The Road Lit by Love

Questions on the Road to Whidbey Island

Story by Justin “Scrappers” Morrison

Photos by Sera Lindsey

I ask myself a lot of questions while seated in the captain’s chair of the Prius. 

Does this Prius make me look smart?

How much does it pollute?

Am I fueling the oil wars? 

Am I driving the planet to extinction from the comfort of 

my hybrid La-Z-Boy? 

Will I cause a Silence Spring?

Am I pollution?

Do I really need to buy katsup-flavoured potato chips 

from a Canadian gas station? 

Is the chip dust piled up all over my crotch?

Does the beautiful woman next to me know I just farted?

What time will we get there?

Is time just movement? 

Am I moving at the speed of numbers in a clock?

Am I moving at the speed of the Universe?

Am I moving at the speed of starfish?

Did I just see a giant chainsaw-carved hamburger?

Some questions may never meet the answers of their dreams. But I’m a dreamer, a believer, and a Portlander driving into the axe-murdery woods of Washington, so I ask a lot of questions. Where is the best thrift shop in Centralia? The answer is a shop called Visiting Nurses. When I go there, am I visiting with the nurses, or is it just a bold statement like visiting will nurse what hurts? Either way, I find an old Cake CD, vintage camping gear, an empty photo album, and the opportunity to make toilet music in their bathroom. 

Sera, my wifish-lady-friend, and I have a fetish for roadside spring water. In old town Olympia, there is a parking lot with deep-earth-cold spring water belching out of it like a revived drowned god. We stop to fill whatever containers are in the car. The crystal purity of this artisanal spring water reminds me to not eat so many potato chips while it helps me wash down so many more potato chips.

The evergreen state of Washington scares me. If I could skip driving through it on my way to Canada for katsup-flavoured potato chips I would. As a young artist, I used to paint lumberjacks peering out from behind old-growth tree trunks with a look in their eyes that asked, “Can I swing this axe hard enough to split that Earth Firster in half?” My fear of killer lumberjacks in Washington is only confirmed by the chainsaw carvings and propane tank Carcosa art I’ve seen there. I am not a True Detective, but I’ve seen enough to not wander far from the car.

My suspicion stays with me even when I’m in cute little Port Townsend. Thumbing through books at Thuja while Sera tries on sap-stained vintage jeans, I imagine this is all a trap. I go make sure she’s safe in the dressing room. She thinks I’m a pervert and just trying to sneak a peek at her perfect nudity. She is correct. Why can’t I resist this attraction to her? I have never had this sort of love take over my entire life until meeting her.

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The Port Townsend to Whidbey Island ferry is 35 minutes of glorious wind-in-your-hair wonder. It looks like you’re cruising through the Salish Sea waters, but you’re officially on the aquatic highway portion of Route 20, aka the legendary North Cascades Highway, aka the longest highway in Washington! This highway reaches its asphalt fingertips all the way to the freeze-dried dirt of Idaho. 

The moment we drive off the ferry and touch rubber on Whidbey Island, my butt cheeks relax and I want to hug a tree with my entire body. This place is safe from blood-thirsty lumberjacks. Why, you ask? Because they can’t swim to it with axes. They would sink if they tried. If somehow they made it to the island by maybe holding onto the undercarriage of the Prius (LIKE THE SHARKS THEY ARE) I would still be safe. The Captain Whidbey would protect me.

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The Captain Whidbey has been protecting city folk like me since its construction in 1907. I like to sit by the skipping stone fireplace and melt into the 111-year-old log walls of the Lodge. What stories could these walls tell? How many of these stories have these walls seen repeated? Has it read this one yet? Does it have a romantic comedy ending? 

The Lodge is just one of the places to stay at the Captain Whidbey. The Lagoon Rooms face a saltwater reflective pool and a contemplation bridge who are locked into the longest staring contest ever. Pretty sure the water will win, but anything can happen. Sera and I stayed in the cluster of Waterfront Cabins perched right above a secluded shell-covered beach. Rainbow bark peels off madrone trees hanging over the cove bubbling with sea life. We watched birds and fish try to eat each other from the comfort of bed. Later we would eat mussels from that same water in the Lodge’s restaurant. I wonder if mussels will someday eat me? Circle of life, Hakuna matata!

The beaches here are so nice they smile with sun-bleached driftwood lips and smooth moonstone eyes. We wandered down one of the long beaches falling in love with rocks and logs. Lifting them up in the air like cute little puppies in need of a good home only to be dropped in the sand or skipped across the water. We talked about living car-lessly and eating only what we can forage or grow locally. We decide we are going to live here, so I build a driftwood fort. It’s pretty nice and has a sunroof. Sera takes her clothes off to restore her Moroccan skin to its natural color. My Canadian skin doesn’t tan, it rusts, but I get naked and lay down in our new home with her. 

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Love is a shared vibration. The vibes that this woman and I share are insanely intense. Just ask the neighbors. These vibes are explosive. Could we be some sort of bomb or alternative fuel for adventuremobiles? Are these love vibes making us insane? Were we ever in sanity? Are we really naked sunbathing in a driftwood fort? Am I really on my knee slipping a seashell ring onto her finger and asking her to marry me? Did she ask me if I would marry her too? The answer to all these questions is yes! The answer to all the questions in the Universe on the road lit by love is yes. 

Run to You

A Human-Powered Road Trip Up the Pacific Crest Trail

Story & Photos by Tommy “Twerk” Corey // @twerkinthedirt

I merged onto the I-5 North freeway towards Portland. Tears ran down from my face as I thought about how weird it was that I was finally returning home after seven months. This was the day I was dreading because I knew it would finally solidify that my life for the last half of the year was over. 

Six months ago, I took my first step north on the Pacific Crest Trail in Campo, California. This wasn’t just a quick weekend backpacking trip. This was an incredible journey that would become my life. I walked on a two-foot-wide dirt path that led to me to the US/Canada border and the end of my adventure.

I actually walked about 900 miles of the PCT the year prior but got off. Months later, I found myself back in Portland, doing the same old shit, feeling uninspired and missing the simplicity of living and walking in the woods every day. I missed the idea of having a goal, one bigger than I could ever dream possible. So I made the decision to go back. And this time, I was going to finish. 

Day 138: 

Mile 2035.9. U.S. 

 August 30th, 2018. 5:00 a.m. 

The alarm on my phone goes off and I sit up in my one-man tent, ready for the day. I boil some water and make myself some instant coffee. Although this is a normal routine, it still tastes like shit. I get my burst of energy for the morning and pack my belongings into my little white Cuben Fiber backpack. I have a 2,000-foot climb from this step forward — which pisses me off, but it’s what I signed up for.

As I make my way up the mountain, the sun rises and kisses my face through the trees. This is always my favorite part of the day. I think about how everyone back home is probably still in bed and has to go to work today. Me? I just walk. I watch my feet as I take each step, for the trail is fairly rough. For a moment I forget about the sweat, pain in my feet, and the abrasive grade of the rocky trail as I see the sun touch Mount Jefferson in the background. 

I put on my headphones. Whitney Houston has gotten me up many mountains in the last 2,000 miles, so I put her music on. As I near the top of the climb, “Run to You” is playing. I want to belt out loud with her, but I hum instead, just in case I stumble upon another hiker. That song pretty much became one of my anthems while hiking the 2,650 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail, and it will always remind me of the six months I spent in the woods.

When I reach the top, the chorus kicks in: “I want to run to you, oooo oooo. I want to run to youuuu, oooo ooooo oooohoooo.” And then I see it. I see Mount Hood. I see home. The cloudy sky and Hood’s statuesque peak makes me feel like I’m Frodo on my mission to Mordor. Like a movie scene, with this cheesy Whitney song blasting in my ears and the beautiful scenery surrounding me, I start to cry. Not because I’m exhausted or because I missed home or because I want to be done hiking the trail. I start to cry because in that moment I realize, for the first time in five months and over 2,000 miles, that I just walked home from Mexico. 

I really didn’t think I would make it to this point. Seeing Mount Hood meant that Washington was close and I was at the beginning of my last section of the trail. 

“I might actually make it to Canada,” I said to myself. “I might fucking make it.” I keep saying this as I walk with a big smile and tears rolling down my face.

Day 175: 

Mile 2,652. Canada. 

 October 5th, 2018. 11:28 a.m.  

“1 Mile to go!” read a sign on the trail made up of small rocks. My stomach dropped and my heart sank. This was the last mile of my 2,650-mile journey. There were no wheels, no gasoline, and no one else telling me what to do. My own two feet had carried me all the way to this point from the Mexican border. This was my human-powered road trip.

That last mile I thought about everything that I had been through in the last six months. I thought about the time I night-hiked 17 miles along the Los Angeles Aqueduct and had very intimate and personal talk with hiker friends. I thought about the time I got stung on my face right before crossing Bridge of the Gods, and how the next morning I looked like Quasimodo. The lonely stretches of the snowy Sierra mountains, to the even lonelier flat stretches through the Oregon hills, to the times I never wanted to say goodbye to the people I was sitting with around the campfire in Washington. All those moments raced through my head as I knew this was my very last mile. 

As I came down the mountain, I could hear people yelling and hollering and celebrating their victories. I couldn’t stop smiling. I raced down the switchbacks, and when I came around the corner of the last one, I saw the monument. The beautiful, wood-carved northern terminus that represented six months of pain, misery, snot, blood, sweat, and a lot of tears. It also represented the happiest 6 months I could’ve ever possibly imagined. It was all the people I had met, the photographs I had taken, and the times I was alone but didn’t actually feel lonely. It was the most present I had ever been in my entire life. And here I was, staring at the end.

I stopped in my tracks and everyone started cheering for me. My hands went over my face and I leaned down into my knees and cried. I cried harder than I had in a very long time. It was all over. I made it. The long journey of a human-powered road trip was finally finished. 

As I stand there with my head down, almost inconsolable, my friend Rumi walks over to me and puts her arms around me. 

“We did it,” she says in a sweet voice. We stay there embracing for a minute longer before I finally am able to show my face to all the other hikers standing in front of the monument.

I walk over to the monument, put my hand on it, take a deep breath with tears still running down my face and snow falling from the sky, and I say, “I did it.”  

The Epic Road

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Navigation Revelation

An Off-Road Rally

Story by Brooke Jackson // @wanderingtrailsmedia

Photos by  Tim Sutton, Richard Giordano, and Nicole Dreon

Exhaustion hangs in the air, more frigid than the desert night outside. Eighty-four women are huddled inside a large event tent erected in mere hours to provide a base camp for a single night, anxiously anticipating to hear the day’s results. Former professional off-road racer and current race director Emily Miller takes the stage to address the room of competitors as they bustle around, shoving down dinner and discussing the points from today’s course. “Congratulations, ladies. You’ve completed day four, which means you’re halfway there.” With roughly 800 miles driven so far, the women have another 800 ahead of them. This is no ordinary road trip. This is the Rebelle Rally. 

Founded in 2016 by Emily Miller, the Rebelle Rally is the longest competitive off-road rally in the lower 48 states. Miller likes to say it’s a world-class event that just so happens to be for women only. Showing up to the event at the halfway point as a first-time off-roader, I had a few things to learn. Most importantly, the difference between a rally and a race.

“The Rebelle is not a race. Never use that word,” said course director and former off-road pro motorcycle racer Jimmy Lewis: “This is a Rally.” What I came to learn is that a rally is not about winning, but instead about the experience. Miller encourages the contestants by saying, “Don’t focus on the prize. Focus on the journey and reaching the finish line.” 

However, since the event is world-class, there is, of course, a scoring system in place. Teams are awarded points by finding various checkpoints hidden throughout the course. Some days have the same start and end location but more checkpoints, while others are a point-to-point route with a few scatterings along the way. Beginning in Lake Tahoe, the course travels down to San Diego and covers a total of 1,600 miles, 12 counties, and two states.

By the way, did I mention that no electronics are allowed during the competition? Yeah, there’s that. The competitors must navigate every day using only a map and compass. The Rebelle is an endurance challenge, and some days the women are at it for up to 10 hours or longer. Mornings began with a 5 a.m. wake-up call followed by teams being given the geographical maps for the day and a list of checkpoint coordinates. 

Once the maps are handed out and start times are assigned, things really kick into gear. Teammates hustle to plot as many of the checkpoint coordinates on their maps before they have to be at the start line. Green checkpoints are marked with large flags and are the easiest to find, blue will either have a flag or only a blue painted stick in the ground, and black checkpoints have no marker at all. For the blacks, teams must be within 50 meters of the provided coordinates to receive the points. 

My partner for two days was Olympian and big-mountain skier Wendy Fischer. Fischer competed in the Gazelle Rally in Africa with Miller back in 2006 and is no stranger to overcoming an intimidating challenge. As her temporary teammate, I was exposed to only two days of the rollercoaster ride the women experience for eight. 

Celebrations of highs from finding checkpoints are starkly contrasted by the lows of being lost and frustrated by having no idea how you messed up. However, that’s the point of the rally. The women do not need to be professional drivers or navigators to compete. The event is structured so that participants can make mistakes to learn from in a safe and supportive environment. During my two days on course, I witnessed teams helping each other out. Whether it was co-navigating to checkpoints or digging vehicles out of sand pits, the atmosphere was one of comradery.  

The philosophy behind the Rebelle is no mistake; Miller has a goal for the participants and that is to come out stronger by the end of it. Having coached over 4,000 people to drive off-road, Miller structures each day with lessons in mind. Trained by one of the most winning off-road racers with the longest string of unbroken race wins, Rod Hall, it’s easy to say that she knows what she’s doing. Miller and her team took the Rebelles on an unforgettable journey, working with five BLM field offices, two BLM state offices, two National Parks, and the U.S. Forest Service. The participants were provided a course which took a year-long permitting process and traveled from extremes like the high alpine of the Sierra Nevadas to the desert sand dunes of Glamis. 

If the physical journey wasn’t enough, Miller guides participants on an emotional and spiritual level as well. Realistically, she could start her own line of inspirational postcards if she so desired. After the end of this disappointing day on course, where the exhausted women were huddled in their freezing desert basecamp, Miller captivated her Rebelles: “How do you know where you’re going if you don’t know where you are?” 

The Rebelle Rally helped these women answer that question not only in the literal sense of navigation but also in their lives. Pushing the participants mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually was not a mistake, but rather the unprompted goal of the rally. As Miller once said, “You can only know your limit once you find your edge and dare to push past it.” The participants who completed the 2018 Rebelle Rally gained the navigational revelation that in life, their limits no longer exist. 

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More info // rebellerally.com