plains. The charcoal grey cell churns and soon the wind/rain mixture is pummeling our feast.

The Hornsmith and Karl head back out to the wildlands to climb and camp, unsatisfied with having spent so much idle time in hotels.

The remainder of our group makes way to Texas Roadhouse for brews and bonding, eventually returning back to the charm of the barn, Grim and Cody trading off songs on the guitar while we all join in on the parts known, providing range of tone and voice.

As lightning illuminates the night sky, and sad ramblin songs fill our makeshift amphitheater, unspoken words of thanks, are passed round with drink and smoke.

All are eager for the morning and road to arrive, but none truly wish for such simple pleasures as this to end.