Fear

"I'm going to be okay, right?," Maggie asked for the tenth time as she paused from packing her bike.

"The answer is always 'yes'," I replied, referencing an inside joke that had been a continuous source of giggles during the week we spent as room mates, work partners and newly-aquainted friends during our stay at Camp and Sons, a WWOOF (www.wwoofusa.org) farm fifteen miles East of Willits, CA.

But Maggie, an eighteen-year-old bike racer-turned-tourist, is on her own now to explore the coast, and she's both excited and nervous about it.

As the automatic gate closed between us, and I watched gravity pull her swiftly down the steep gravel road, I hoped I was right.
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What is it that allows educated, logical, capable, and otherwise-confident women to hold onto so much doubt and fear? I see in Maggie what I see in myself and other female friends who dream big, but need truckloads of encouragement and reassurance to even get out the front door.  Thing is, they, and we, are told the world is not safe for women on their own.
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Months before I left on this trip, I told everyone I knew that I was going to take a year off of school to get an education, and that it would begin with a solo bicycle tour.  I was afraid that if I didn't announce it with gusto, I would back out and watch the dream slip away.

Many told me not to go alone because there are "bad people" out there.  Many asked what kind of weapons I would carry, and would I have a cell phone at all times, "just in case"?  

I let people tell me horror stories and exaggerated statistics.  I let them instill in me a mountain of worry, larger than any mountain I would physically climb, and I projected all of my fear onto one lonely road that to me represented all remote mountain roads I had never ridden: Highway 36.

The 36 is a 140-mile winding road that connects Red Bluff and Eureka, crossing the mighty Coast Ranges.  There are very few towns from Red Bluff until the coast, limited cell phone reception, and few cars.

No cars?  Sounds perfect, right?

Unfortunately, fear is a powerful driving force in my life, and I associate more traffic with safety; where there are people, there is help.  When I am alone, it is just me. If I need help, there is no one.

Just me, only me.  Alone.

And so, I did not ride across the Coast Ranges, and instead hitchhiked from Redding, which some might consider the riskier option.

Slightly defeated, and a little disappointed in myself, I continued on my journey, sometimes on roads with generous shoulders, and a few times on badly-paved narrow ones, the constant being a reliably heavy flow of traffic.

On the worst of them (a long stretch of 101 South of Crescent City, for example), I would hug what remained of the decaying white line and whisper-chant, "One revolution, revolution at a time," a mantra and reminder that every turn of the wheel is a step and a moment in a positive direction.  As I braced for the impact of every passing truck, I would try to reassure myself that I was getting closer to safety with every downward push on the pedals.

On what was scheduled to be my last night in Arcata, a local cyclist told me about a  short-cut to Bridgeville (and Stone Lake Farm, my next destination after Arcata) that would save me 15 miles, an extra day, and the hassle and danger of cars on the 36: Kneeland Road, the extreme opposite of the roads I have become accustomed to.

Kneeland is one of the most beautiful roads I have ever ridden, but it is by far the most challenging road I have ever ridden as well.

It wasn't the steep, winding hills that got to me, but rather the unexpected gravel which made up about half of the 45-mile country road.  After many miles and hours of dipping and weaving through foothills, I was totally surrounded by mountains, and very much alone.  Only one car passed me after the road officially turned to gravel, and because I have road, not mountain bike tires, and 90 pounds of bike and gear, I resorted to pushing (or more accurately, dragging and heaving) Salsa up just about every incline. 

After more miles, and more hills, and more hours distanced me from the last human I had seen, I grew increasingly aware of my frailty.  What began as a physical struggle to move my bike and my self, soon morphed into a struggle not to panic.

Kneeland Road

Between the dozens of prominent "NO TRESPASSING" signs and posted declarations that this area is patrolled by the local gun club, I did not feel very welcome on Kneeland. Adding to my worry was my concern that if I ran out of water, there might not be anywhere to refill for many miles. In addition, I needed quick, wholesome energy, and had not packed any fresh fruit because I knew I was headed to a farm where such a staple would be plentiful. Furthermore, I had changed my plans last-minute, and only two people knew where I was, and without cell reception, I couldn't call anyone anyway.

Just me. And Kneeland.

By six o' clock, it was clear that I needed to find a place to camp.  The road began to curve again, and I came across a small herd of cows.  "Follow the cows..." I thought to myself, glad to see another mammal.  A minute later, the road straightened out, and there on my left, just a little way down the hill, was my five-star luxury suite for the night: a weathered but sturdy-looking barn.
I checked that no one was around to see me scrambling down the hill in barn's direction (I was not terribly surprised to find myself still very much alone in the middle of nowhere) and surveyed my hideout.

The barn was nearly full of hay and it would have been pointless to try and open the door, so I climbed up the outer logs of the perimeter, then slid onto the neatly stacked bales. Yes.

Luxurious barn

While I cannot truthfully say that the sound of animals creeping about in the night didn't alarm me, or that I didn't clutch my machete like a teddy bear, that barn was the best place I could have slept that night. I also won't pretend that the following morning's bike-hiking was without the previous day's doubt and worry, or that when I finally reached that bright green beacon ("Bridgeville, 7 miles") I wasn't tempted to fall to my knees and weep, I am glad that I chose the route. 

Praise be.

In fact, I hope to ride Kneeland again, and again.  I hope to ride Kneeland Roads all over the world until I come to terms with the fact that sometimes it will just be me on my own, and I can take care of myself.  As Chico musician John Staedler sings, "There's nothing to be afraid of/ You are in control".

In the end, by the time I left Humboldt County, I had ridden almost exactly half of the 36-- the half I am told is the more important part to avoid when cycling-- and wasn't phased by it.
I am not cured, but I am getting closer.

Whatever it is that holds us back, keeps us down and whispers, "it isn't safe out there," there is something equally strong pushing us forward, lifting us up, and telling us to do it anyway.

To all women of all ages: What are your dreams, and what keeps you from reaching for them?

 All it takes is one revolution at a time.

Stone Lake Farm

There's nothing quite like the sound of a shovel scraping goat droppings from the packed dirt floor of a barn. There's also nothing quite as soothing as making this activity part of your daily routine.

I lived and worked at Stone Lake Farm for two weeks. On my second day, I told Francis, the man who runs this homestead, that I didn't feel like I was earning my keep with the simple chores I had been asked to do.

"Just wait til tomorrow.  We'll be hauling logs off the mountain for firewood" he said after his usual long, contemplative pause.

Yet despite the sometimes smelly, sometimes messy, sometimes physically demanding work it takes to keep a piece of land self-sufficient, my weeks on this WWOOF (World Wide Oppurtunities on Organic Farms www.wwoofusa.org) farm were far more enjoyable than anything.

My day typically began around 8AM when I woke naturally, turned off my alarm before the unbearable screeching could start, and shuffled through the shelves of dry goods (beans, rice, flour, spices) that were provided as part of my work-trade, and made pancakes and eggs from the farm chickens. A cup of fresh herb tea, tahini, goat cheese and garden greens completed the meal as I gazed out one of the many large windows in the Octagon, a solar-powered log cabin available to interns there.

From 10AM-2PM I worked on the day's project. This could be stacking wood for the winter, painting signs, making a scare crow, coring and peeling apples and pears for sauce, or gathering herbs for drying.

Earth and moon decorations for hanging in trees on.  Made of salvaged oil drum tops.

 

Lunch was an all-you-can-eat buffet from the garden: all kinds of greens, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, carrots, beets, potatoes, apples, rasberries, strawberries and herbs, and something hot and filling cooked in a carboard and aluminum foil solar oven, which requires a little change of positioning and a few hours of afternoon sun to cook.  You can literally cook and bake anything in it besides twinkies (only because twinkies aren't food)and it will never burn. One day's meal was kamut-cornbread and chili and a nice strawberry goat-cheese cake for dessert!

Mmm! Salad!

Rice and beans, heated by the sun!

At 5:30, I fed the chickens, refilled the goats' water, cleaned up after them, and sent them to pasture by luring them out of their pen with tempting greens or apples. 

At sunset, Francis and I would watch the sky turn pink over the mountains of the Coast Range, and make a fire when it got dark.  Even though it was just the two of us, and neither of us really left the farm, it was hard to miss the city (the closest is a 2-hour drive) and all of its conveniences, bustle and noise.

There, I could simply relax, carve a spoon, write down my thoughts, take my time, paint, hug goats, and harvest the bounty of the garden. I adored carrying my bok choy and rosemary, an egg, a handful of basil, an apple or two back to the Octagon.  I took pleasure in slicing my carrots and seeing progress in the solar oven.  Living [mainly] off what the land provides is how people have always lived (until recently) and will have to live again.

I picked up Ernest Callenbach's Ecotopia (1975) from the bookshelf in the cabin during the first week, and was barely able to set it down until I finished it. 

It's a fictional account of a future in which Northern California, Oregon and Washington secede from the United States and form a seperate country called Ecotopia, from the perspective of an American journalist who visits to report on whether rumors of barbarianism and squallor are true.

The story quickly reveals Ecotopia's history- the demolition and reconstrucition of government, businesses and cities, the abolition of petrochemicals, plastic and cars, the restoration of forests and waterways, and the establishment of train networks, small towns and communes.

Reading this book and living on this farm got me thinking about the future again, and the paradigm shift that has to happen sooner or later (and wondering why it can't be now).  

If only people were like the goats at Stone Lake; just wave a rotting apple and some cumphrey leaves, and they come running.  They'll follow you anywhere for the promise of something sweet or something crunchy.

For now, I'll be content to shovel manure and pick chard and learn what I can, both at the farm and on the road.  I could have happily lived there for months, but I really must keep walking (and biking) this path until I am ready to lead with confidence.

First, become educated.

Then, educate others.

Tell them how sweet those apples are, then toss them as far as you can , and watch them dash into the open field with the breathtaking view of the Earth.