Arriving in Olancha by Mark Algazy
There is nothing quite like arriving in Olancha. At 9.A.M. On a Thursday. In December. First of all, it has probably been decades since any one associated the words 'arriving' and “Olancha' in the same sentence. Secondly, for those who only travel the blacktop, 9a.m in December ANYWHERE in the Eastern Sierra only conjurs up images of cold, blustering wind. Since I had not started out my latest adventure with Olancha as my destination, and ended up there as a state of mind, I figure an explanation is in order.
For starters, traveling early on a Thursday morning gave me an extra dose of independence and control over my destiny that leaving on a Friday morning just doesn't give. Taking Friday off is usually associated with calling in sick, trading schedules, or some other sleight of hand. Traveling with the whole of Thursday before you means you've either done double the magic to parlay time, or you are a small step closer to breaking the barriers between work and play. In my case, a BLM meeting in Ridgecrest Wednesday night made segueing into another desert trip all the easier.
The early morning air was indeed beyond chilly by L.A. standards, with a sunrise ground temp hovering at 18 degrees. But driving north into the clear blue eastern Sierra skyline before me, with the low December sun warming my back thru the window of the pickup, I could only be heartened by the weather. As the minutes and miles rolled on, and the warmth of the sun soaked thru the layers of my clothing, the metaphors for my own existance began to swirl in my head. There was not much trace of summer any more, but neither had winter arrived. The way ahead held more wind and cold, but the cold could be shielded against, and the sun was still at my back, encouraging me on.
But there were other metaphors as well. On previous adventures, I had been one of many, and my pace, and the pace of my truck, were never wholly my decision. Now, in the approaching winter, I travel only in the company of my trusty steel steed. Over the years I have developed a sort of sympathetic sense of where it's sweet spots are. And in the early Thursday morning of this trip, there was virtually no traffic on the highway to keep me from reaching or maintaining that pace. At several points highway speeds dipped to 40mph without concern, because there were no outside forces to pass judgment on it. Then I smiled, remembering once again that old adage that 'how you do anything is how you do everything.' In this case, unbound by convention, I let my truck gravitate towards the same unhurried pace with which I try to conduct all my other daily affairs.
And so it was that arriving in Olancha became a state of mind. Not thinking about a destination, but thinking about where I am...and where I am not.
There is nothing quite like arriving in Olancha. At 9.A.M. On a Thursday. In December. First of all, it has probably been decades since any one associated the words 'arriving' and “Olancha' in the same sentence. Secondly, for those who only travel the blacktop, 9a.m in December ANYWHERE in the Eastern Sierra only conjurs up images of cold, blustering wind. Since I had not started out my latest adventure with Olancha as my destination, and ended up there as a state of mind, I figure an explanation is in order.
For starters, traveling early on a Thursday morning gave me an extra dose of independence and control over my destiny that leaving on a Friday morning just doesn't give. Taking Friday off is usually associated with calling in sick, trading schedules, or some other sleight of hand. Traveling with the whole of Thursday before you means you've either done double the magic to parlay time, or you are a small step closer to breaking the barriers between work and play. In my case, a BLM meeting in Ridgecrest Wednesday night made segueing into another desert trip all the easier.
The early morning air was indeed beyond chilly by L.A. standards, with a sunrise ground temp hovering at 18 degrees. But driving north into the clear blue eastern Sierra skyline before me, with the low December sun warming my back thru the window of the pickup, I could only be heartened by the weather. As the minutes and miles rolled on, and the warmth of the sun soaked thru the layers of my clothing, the metaphors for my own existance began to swirl in my head. There was not much trace of summer any more, but neither had winter arrived. The way ahead held more wind and cold, but the cold could be shielded against, and the sun was still at my back, encouraging me on.
But there were other metaphors as well. On previous adventures, I had been one of many, and my pace, and the pace of my truck, were never wholly my decision. Now, in the approaching winter, I travel only in the company of my trusty steel steed. Over the years I have developed a sort of sympathetic sense of where it's sweet spots are. And in the early Thursday morning of this trip, there was virtually no traffic on the highway to keep me from reaching or maintaining that pace. At several points highway speeds dipped to 40mph without concern, because there were no outside forces to pass judgment on it. Then I smiled, remembering once again that old adage that 'how you do anything is how you do everything.' In this case, unbound by convention, I let my truck gravitate towards the same unhurried pace with which I try to conduct all my other daily affairs.
And so it was that arriving in Olancha became a state of mind. Not thinking about a destination, but thinking about where I am...and where I am not.
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