Entry Date: 6/9/07
Yesterday evening chasing the sun across Nevada I called my friend Jon in Portland.
"I'm in Battle Mountain, Nevada" . . . I told him.
"Whoa. Never ceases to amaze me," he laughed. We made plans to go backpacking in Oregon when I arrived in Portland in July. He had been promoted at his work and was set to take some days off so we could get up into the Cascades and explore some lakes. This morning I greeted my aunt and uncle who invited me to hike along Prosser Creek off of Highway 89. I couldn't get over the rich smell of pine and California warmth that settled over the creek bed. I dunked my head in the fresh waters and knew I was once again in my home state. Later driving west on Interstate 80 I listened to the A's and Giants playing baseball on the radio, marveling at the quaint geography of the Sierras and how much smaller they were than the mammoth Colorado Rockies. I definitely need this break from the tiny mountain town of Ward where I had a two-story house just below the Continental Divide.
The small-town politics were getting to me, my record deal with a Denver label had fallen through, I parted ways with my drummer and longtime blood brother Jess Hakola and I needed to get back some creative energy I had lost. A friend offered to watch my house and my cat, Doolin and I swiftly departed. About all I can do to sum up recent changes in my life is to reflect upon my time in Ward. All those days marveling at the weather while painting the general store, pouring pints at the local tavern and telling jokes, cleaning up a house at the top of town and carving out my spot on the mountain, stargazing and listening to the coyotes from my front porch . . .
My good friend at the general store said to me when I was struggling to find myself in the Rockies, "When you don't know what to do, do what you know." Basic labor and music. I took to my life in Colorado like a fish to water and did what I knew how. I remember working at the hardware store in Nederland and pouring over Colorado hiking maps and talking about summer fishing holes. I survived the worst winter in state history and did it in style. Playing at Gold Lake Mountain Resort really fine tuned my approach to playing and I couldn't complain on those still, winter nights sipping a whiskey sour after my set. I would stare out into the woods and smile. I was becoming acquainted with The High Life indeed. All those months I saw wind, snow, hail, sunshine, booming thunder and even a bit of gray and drizzle. I enjoyed every day I had to enjoy this Different World 9,253 feet in the sky, away from all I had known. What I grew to love most was the tightly-knit local community. Buying American Spirits from Christina at the store when I was quitting smokes, chatting with Fuzzy Bob our volunteer town marshal, listening to TNT Tom give me shit for being a Raider fan and watching all the Ward kids wrench on old Subarus. "Hey, Dan!" was music to my ears walking through town and relishing the positive energy in the mountains.
It was all a great passage from my old existence in Portland. My greatest epiphany was had walking down by the old church in town when I found myself standing in a field of green grass and wildflowers gazing at the fresh snow across Left Hand Canyon. The contrast and the sheer beauty floored me. Under blue skies this canvas of color introduced me to spring in Colorado. I accomplished a great deal out there and deserve to take a break and enjoy the West Coast for awhile. I played a ton of music on the mountain and got some local momentum with listeners. With or without the services of a record label I got a free recording out of the deal and something to build on for proper promotion of the music.
Entry Date: 6/14/07
I just got home from San Francisco where my sister hired me to bartend a fund raiser for Senator Carol Migden. I ran the place like I was tending bar back at the Millsite in Ward. There wasn't any NASCAR on the television and I didn't have to break up any fights, but everyone was merry and milling around. Carol gave her speech in the middle of the festivities and identified her partner in the audience. An openly gay senator who spoke of progressive ideas like "storing umbilical cord blood" for newborns with blood disease. Wow. Only in San Francisco. It was nice to be in a region again where everyone was politically on the same page. After the party disbanded I stood outside and took in the city breeze coming down Van Ness. I was a long way from Ward and cowboy country.
Entry Date: 6/16/07
Booked a fourth show date in Portland for July, finishing up my booking for that city and turning to Eugene venues for a possible show on the way up next month. Traded e-mails with Peter Wilde, the booking guy for Sam Bonds Garage in West Eugene. He's good friends with my promoter and songwriter friend Danny Shafer back in Boulder. He had a date available later in the month when I'm due to play in Portland. Oh well. As far as playing music in the Bay Area I think I'll take the time to hang just out with family while I'm in California. Venues around here need to be booked several months in advance and that's always the trouble with the way I tour.
Entry Date: 6/21/07
My friend Eric just returned from Costa Rica where he was teaching English for the last year or so. We went to an Oakland A's game yesterday afternoon and enjoyed the sunshine. I basked in the cheers from the crowd and enjoyed chatting with a man from Mexico who sat next to us. My Spanish isn't half bad. Rookie Jack Cust and Shannon Stewart both homered and powered the A's to a 5-3 win over the visiting Cincinnati Reds. When Cust's ball cleared the outfield wall the stadium DJ began blaring Parliament with everybody dancing in the stands. "Bow wow wow yippie yo yippie yay . . ." bellowed from the speakers as mighty Jack rounded the bases. I fucking love Oakland. So much goddamn Soul in this town pumping under the very concrete that lies beneath one's feet. On our way out to the parking lot they were playing Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate", a tradition that goes back decades. This town puts the dip in your hip without fail, proving once again that the rest of the world is hopelessly Square. I love seeing an ocean of multi-colored faces filing by wherever I go. All the various shades of complexion make me feel relaxed and grounded. The Saturday Market last weekend was a perfect example. The World Community lives here. After the game we visited some childhood friends who have a house in the funky Laurel District. We smoked green herb and sipped Sierra Nevada, laughed our asses off playing Texas Hold 'Em and blasted classic Bay Area hip hop on the stereo. Home.
Entry Date: 8/7/07
Canyonlands. Arizona will have to wait. Trying to get out of Portland yesterday the truck was blinking red lights at me. Figures. I thought parking brake, thenoil level, then coolant system, fuses..."battery" was not on my mind since the gage was all the way up. After making it past Provo I slept at a rest stop in Springville. Driving like a man possessed. I was tired of the same old roads. This morning the dashboard was lighting up again and I thought "alternator". I was seriously bound for Arizona when it clicked. I was gonna die in the desert if I didn't turn backand check into the problem. I backtracked 17 miles to Nephi where someone told me there was a shop in Gunnison that put in re-built alternators. Saves hundreds. $99 for an alternator with $34 in labor costs. The alternator incident really made me count my blessings and opt for a more practical route straight to San Antonio. Highway 666 will be tomorrow's task, through the Navajo Reservation and on to Gallup, New Mexico where I'm home free. After that it's clear to my new home. New roads. I've never seen this place or these wonders. Sheer awe. My friend got into a head-on collision on Highway 666 and thought she was going to die bleeding in a motel room. Jesus. Danger looms. I could feel the bad road ju ju back in Portland. I tried to outrun the energy last night chewin' chaw, listening to Reverend Horton Heat and gripping the wheel. These rock faces are more than I could have imagined. So red, dramatic and mammoth. I'm on the edge of a massive canyon. Oooh, I'm afraid of heights. I knew it would just get more and more red as the sun went down. I am a mystic traveler. I've got it down to a science and everything is dialed. The truck is stocked with the basic essential elements: pack with camping gear, duffel, music equipment, my journals, water and my trusty atlas. I made a day pack for scaling the cliffs and am perched, tucked in the rocks and free from harm.
Entry Date: 8/8/07
I'm at a rest stop in Van Horn, Texas. What a fuckin' haul. Headed through the reservation last night bent on reaching Gallup. I tried to pitch camp before I got off the reservation but there were weird hoots and hollers and conspicuous pick-ups rolling around. Since I left Portland I've only been getting bits of sleep here and there, maintaining a perpetual gravitation towards San Antonio. Driving through the desert for days on end does something to you. Coming down towards Las Cruces the heat began to really hit me. I took off my shirt and shoes, dumped water on my head and ditched any parafanelia I had just before passing through the town of Truth or Consequences. Whoa. So there I was, a half-naked hippie with my hippie beads on in a packed 4Runner passing through El Paso. I've been seeing lots of trucks, almost all American brand, lots of license plates from Chihuahua, border patrol and some cops with cowboy hats who waved me through at a checkpoint. Finally I'm going to sleep solid. Got a cold beer and Los Tigres del Norte on my stereo. West Texas was real pretty in the evening. Greens and purples, wide open all around with lowlying mountains and a definite down home feel. "Are you headin' through Dallas?" a stanger asked. "No, sorry...I'm goin' to San Antonio," I said. "What's in Dallas?" "Hopefully a job," he replied woefully.
Entry Date: 8/12/07
Quarter to 10 this morning in San Antonio and it's getting muggy already. The locusts are loud as ever, sounding like a rapid fire sprinkler. The bullfrog I heard the other night was so loud I though it was artificial. Coming in on Thursday I got my first dose of southern charm in Kent, Texas at Kent Mercantile getting some gas. "Twenty-five on four and a cup of coffee," I said at the counter. "How does twenty-six fifteen sound?" the lady asked. "Sounds good to me," I grinned and she gave me a big smile.