Back In The Day – Page 12 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

The Legendary Fung Wah Bus

By Mike Huber

Ok, so throughout my life I have tended to do a LOT of dumb stuff. Almost daily anyone around me is questioning how I am still alive. This is no exaggeration, but there is one activity I partook in that is by far the most reckless. That is riding on the Fung Wah Bus. Recently I was in a bar in Boston (yes, imagine that) and I was telling the story of the Fung Wah bus, which entertained the entire bar for close to an hour. My stories of this legendary form of transit must have been quite epic as when cashing out I was told my entire tab had been paid. So I thought a write up on my experiences around this hazardous mode of transportation would make for a fun read.

The Fung Wah Bus isn’t in service anymore for reasons described below. It was a $10 bus ride from South Station in Boston to Chinatown in New York City. I was 27 years old, living just north of Boston. A close friend was in New York City. The bus always arrived on time, there was no hassle with airports, and it was just easy.

I was alerted to the dangers of this bus when I arrived to work on Monday. My manager asked what I had done that weekend. I replied I had gone to Manhattan to hang out with a friend. He asked how the flight was. “Flight?” I asked. “I didn’t fly. I took the Fung Wah Bus.” He doubled over laughing and said he paid me enough to do better, which was followed by several explicit adjectives. I still heard him ranting about it an hour or so later. I was a bit taken aback.

It didn’t take long for me to realize the history of this bus and the numerous safety violations and failed inspections that made taking this bus not only risky, but in hindsight, downright dangerous. Massachusetts had even shut the service down a few times over the years. These busses were flipping over, catching on fire, and wheels were falling off. Outside that, though, the busses ran on time, no matter the amount of traffic or weather conditions. They had this trip down to an art. It was so honed that once when I was stuck in traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway, a few cars in front of me I spotted a Fung Wah bus. Here’s my chance! I followed it off the expressway as it zigged and zagged through the narrow surface streets until it returned to the now less-congested expressway. I felt like a running back following a lineman as a blocker until I could see the end zone. What a rush!

With it being a 4-hour ride, the driver would always stop at a Roy Rodgers Restaurant for a few minutes to allow you to stretch, grab a bite to eat, and pray to the God of your choice for a safe remainder of the trip. To this day having driven that stretch hundreds of times in my car I never saw that restaurant unless I was on the Fung Wah. Wherever the bus exited the highway, we all went into Narnia.

At the end of the day the Fung Wah never disappointed and although the bus was decommissioned like Old Ironsides, it provided some great stories and an economical way to get to New York City. As I sat in a Boston bar finishing my Sam Adams, I was thankful to the mysterious patron who got my tab. I am fortunate that this experience (riding the Legendary Fung Wah Bus) crossed my path.

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Geezy Rider

By Joe Berk

I like that title. Geezy Rider. It kind of says it all. A close runner up was “You might be a geezer if…”

We haven’t blogged a listicle in a while and I thought it was time. Sue and I like to entertain and we had three couples over for dinner recently. Everyone was our age (which is a nice way of saying we are all geezers), we all came from similar backgrounds, we all have grandkids, and we all travel. Those commonalities notwithstanding, the conversation centered on the same topic it always seems to center on these days when I’m with my geezer buddies: Getting old. Some of you might be thinking that you don’t want to read about old people, but you might already be one. So how do you know? Well, here we go. You might be a geezer if:

You get senior discounts without asking. When you do ask for the senior discount, no one asks to see your ID. You sometimes find yourself thinking that 55 is too young to be considered a senior citizen.

A good night’s sleep is based on how many times you had to get up to take a leak, you wonder how in the world taking a leak on the side of the road ever became a sex crime, or you plan rides at least partly based on restroom locations.

You know more doctors than motorcycle dealers, and you have a different doctor for each organ in your body. Sometimes you realize you can’t make a planned ride because you have a doctor’s appointment that day.

You look at other people at a motorcycle event and think they’re really old, and then you realize you’re the same age as they are.

You’re on a first name basis with the Costco people who give out free samples.

You can identify pills without seeing the bottle, a day on the bike is routinely preceded by a couple of Ibuprofens, and you have a pill container organized by day. Forget penicillin; you know that Sildenafil and Tamsulosin are the true wonder drugs.

You no longer use a tail pack or have a sissy bar because it’s easier to get on and off your motorcycle. You may have pondered where to attach a cane on your motorcycle.

You buy motorcycle clothes a couple of sizes larger because the damn manufacturers are making them smaller these days. You buy riding gear with pockets big enough to hold baby wipes. You substituted food for sex years ago and now you’re so fat you can’t get into your own pants.

You stopped worrying about helmet hair decades ago and when you get a haircut you find yourself thinking about the cost in terms of dollars per hair. You haven’t carried a comb in decades.

You watch news shows based mostly on which ones you don’t shout at.

A motorcycle’s weight is more important to you than 0-to-60 or quarter-mile times. You and your buddies talk about cholesterol, A1C, PSA levels, and medications instead of motorcycle performance specs.

When it’s time to change your oil, you think about where it’s going to hurt the next day because you have to get down on the floor to reach the drain plug. Ibuprofen is a normal part of your oil change equipment.

You don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with a motorcycle in a handicap parking spot.

You don’t like to ride after dark and going to bed by 9:00 p.m. seems like a perfectly normal thing to do.

Easy Riders or The Great Escape is on TV, and you don’t even need to think about it. You’re going to watch it again.

A new movie stars Clint Eastwood, you know you’re going to see it, and you don’t need to know what it is about to make that decision.

So there you have it: My take on how to assess if you are a geezer.

Now get off my lawn.

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Medicine Bow, Wyoming

By Joe Berk

We were a swarm of 250cc bees bound for Medicine Bow, Wyoming. I didn’t know why that excited me and I didn’t know what to expect, but the place sounded romantic. Not romantic in the sense of female companionship; it was instead the romance of the Old West. Medicine Bow, Wyoming, and we were headed there on our single-cylinder Zongshen motorcycles. We had been on the road for a week, showing the American West to our Chinese and Colombian visitors. It all started on the other side of the world in Chongqing when Zongshen asked if I could take them on a ride though America.

Wow, could I ever.

Susie took this photo as I was showing the Zongshen execs where we might ride in America. The guy on my immediate right is good buddy Fan, who follows the ExNotes blog.

Medicine Bow. It had a nice ring to it. I was thinking maybe they had a McDonald’s and we could have lunch there. I think the reason Medicine Bow sounded so intriguing is I had heard it maybe dozens of times in western movies and television shows. Medicine Bow was one of the major destinations for cattle drives in the 1800s, where cows boarded trains for their one-way trip east, where they would stop being cows and become steaks. An average of 2,000 cows shipped out of Medicine Bow every day back then. That would keep McDonald’s going for a day or two (except there were no McDonald’s in the 1800s).

I was surprised when we buzzed in. Medicine Bow is about five buildings, total, none of them was a McDonald’s, but one was the Virginian Hotel. It’s the hotel you see in the photo at the top of this blog and as you might imagine there’s a story to it. You see, back in the day, the first western novel ever was written by a dude named Owen Wister, and the title of his book was The Virginian. It was later made into a movie. The story is about a young female schoolteacher who settled in Medicine Bow and two cowboys who vied for her attention. When the historic hotel was later built in Medicine Bow, what other name could be more appropriate than The Virginian? And about the name of the town, Medicine Bow? Legend has it that Native Americans found the best mahogany for making bows (as in bows and arrows) in a bend (a bow) along the Medicine River, which runs through the area. I can’t make up stuff this good.

I was the designated leader of the Zongshen swarm on this ride. My job was easy. All the mental heavy lifting and deep thinking fell to good buddy and long-time riding compañero Baja John, who planned our entire 5,000-mile journey through the American West. John did a hell of a job. The roads he selected were magnificent and the destinations superb. It’s also when I first met Joe Gresh, who was on assignment from Motorcyclist magazine to cover our story (more on that in a bit).

Big Joe Gresh, or “Arjiu” as the Chinese called him, on our 5000-mile ride through the American West.

Back to Medicine Bow, the Virginian Hotel, and a few of the photos I grabbed on that ride. The place is awesome, and the Virginian is where we had lunch.

Lunch at the Virginian. That’s Gresh on the right, and Juan and Gabe (two dudes from AKT Motos in Colombia) on the left. A few months later I rode with Juan in Colombia, another grand adventure.

After lunch, we wandered around the hotel for a bit. It would be fun to spend the night in Medicine Bow, I thought. Dinner at the hotel and drinks in the bar (as I type this, I can almost hear someone on the piano belting out Buffalo Gal). I will return some day to check that box.

The lighting isn’t great in this selfie (of sorts). Yours truly on the old D200, Lester, and Mr. Zuo. Lester is a teacher in China. Mr. Zuo owns a motorcycle jacket company in China.

Bison. We saw a few live ones in the next couple of days.

Who’s a good boy? That’s Baja John and Lester, taking a break after a great lunch at the Virginian Hotel. Lester came to America as a vegetarian. That lasted about two days. He sure enjoyed his hamburger at the Virginian. He told us he wants to be like Baja John when he grows up.

Yes, there are moose in Medicine Bow, along with mountain lion, bear, elk, deer, and a host of other animals. Theodore Roosevelt hunted this part of the world.

A Virginian Hotel hallway. I think you can still stay here overnight.

The Virginian Hotel bar was indeed inviting and I could have spent more time there, but we were on the bikes and my rule is always no booze on the bikes. I grabbed a few photos. We had more miles to make that afternoon and more of Wyoming awaited.

The Virginian Hotel bar. It looks like it would be a fun spot to have a beer or three at the end of the day.

Photos and artifacts on one of the Virginian Bar walls.

The Virginian Hotel owner (who looked like he could have been someone right out of Central Casting) saw our interest in photography and showed us this photograph. He told me only six or seven copies of it exist. Spend a minute reading the writing…it is amazing.

There are more than a few interesting characters depicted in this photo.

Medicine Bow was a fun visit, it is a place I would like to see again, and it has a palpable feel of the Old West. It was a place where we could have stayed longer, but after lunch it was time for Happy Trails and we were on the road again. I felt like a cowboy, I suppose, swinging my leg over my motorcycle. Instead of “giddy up” it was a twist of the key and a touch on the starter button; the result was the same as we continued our trek west with Frankie Lane’s Rawhide on repeat in my mind: Keep rollin’, rollin’ rollin’, keep those motos rollin’…

In a few hours, we’d be riding into the sunset. Lord, this was a fantastic ride.

Here are a couple of videos you might like. The first is about Medicine Bow, the second is Joe Gresh’s video covering the ride. And one more thing…don’t miss Joe Gresh’s magnificent story about our ride in Motorcyclist magazine.

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ExNotes Book Review: Lone Rider by Elspeth Beard

By Joe Berk

I recently purchased a copy of Elspeth Beard’s Lone Rider, the story of a woman riding her BMW around the world in the early 1980s. To give you the bottom line up front: You need to buy and read this book. It’s that good.

I first became a fan of around the world motorcycle stories back in the early 1990s when I read Dave Barr’s Riding the Edge (another excellent read). I think I’ve read all or nearly all of the books in this genre, and I’ve written reviews on several (I’ll provide a set of links at the end of this blog). Some are these books are outstanding, others are truly terrible, and most are somewhere in between. Lone Rider firmly belongs in the outstanding category.

Picture this: A young British woman in her early 20s decides to ride her 600cc BMW around the world, and with no sponsors and nothing in the way of a support network, she does so. By herself. On some of the worst roads, most hostile regions, and least friendly environments on the planet. On a street bike, for which she fashioned her own panniers and top case. This was before you could buy a ready-made ADV bike.

It took Ms. Beard a couple of years to complete the journey, partly because she had to stop and work to fund the trip. I was captivated by her story, appalled by the way she was treated in a couple of places, and saddened by what I would describe as a surprise discovery decades after the ride ended.

Lone Rider is well written and well organized. The chapters are about the right length (I read one or two chapters each night before lights out), the photos are good, and the writing is superior. Prior to reading Lone Rider, I always thought I wanted to visit and photograph India; the book disabused me of that notion. I never had any desire to own a BMW motorcycle; the book convinced me that I had that one right.

At 336 pages, Lone Rider is substantive and I found it hard to put down. It really is a masterpiece of motoliterature. If you’re looking for your next good motorcycle book, Lone Rider is it. Trust me on this one.

Here’s that set of links I promised:

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This just in: Janus Announces Origin Line!

By Joe Berk

This just came in: A press release from Janus Motorcycles! Janus has a special place in my heart. I rode with those guys in Baja on Janus Motorcycles and I visited the plant (and wrote about their new 450 in Motorcycle Classics magazine) a year or so ago. They’re good folks and they make great motorcycles. The latest Janus press release follows.

Happy New Year!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Janus Motorcycles announces new “Origins” line with lower entry price

We are pleased to announce the launch of a new edition of both the 250 and 450 Janus models: the Janus “Origin” model line. The basic idea of the “Origin” line is to provide a blank slate version of our existing models paired down to the essence of what defines each model. This serves to provide both a more affordable option AND the opportunity to build your own Janus just as you would like. To this end, we have removed all but the most vital elements of each model.

For example, the Halcyon 250 Origin edition includes everything that you need to be initiated into the Janus experience: a beautiful handmade motorcycle ready to ride, but without many of the options and upgrades that have always been standard on our production models such as fender pinstripe, air box graphics, and number plate (Origin edition Halcyons come with fenders pr-drilled and capped should you wish to add a number plate), a limited palette of available options for primary color, a single gold option for pinstriping, a standard seat, limited leather color options, a 1-year warranty, and no polished options.

By reducing the number of features and options, this helps us to hold appropriate stock and streamline production efficiency all of which allows us to offer the Origin line at a significantly lower entry price. Should you wish to add additional options or upgrades, these are all available for an additional cost. Add-ons will be shipped separately with instructions for installation by the customer. Get in on the Janus rambling experience and add almost any of our upgrades or extended warranties down the road! Book racks, fishtail exhausts, saddlebags, or headlight visors also make great birthday or Christmas gifts!

The details
Get the Halcyon 250 Origin for a $6995 base price. That includes choice of two colors, gold tank pinstripe, and 1 year warranty. Build one here.

Get the Gryffin 250 Origin for a $7495 base price. That includes choice of two colors, gold tank pinstripe, and 1 year warranty. Build one here.

Get the Halcyon 450 Origin for a $13,495 base price. That includes choice of two colors, gold tank pinstripe, simplified feather graphic/emblem, and 1 year warranty. Build one here.

How?
So much of what we do is hands on. By giving you control over how much of that “hands on” you start with on your bike, we can help reduce the upfront price for these packages.

The value of our main model lines and their THOUSANDS of configurations, handcrafted quality, industry-leading warranties, and show-stopping looks doesn’t change. If you still want to “choose everything” it’s still the best value to go with the fully-customizable standard build up front (you can do the math on the website).

Background

At Janus, we pride ourselves on our design, hand-craftsmanship, and hyper-local supply chain—all things that also contribute to the higher cost of our models compared to the mass-produced offerings from the mainstream motorcycle industry. Especially over the past three years material costs, and inflation have meant that our prices have had to climb to stay abreast of our costs. Our goal with the Origin line is to find a way to offer an introductory option to the Janus experience with the potential to add options and upgrades over time.

One of the highest costs we face is also one of our greatest benefits: the numerous and complex menu of potential finishes and upgrades. By reducing these and standardizing the process, we have been able to find just the right balance that allows us to offer the Origin line. We chose to offer a “line” of existing models because, although paired down, the Halcyon “Origin” is still completely a Halcyon. What it lacks in options and upgrades, it makes up for in potential! We have never offered a “kit” bike, but this might be the closest we will ever come…

We chose the name Origin for its associations with just this idea of potential and beginnings (a big theme here with Janus the god who presides over them!) and because it conveys the idea that these are not so much different from the stock models in nature as in degree.

Please contact us with any questions you may have about the new Janus “Origin” line, what is or is not included, and how you can build it out over time!

Richard discusses the Origin line:

Thanks,

Grant

Grant Longenbaugh

President
Janus Motorcycles

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My First Motorcycle Arrest

By Mike Huber

Instead of one of my usual blogs on motorcycles, I felt it was time to highlight some of my motorcycling shortcomings. Many of us when starting this magnificent hobby have had a few blunders along the way and, well, some of us have had more significant blunders than others. Being who I am, it seems when I do anything it is extreme. Over my 28 years of motorcycling, it is pretty obvious that riding is no different.

I was a young U.S. Army Specialist serving in the 82^nd Airborne Division. One of my best friends was about to go through a rough divorce at the same time that I felt the call to obtain my first motorcycle. He let me practice on his bike and use it for the test if I purchased it from him. Facing an imminent divorce allowed for an extremely generous discount (he needed divorce and beer money), and being flat broke, this was what led me to make the purchase. The bike was a bright yellow Honda Magna 750 that had more than enough power (probably too much) for a first motorcycle.

The deal was pretty much done. I passed my written test and was ready to take my driver’s exam. I’m not sure if I was nervous or inexperienced (or both), but as soon as I started the test maneuvering around cones, I knew I was making a ton of mistakes. The Honda Magna was heavy and not the best choice for a new rider taking the motorcycle license test. Amazingly, though, I passed the exam. I later learned my friend had been chatting up the evaluator while I was testing to distract him. Regarding a successful test output, my friend had as much skin in the game as I did. After passing the test, I paid him $3500 in cash that I obtained by somehow qualifying for a personal loan. I became the proud owner of a 1995 Honda Magna 750!

It didn’t take me long to realize I was invincible on the Magna, even though I had no riding skills. I was a 22-year-old unstoppable 82^nd Airborne Paratrooper with a fast motorcycle. What could go wrong?

Pretty much everything could go wrong. Almost every evening when leaving Ft. Bragg there would be lights flashing in my rearview mirrors. It couldn’t be for me as I was way too far ahead of them. This, of course, was because I was going over 100 miles per hour. Everything was distant in my rearview mirrors at that speed. From what others had told me, the MPs were not allowed to leave post and had to call any pursuits into the local Fayetteville police. By the time that happened and an officer would be dispatched, I was long gone and most likely home on my couch watching TV and having a beer.

This cat and mouse game went on for months. Not daily, but usually one or two times every week. I didn’t care as it was nothing but entertainment for me. These near run-ins with the law helped my ego, but did not improve my riding skills one bit. Until one day when the birds came home to roost.

Sitting at a light on Ft Bragg, I decided to teach myself how to split lanes. Not noticing an MP (a Military Police officer) nearby, and noticing even less the car driver next to signaling the MP. Instantly the lights flipped on and I heard the “whoop whoop” of a siren. This happened at the moment the light turned green. All traffic stopped to allow the MP to move forward but he couldn’t as everyone had frozen (except for me, of course). Clicking down into first gear and blasting off like a Shillelagh missile, I was out of there. Knowing the MP would be able to catch up quickly (I was in the heart of Ft. Bragg), there was no running to the safety of the post border. After a quick couple turns, I realized it was probably best to pull over.

It was no surprise that the MP was not too happy. As he was listing my charges, I asked him if I could go inside my battalion headquarters to let my team know I would be late returning from lunch. The MP agreed, and I entered the headquarters building and proudly announced “Hey, Sarge, I am gonna need a little longer lunch today.”

My sergeant asked why, and the MP promptly and quite loudly said, “His ass is coming with me to the station!” As I rode to the MP processing station and received my charges, it hit me: It was my wedding anniversary. Since my CQ (Charge of Quarters) shift was 24 hours, I hadn’t called my wife. While the arresting officer was rambling to everyone in the station about my reckless driving, I thought this would be a good time to call her. I asked and was granted permission to make a phone call. I called my wife and wished her a happy anniversary. She was quite pleased that I somehow found the time to call during my busy day. The call was going great until my wife asked where I was.

“Ummm, jail,” I said. “I am in jail.”

My wife was instantly very mad at me. Prior to that she had been happy. I’ll never understand women.

Once released from jail, I was not punished, other than receiving a written letter stating that I had embarrassed the battalion and the 82^nd Airborne Division:

The letter was quite stern. I could not ride a motorcycle on Ft. Bragg until I successfully completed a motorcycle training class. The safety class was sorely needed, as my riding skills were horrendous (to say the least). The one hope I had was that upon completing the training class my new riding skills would be used for good and not evil. Sadly, there would be a Part 2, a Part 3, and even possibly a Part 4 to my maturing as a motorcyclist. For the time being, however, I was allowed back on post and I didn’t receive any military judicial punishment, and that was something to be thankful for.

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Bangkok Part 7: Thai moto taxis

By Joe Berk

I mentioned Thai motorcycle taxis in an earlier blog, and on the way back from Wat Arun today, Sue and I grabbed a few photos just outside our hotel of young ladies riding moto taxis sidesaddle to points unknown (points unknown to me; they knew where they were going). It’s an interesting take on Thai life in the big city. I’d seen this moto taxi business in China 30 years ago, but not anymore. In China today, you just don’t see motorcycles in the big cities. And you sure don’t see anything like this in America.

The photography challenges were interesting. I couldn’t get close to the bikes (it was a wide and busy avenue in downtown Bangkok), the bikes were moving, and the lens didn’t have a lot of reach (it was the 18-55mm Nikon kit lens, an inexpensive lens not nearly as sharp as Nikon’s pricier offerings). I cranked the D3300 camera’s ISO up to 800 (even though I was shooting during the day) to get the shutter speed up (to freeze the action), and then I relied on Photoshop to do the rest (the rest being cropping, adjusting the levels and the curves, adjusting for shadows, adjusting vibrance and saturation, and finally after sizing the photo to the sizes you see here, adding a touch of sharpness. I think they came out well. Consider this photo from the above collection:

Here’s the original photo it came from before all the above adjustments:

If I had a bigger lens (say, a 300mm), I would have had a larger and sharper original photo, but as Donald Rumsfeld liked to say, you go to war with the Army you have. I had my 18-55mm lens with me. And I have Photoshop on my laptop.

I shot all of the photos above and a bunch more in the space of maybe five minutes (Bangkok’s Asok Street is a very busy street), and then I spent maybe another hour selecting the ones I wanted to use in this blog and Photoshopping them. You can have a lot of fun with a camera in Bangkok.

Regarding the safety implications of what you see above, what can I say? The riders had helmets. The passengers? Not so much. We weren’t not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

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Digital Nomad: The Seattle Years

By Mike Huber

I wasn’t thrilled the first few months in Seattle after having moved from Victoria. The timing of my move didn’t help since it was at the end of summer when the sun almost totally gives way to the gloomy gray clouds. It wasn’t so much that it rained there but you absolutely could feel less energy around you due to a serious lack of vitamin D in everyone’s system. Nonetheless, I was here and had signed a one-year lease in a high rise in the Seattle neighborhood of Belltown, so I had to make the best of it.

It didn’t take too long to feel closed in living in the city. Seattle isn’t a big city but what was missing is the nature that had engulfed and spoken to me over the past year. My “office,” which I went in maybe once every few weeks to meet the team for coffee or happy hour, was in Bellevue. I am usually not one to badmouth areas, but instead I like to look at the positive side and its attributes. In Bellevue I couldn’t find any. It was a suburban plastic city with nothing but cookie cutter restaurants and bars. It was like the Truman show, but with a “keep up with the Jones” mentality. Everyone had expensive cars and would even move parking spaces to flaunt the material items they had become slaves to. When asking them what they did on the weekend it usually entailed going to Costco and dinner at a Chili’s or Cheesecake Factory to wrap up a day at the mall.

Thankfully, I rode my Ducati Monster M1100 out from Maine. This became the best way to leave the beaten path and explore the state of Washington, and boy did I explore it. It was a quick learning curve to find incredible roads and remote camping areas that most people not only didn’t dare to explore (there were no Chili’s out on the Olympic Peninsula). This was fine with me.

Once again, every weekend was like a vacation for me as I explored Washington. When I went into the office my peers would gather to hear about where I went over the weekend and what I had experienced. There were numerous challenging hikes, remote beach camping on the Olympic Peninsula, motorcycle rides through the Cascades, numerous volcanos, and countless treasures I discovered by talking to fellow hikers and riders. I was starting to love Washington. The diversity inspired me to explore the region and it was a rare weekend when I stayed in Seattle.

It didn’t take long before I got over the fear of city life, built a circle of great friends, and became fully acclimated to living in Belltown. The weekends involved traveling through the state or up to Vancouver, BC and weekdays I spent in coffee shops and bars with my new friends. Life became pretty routine (which was odd for me), but it was enjoyable.

One of the cooler things I loved about Seattle is how dog friendly of a city it is. For years they had a dog that rode the city bus with a bus pass to the local dog park. Also, dogs are not only allowed in most bars but actually sit at the bar and the bartender provides a water dish and treats for them. I have been in bars where at times there are more dogs than people. This just added to my feelings for this city.

Although after almost three years living in the Seattle area and exploring most of its secrets, there were a few moments that told me it was time to return to my nomadic lifestyle. One was during a Seattle Seahawks playoff game. It was on TV and I went out on my tiny balcony to get some air, I looked around at all the high-rise apartments next to me and EVERY television was on the same channel watching the same thing. It was a scene out of George Orwell’s 1984. It freaked me out and that was one of the seeds nudging me to move on. The other was the gray skies. I was beginning to become depressed from lack of vitamin D and no matter how many supplements I took I could feel I was sinking into a depressive abyss. My parents, always ones to come up with creative solutions (that’s where I get it from) sent me a mood light for Christmas. It didn’t help.

That one final Seattle winter only provided the city with 20 hours of sun from mid-October until May. I decided to take action. I threw the mood light in the trash and devised a plan to leave Seattle and spend a month in Montana. Little did I know that this decision would morph into a series of life changing events.

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Mount Rainier

By Mike Huber

Mount Rainier, just a two-hour drive south of Seattle, was something I became obsessed with while living in the Pacific Northwest. I loved looking at that volcano. Mount Rainier often wasn’t visible during the winter months due to the cloud cover, but when it was visible it was a sight to be seen, especially at sunset. The entire volcano would glow orange, almost as if it was a 14,000-foot candle. It was magical.

To summit this peak, one has to be extremely skilled as a mountaineer or have a guide due to the multiple avalanches. This was something I had to experience up close, but I didn’t have the climbing talent. I would have to find another way to experience this.

The following August I began training by spending two months climbing numerous peaks in Washington until my body felt solid enough for an attempt to climb to Mount Rainier’s base camp, Camp Muir. I drove to the base of Mount Rainier in Paradise, Washington, and slept in the back of my car that night. That gave me a better chance of snagging a camp permit for Camp Muir in the morning. This mountain base camp was mostly for those who dared to summit this volcano, and it was nothing more than a hostel at 10,000 feet. It was a small wooden shed with two levels of plywood that held 12 hikers.

The hike up to the camp was a smoker. I left at 7:00 a.m. and didn’t reach Camp Muir until 14:00. It was like climbing up a black diamond ski slope. I didn’t have crampons and my pack was quite heavy as I had loaded it with a lot of water (a rookie mistake). Once arriving at the camp and securing a spot in the shed, I spent the rest of the day talking with those that would be summiting in the early hours the following morning. They summit at night to avoid warmer periods of the day when avalanches were more prevalent.

The hikers all woke around 2:00 a.m. to begin the summit. Even though the temperatures were low I decided to get up and see them all leave. This provided the opportunity to view all the stars as well as the entire Milky Way spread across an otherwise dark night sky. As the hikers made their way I could hear the loud cracking of avalanches in the distance. Camp Muir was angled so it was well protected, but that loud thunderous sound sure got the hairs on the back of my neck up.

In the morning as the sun came up I could see 270 degrees around me, and volcanoes were visible in every direction. It was a site to behold as I finished my breakfast (the remainder of a crushed Subway sandwich). It was time to begin my descent. The coolest part of this hike was going back down. I brought a large black garbage bag with me on this hike. The reason being is as you descend there are luges carved throughout the path down the mountain. This allowed the opportunity to glissade, sometimes picking up an unreal amount of speed to the point where I would use my legs as brakes to ensure I didn’t get too out of control.

Once returning to a much lower elevation the snow began to disappear and it was time to pack the garbage bag up and hike the remaining 2 miles down. Not having slept much the night prior due to the higher elevation I was looking forward to hitting a breakfast place in Paradise to refuel as the crushed Subway sandwich gave way to hunger. I could tell I was close to the base as the people I ran across were less and less in shape or prepared and once I saw a family wearing crocs I knew my breakfast had to be within a ¼ mile or less.

As I entered the café, I got a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I felt fulfilled because I was able to experience the hike even without summiting. The hike to Camp Muir was still challenging and I knew it would leave me sore for the next few days. It would also provide memories that have lasted. Every time I see Mount Rainier in the Pacific Northwest, I am able to relive my experience and appreciate that magnificent mountain in a more personal way.

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Digital Nomad: Returning to the USA

By Mike Huber

I had been living and working on the beautiful rain forest island town of Victoria, British Columbia, but I had noticed the past couple of times returning from my work trips to Seattle that the Canadian Immigration people started to take notice of me and were more than aware that the stories I was feeding them weren’t true (they could see my entry/exit dates and they did NOT track with what I was telling them). During one of the last times I crossed the border I was pulled aside. They ran my Massachusetts driver’s license and the agent quickly stated “You’re a long way from home, son.” To which I provided my normal reply by pointing at my backpack: No, sir. My home is right there. He didn’t find it funny (they never do). He returned my IDs and had me move through Customs without further issue.

It was definitely time to return to the United States. It didn’t take too long over the next week to pack up, deflate the leaky air mattress I had been sleeping on for 8 months, and place the Good Will furniture on the corner (the furniture and I shared the same situation; we were both looking for our next home). Loading everything into the car was the final step before getting on the Tsawwassen Ferry, which would bring me to Vancouver. It was a short and uneventful 3-hour drive to my new residence in Seattle, Washington.

Victoria was one of the very few places that made me cry when I left. I had a beautiful eight months living there and felt so fortunate that I was not only able to experience this island and the great people who live there, but that I was able to stay for so long. It is one of the few places I have lived that I proudly called my home.

I was back in the United States after a year and a half. It was time to get an actual apartment and furniture that wasn’t from Good Will. Belltown in Seattle seemed to be a no brainer as far as a location. There were tons of bars and restaurants, it was next to the Olympic Sculpture Park, and the Victoria Clipper was right there (if I felt the urge to jump back to Victoria on the high-speed catamaran). Maybe the coolest part of Belltown was that my apartment was in the shadow of the Space Needle, which is one of my favorite buildings.

The one big lesson I learned in my vagabond, digital nomad travels is it is much easier to get back on the wheel than it is to exit it. Getting an apartment and having my furniture sent from Boston was easy. Leaving the wheel required a ton of planning and preparation. It took months to downsize, find a storage for my vehicles, rent my condo, etc. The tasks seemed to never end when I prepared to leave the wheel, and as I completed each task I found myself constantly questioning my decision as I counted down to Day 0.

I was now a Seattle resident. Over the past 18 months I left from the start of I-90 near Fenway Park to the end of the same road at Safeco Field. It would have only been a three-thousand-mile trip on I-90, but I took the longest route possible by meandering through five countries. I was anxious to meet new friends and see how being back on the wheel would treat me, and more importantly, how I would adjust to this old lifestyle I had left 18 months ago.

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