The Return to Portland and Chasing Waterfalls

 5/1 - After the excitement of a weekend in Southern California roaring around the desert with a motorcycle club, it's nice to have a weekend in which you do nothing. 

I have barely left the apartment this weekend. I love it. 

It's a break right before a busy four-day workweek. It's also a break before my next adventure. 

For my next trip, I'll visit Portland, Oregon! My last trek to Portland was in 2019 when I spent a weekend in the city and stayed in a hostel in midtown. I enjoyed wandering around downtown on foot with my camera and getting a taste of a new place.

This time, a friend will host me and pick me up from the airport. 

5/6 - Greetings from Portland. I drove 200 miles to Reno from Bishop and then flew to Portland from Reno. The Reno airport was strange because it was quiet; not many people were traveling early on Friday. I emerged from security oddly quickly. The TSA did not ask me to remove anything from my backpack, such as the laptop. That was weird to experience so little hassle while at an airport.

The journey to Portland was quick and painless. But here I am.

I was unprepared by how utterly, vibrantly, shockingly green it is in Portland. I’ve arrived in the middle of a springtime explosion of flowers. It’s wet and soggy from heavy downpours. I’ve seen a rainbow already. It has been a bit of a shock to the system, coming from a dry climate in the high desert where I’m used to seeing more subtle colors in the landscape; coming to Portland has felt a bit like having the lights turned on after my eyes adjusted to darkness.

Portland has been in the news over the past few years for violent protests in the streets. The National Guard came to the city in an effort to diffuse these protests I’ve come to a city with large homeless camps, expensive costs of living and heavy traffic. I learned yesterday that the city has a shortage of 1,000 police officers. You really have to watch yourself on the roadways because certain drivers know they can get away with driving recklessly. The city has its issues.

But my goodness is it colorful!

5/7 - During that road trip in Europe all those years ago, near the town of Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland in the Alps, I was mesmerized by the number of waterfalls crashing over the cliffs in that valley. I had never seen so many waterfalls in one area before; it was like wandering into a dream. That was a wonderful 12 hours spent in the most glorious, mountainous landscape that was so big that it felt fake. 

Until today. 

A friend drove me through the Columbia River Gorge along Interstate 84, about 25 miles east of Portland. It was cloudy, soggy and chilly, but the weather didn’t subtract from the experience. This gorge, carved by floods thousands of years ago and formed with basalt rock, is home to some 80 waterfalls that empty into the Columbia River which marks the border between Oregon and Washington.

Some of the cliffs feature basalt columns like what you see at Columns of the Giants or Devil's Postpile in California. Although, Devil’s Postpile is perfect and an example of highly specific conditions for how lava cools and forms those flawless hexagonal shapes. The cliffs in the Columbia River Gorge aren’t as pristine as Devil’s Postpile, but they’re steep and impressive, and most of them feature waterfalls of various shapes and sizes. The falls range from gentle, thin trickles to powerful deluges that sound like jet engines mixed with thunder, or a noisy roller coaster.

One of these was Multnomah Falls, a world-famous, nearly 700-foot, two-tiered waterfall. I had only ever seen this waterfall in photos before and like with all things humungous, pictures do not do it justice. Like the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, the Eiffel Tower or Mt. Denali, pictures somehow diminish the size of the waterfall.

The power of Multnomah is immense. You can see it. You can hear it. You can feel it. The footpath and bridge are close enough that the spray from the bottom will soak you, like a water ride at an amusement park. Signs along the path warn visitors to stay alert for falling debris such as rock; they tell stories of a wedding in 1995 that was interrupted when a boulder the size of a bus broke off from the cliff and fell into the pool, creating a wave of water that knocked the wedding party off of its feet.

It’s a setting buzzing with the awesome power generated by Mother Nature herself.

During my time at Multnomah Falls, I was lucky enough to see the sun peak out from behind the clouds. Its light pierced the mist surrounding the waterfall and lit up the lower falls. I felt like the water began to sparkle with diamonds. I began to wonder if this was real. We only glimpse settings this dreamlike in films. As I went through the photos afterwards, I laughed. You can probably understand why:

Other waterfalls in the area aren’t as large, but they are no less pleasing. Latourrel Falls was the first my friend and I stumbled upon. This 249-foot tall waterfall sits in a setting that’s suspiciously perfect in every way. The landscape around it frames it well. The water crashes down an overhanging cliff made of basalt columns tinged with green from moss. The footpath leads to a small bridge crossing Latourrel Creek. My friend and I had this spot to ourselves and I laughed hysterically as I attempted to keep my camera lens dry long enough to get a quality photo. It was one of those magical moments one experiences only occasionally, resulting in an endorphin spike.

Another large waterfall was Horsetail Falls. The old Columbia River Highway runs so close to this beast that the spray reaches traffic. If you need a car wash, this is a good place to visit. On the bridge, the concrete rails closest to the water are coated in green moss, creating an interesting foreground for photos. Just keep an eye out for oncoming traffic.

I felt joy during this adventure in the Columbia River Gorge, like I was a kid again. Multiple times I loudly exclaimed at the sight of another waterfall, basalt rock wall or cliff side.

“Whoa!”

Most of all, I felt gratitude for having had the opportunity to see this part of Oregon with my own eyes.

Riding with a Southern California motorcycle club

 4/15 - Let's get back to basics. 

This blog was originally a way for me to document my own travels and adventures. Over the past few years, however, I've gone away from that and wrote about stuff like debt repayment. I want to go back to writing about my travels now that I'm debt free again. 

I've done my share of travel since moving to Bishop. I went to Alaska in September 2021 and rode a train to Denali National Park where I was lucky enough to see Mt. Denali, the tallest mountain in North America, with my own eyes. Someday I'll return to Alaska to explore it more. 

I've rode motorcycles a few times since my move to Bishop, mostly in the Palm Springs area. I've also explored Joshua Tree National Park on those occasions. 

But this entry will be about my most recent motorcycle adventure. Once again I'll head to Palm Springs to ride with some friends in a group. Like last year, my horse will be a Harley Davidson, a machine that will be lent to me by one guy in the group. And like last year, I'll be fortunate enough to spend a night in perhaps the most luxurious bedroom I've ever had the pleasure to use. 

This time, we'll go on an overnight trip to a small town in the mountains of San Diego County: Julian. This town is known for its apple pie. Our group, whose leader is a friend of mine and the guy who invited me to join, will head south on the eastern shore of the Salton Sea, California's largest lake, and head west through Anza Borrego State Park, home to massive dinosaurs and scorpions, all the while navigating a maze of little used county roads and a mixture of tasty state highways.

4/24 - Back to the most elegant home I’ve ever stepped foot in, and one more opportunity to sleep in a comfortable bed in a spacious, modern room I would never be able to afford myself, I found myself back in Palm Springs for another motorcycle ride. This time, however, I was prepared to step foot inside this home; last year I was genuinely shocked. I had found myself wondering what the hell I had done to deserve such an awesome opportunity. I ended up talking to a therapist about this issue. 

But I digress. 

My horse for this trip was a blue Yamaha V-Star 950cc, a standard/cruising style of motorcycle. Our ultimate destination was Julian, a small town in the mountains of San Diego County with a history of gold mining and a reputation for quality, buttery, flaky apple pie. It was my first time riding in more than a year and as I write this, my body is reminding me that I’m not in riding shape. I ended up riding in a group with nine other bikers, something I hadn't done before. The biggest group I had ridden with before this adventure was two other bikers. The group consisted of members of a Southern California motorcycle club, most of whom I had never met before. 

With a low center of gravity and lighter weight than the 2018 Harley Davidson Fatboy 1800cc I rode last year, I adapted to the V-Star  quicker. Although, it still took me a few miles to knock the riding rust off. This included a near wreck, as I fishtailed in response to the leader unexpectedly slamming on his breaks for a yellow light at an intersection. Fortunately, I stayed upright, but not without a spike of adrenaline. Some of the guys complimented me afterwards for keeping the bike upright. 

We headed east through the Coachella Valley, away from the final hours of the Coachella Music Festival and between the fields of agriculture so oddly placed in such an arid, desert climate. We turned south along the eastern shore of the Salton Sea, California’s largest lake but also an environmental disaster. I had visited the Salton Sea once before, but hadn't traveled south beyond Bombay Beach. On this trip, the itinerary called for a visit to Bombay Beach, Salvation Mountain and Slab City, havens for artists or people who wish to live off the grid. In order to live in a dry, desert climate like this, one must be wired just a little bit differently. We took group photos in these areas and continued farther south.

We eventually tore through Anza Borrego State Park on the west side of Salton Sea. Anza Borrego is a geological wonderland, filled with washes and alluvial fans, colorful rock, wildflowers and tall ocotillo plants amongst a landscape that looks as if someone had pushed two ends together and squashed everything together. While riding through California's largest state park and leaning through its meandering Imperial County road in a state of disrepair, I giggled and sang, babbled like a madman and felt euphoria. 

We stopped at a seedy biker bar in Borrego Springs, where the fish tacos were surprisingly good and glasses of water wildly refreshing after getting pounded by the afternoon sun for a few hours. Borrego Springs is a desert oasis on the edge of San Diego County that's completely surrounded by Anza Borrego State Park. One thing that immediately sells Borrego Springs is the presence of numerous metal sculptures of various animals such as horses, camels, tortoise, eagles, dinosaurs and in one case, a dragon that traverses a road.

Here's where the ride became a notch more difficult. Our path was S-22, a San Diego County rode that sharply rises above the Montezuma Valley floor and tightly curves and winds a few thousand feet up the mountainside. Having not ridden for more than a year, my cornering skills were understandably rusty. Picking a quality line to follow took some time to get used to. There was one moment where I leaned too far over and scraped the underside of the footrest on the pavement, sending a shiver through the bike. There was another curve where I went a bit too far wide and came uncomfortably close to a white box truck descending the mountain. 

But, I got the hang of the road eventually and made it up the mountain in one piece. I noticed that on these tight curves on twisty mountain roads, I do not laugh or whoop. I am entirely focused on taking the right line and holding the angle through the turn. This is one reason why motorcycling is physically and mentally exhausting compared to driving a car. You must be entirely present and engaged on exactly what you and your machine are doing. 

The curves of this road relaxed at about 4,000 feet. We emerged onto S-2, a county road with gentle, fast bends through a green valley surrounded by mountains and an access point to the Pacific Crest trail. It was on this road that I felt a smile appear on my face, a sense of calm settle into me, feeling at peace with the world. 

We then roared into Julian's Main Street, where we turned south for a few miles to arrive at our Airbnb, a home in Pine Hills complete with a fireplace, hot tub, wild turkeys and comfortable beds. We had ridden more than 230 miles; I was exhausted. Sleep came easily that evening. 

4/25 - When riding a motorcycle, you have to accept that you’re going to crash the bike at some point. In my eyes, this is an inevitability. I’ve dropped bikes my fair share of times. I’ve dropped them after stalling the engine in the middle of intersections, back when I was a new rider. I’ve dropped rented bikes trying to turn too slowly on slopes. 

But I’ve never been seriously injured after crashing at highway speeds. Back during my time in Porterville, I crashed on a bicycle going 35 mph going downhill and suffered some serious road rash. I spent a week nursing that injury and picking out gravel from my wounds. 

Thankfully, I haven’t had a major motorcycle crash. But on Sunday as we were returning to Palm Springs, weaving through the gentle green hills of State Route 79, we witnessed a serious motorcycle accident. Certain images will probably always be there in my memory now.

A truck pulling a horse trailer was going slower than the speed limit and had built up a line of cars and bikes behind it. The truck had plenty of opportunities to pull over and let traffic pass, but it never did. A lone biker on a black Harley Davidson began passing everyone, including our group of bikers. He attempted to pass the horse trailer right before a curve. A car was coming the opposite direction, so the biker sped up to make the pass. He went into the curve way too quickly and ran off the road.

I remember a cloud of dust and a starfish shape of his body 10 feet in the air. This man flew 20-30 feet from his bike, which exploded in the field. Fortunately, he had crashed in a grassy field on top of soft dirt. I yelled in shock inside my own helmet. Our group pulled over, as did the cars in the line. One man in our group was a retired doctor. Another, a nursing assistant. Several people including myself called 911.

“I need to report a motorcycle accident on State Route 79 at postmile 52.”

While we waited for the ambulance, the leader of our group, the retired MD and a few other people raced to the guy on the ground. The MD, though he didn’t have much training in trauma response because his expertise had been in family practice, collected data from the guy. What’s his name? Can he move his limbs? Any lacerations? Can you breathe? Where’s the pain? What's his heart rate? How does his color look? Is he turning blue? Just focus on breathing.

The guy had trouble breathing. It seemed that it was less painful for him to lay on his right side than on his back. He was groaning in pain.

“Oh no,” he repeated.

Those of us who were not immediately tending to the man righted his motorcycle and put the kickstand down, to prevent gas and oil leakage. We collected his things from the wreckage; I noticed that his jacket had either fallen off in the crash or burst forth from one of the saddle bags. We brought water when asked, moved our bikes to make room for the ambulance and flagged it down.

Eventually the EMTs arrived. They worked quickly; their training served them well. They got the biker into the ambulance and away it went, perhaps heading to Temecula. Miraculously, the biker did not suffer any lacerations. I have no idea of what happened to the biker after the ambulance took him away, or of the fate of his Harley.

We got back onto the bikes and continued our journey, eventually descending 3,000 feet in elevation to the Coachella Valley on State Route 74, one of the best roads I’ve ever ridden on a motorcycle. But I kept thinking about the crash I witnessed.

We discussed what happened upon our return to Palm Springs. The MD suggested the biker had broken ribs and perhaps a punctured lung. He showed me pictures of what a punctured lung looks like, known as a pneumothorax. He explained what happens to the blood vessels and airways in that case. He suggested the biker was in shock.

It was certainly a learning experience, an overdose of real life. As I lay here in bed, wide awake and unable to sleep even though my body has been through the wringer this weekend, I recognize that I directly faced my own vulnerability and mortality while motorcycling. 

We only hear about crashes like that through news reports, horror stories passed on by people we know whose goal is to discourage us from riding or educational videos during safety classes. We don't actually expect to see it unfold with our own eyes, to hear gasps of pain, to see legs and feet thrashing in discomfort, to feel the frantic energy of a group of people who know they must act quickly to help a person who's badly injured. 

While it was an excellent weekend filled with something that makes me happy and experience true freedom, the accident shook me a little bit. I took a sick day from work because I was still thinking about it the morning after and on the journey back to Bishop. 

I am a biker. It is part of who I am. I am good at riding. After I returned to Bishop, my friend and the leader of the group said I did a great job, and that I fit in well with the group. It may be time to seriously consider acquiring another motorcycle for myself...

Farewell to Debt

 2/25/2022 - I've busted my ass over the past 12 months. 

In the past 12 months, I've paid off almost $57,000 of student loan debt. As of today, February 25, 2022, I have $3,599 left to pay off. When I think about what I've accomplished so far, in such a short amount of time, I am astounded. With an unexpected check from work today and payday next week, my student loan debt will be eliminated by this time next week. 

I am on the precipice. 

Part of me feels emotional. Overwhelmed. I have put my entire being into this endeavor; it has become my drive, a defining characteristic of who I am. I am about to accomplish something massive. A huge weight is soon to be removed. 

Another part of me feels depression. My motivation is about to disappear. The carrot will vanish soon. What now? Why do I feel somewhat empty? What's my next goal? Where will the drive come from? 

I've busted my ass this year. So much energy, focus and discipline has gone towards achieving this personal goal. So much, in fact, that I'm burnt out. I am sleeping more. I'm having thoughts of looking for a new job (or simply quitting). Every aspect of the full-time job, the sole reason I moved to Bishop in the first place, has become tedious and irritating. Frustration bubbles just under the surface, like a lake of lava. After a year and a half on the job, it's safe to say I don't enjoy it. 

So, thoughts have shifted towards how I can improve the situation. What would I rather do? This is a difficult question, because I've never enjoyed work. I do it because it pays the bills. I don't work because I have a passion for it. 

3/8 - I did it. 

I'm debt free. The student loan is gone forever. I'm done. 

I just paid off $60k in only 13 months. I have impressed myself. 

3/25 - My loan service provider sent me a letter today that said my loans have been paid in full. 

I am officially debt free. 

While I'm still burnt out and exhausted more than three weeks after the final payment cleared, I am happy. This was a humungous accomplishment. I impressed myself with the amount of focus and self discipline I used to kill the debt. I initially attacked the debt simply because I was tired of thinking about it; the knowledge that I was in debt was always in the back of my mind, like a fungus. What I did not foresee was the major boost in self-confidence as a result of such a huge accomplishment. 

If I can do something like this, I can do a whole lot of other things! 

The loan debt was one of the last remaining links to my year at Bournemouth University in England in 2014-15. That year remains the greatest accomplishment in my life, and I am no longer held down by the debt I put myself into to make it happen. The year in England is now just a fond memory of my 20s. 

Though I rarely write in this blog anymore, the blog was originally started as a way for me to keep friends and family up to date on my experiences in a new country. The loan money was mentioned in several of those early entries, including the second one overall on Sept. 26, 2014. 

The past 14 months of my life going back to Feb. 3, 2021 have been difficult. There have been few times in my life that have exhausted me the way this debt repayment journey has. It's not often that I say I deserve something, but I deserve a break from work and a long rest. Fortunately I have a week off from work rapidly approaching; it's looking more and more like I'll have a staycation here in Bishop. 

Now that one chapter of my life has ended, the next one begins. Here is where I must think of a new goal to achieve. Without a new goal, I will miss having drive and motivation. Over the past few months, I've learned that I am a goal-oriented person who thrives when trying to reach a new goal. I loved seeing the progress I made on the debt; I felt like I was gaining momentum. Now I must look elsewhere for that feeling. 

One goal of mine is to visit Australia. I nearly traveled to Australia two years ago, but that trip was slaughtered by the Covid-19 pandemic that brought the whole world to a grinding halt. But the time has come for me to travel internationally again; I must break in the brand-new passport that was supposed to be used for that Australia trek two years ago. Planning will be expensive, as the debt repayment has left me damn near broke. 

Another goal of mine is to get my photography website fully functioning by the time I turn 32 years old. This site will act as a portfolio of sorts, something I can show to prospective clients. Eventually, I'd like to photograph full time. 

A third goal of mine is to climb Mt. Tom, the Sierra Nevada peak that towers over Bishop at more than 13,600 feet, by the end of this year. I am out of shape, but I will make it happen. 

Turning my attention to debt

 2/7 - This blog began as a way for me to keep friends and family updated on my adventures in England during my postgraduate studies in 2014-15. During those early days, I wrote about my trepidation for having a student loan in order to survive postgraduate school in a different country for a year. 

I've made a few scattered payments on that loan debt in the six years since then, but never made any progress. It has just been getting pushed back either because I didn't make enough money or I was traveling. As a result, the loan debt ballooned. It accrued several thousand dollars in interest and sat just a shade less than $60,000. 

These days, I'm working a good job in Bishop and can afford to live alone. I can save money. Life is good. Life is comfortable. And after experiencing culture shock in those first few months in Bishop and feeling homesickness, it's fair to say I love living here now. It's stunningly beautiful. It's a photographer's paradise. The tall, jagged peaks of the Eastern Sierra tower over the little mining town of Bishop. After a snowstorm, those peaks are shockingly white. During sunrises and sunsets, this valley seems to light up with color; I have felt a few electric shocks early in the morning after peaking through the blinds in twilight. 

But the loan debt is still there. It's sitting there in the back of my mind, ever-present. Something will have to be done about it eventually. 

That time is now. I'm tired of thinking about it. Granted, the loan is not weighing me down. I've had no trouble saving up money for it. My credit is fine. It's just kind of...there. Regardless, it's time for me to slay it. That debt is about to regret attaching itself to me. And in order to kill it, I have made myself uncomfortable by using the majority of my savings to begin the process of paying it off. 

For about a week now, I've felt flashes of anxiety and discomfort because of this action. I strongly dislike this feeling, but I know that since I'm feeling uncomfortable it was the correct decision to nearly wipe out my savings. 

It's time to make myself more uncomfortable. As of February 3, 2021, I wiped out all of the interest on that loan debt, as well as $15,000 of the principal balance. This leaves me with a little less than $40,000 on the debt. I'd like to eradicate this debt by January 1, 2024 and to do this I'll need self-discipline. 

I am going to attack this debt. 

I am going to take absolute control of my finances. This is the perfect time to do it because interest has been frozen until the end of September. There are rumors of the government forgiving some amount of everyone's student loans. The government is giving out stimulus payments due to the Covid-19 pandemic. If I'm aggressive, this debt will rapidly shrink. If I'm disciplined enough, I will put all of my resources towards this debt. If I hustle enough, I will create other streams of income. Right now is the perfect storm of circumstances. 

The debt could completely disappear in two years. It'll take some serious sacrifice though...

18/7 - The debt is shrinking. I've officially cut it in half! It sits at a shade above $29k right now. In order to attack it, I've been living simply and throwing all resources at it. Any payment helps, no matter how large or small. 

I recently had my first wedding photography gig, which produced a nice payment. In terms of wedding photographers, I was dirt cheap. But, I learned a lot, had fun and produced some (more than 300) photographs that thrilled the bride and groom, as well as myself. 

I've taken on a side job doing yard work at a nice house with an amazing view of Owens Valley. The house sits on a large parcel of land and it's owned by an optometrist and his retired wife from the Central Valley. 

This doesn't produce income, but I've also adopted a highway just north of Bishop. So far I've filled four bags with trash. Sometimes drivers honk at me and give me a thumbs up.  

Another new place to live

 17/10 - Greetings from the desert. 

It's been a long while since I last added to this blog, around the time the Covid-19 pandemic started. Since then, I survived one of the craziest times in San Quentin State Prison's history. At one point there were more than 2,000 inmates infected with the coronavirus, and more than 25 prisoners died from it. I experienced the most toxic of workplaces and observed some eyebrow-raising unprofessionalism, incompetence and rudeness. Outside of Prisneyland, I notched some spurts of personal growth, met some great people and made the Bay Area my home, in particularly San Rafael and Marin County, and watched a spectacular thunderstorm which set California on fire until this day. 

I also left San Quentin. 

After 12 job interviews in 2020, I accepted a job with Caltrans as a Public Information Officer in Bishop. If you don't know where Bishop is, I was the same way two months ago. Bishop is a small, rural, desert town in Inyo County. Though there are more than 8,000 people who live in this area, the town is little more than a Highway 395 rest stop for travelers between Mammoth Lakes, Reno or Los Angeles. 

If you're still unsure about where it is, think of Death Valley National Park. Bishop is on the north end of the area. On my road trip to Death Valley a few years ago, I came within a few hours south of Bishop when I went as far north as Olancha on Highway 395. 

Anyway. 

It's very different here from Marin County and the Bay Area. 

Not only have I moved away from one of my favorite cities in the world in San Francisco, I'm starting over from zero. Again. 

I started over from zero in Porterville, Poole, Cherbourg and San Rafael. In all of those places, I didn't know anyone and I was brand new to the job (or country). In all of those cities, I started with zero knowledge of anything around me. In Poole, I was, frankly, terrified but exhilarated. In Cherbourg, I had the language barrier to battle and wasn't sure about my purpose for being there. 

In Bishop, I'm starting over yet again. I'm brand new to this part of California and I don't know a soul. I'm brand new to the job and am facing a steep learning curve while working from home. Since it's a small town, one can find political signs and flags in front of every other house. Every Friday evening, a convoy of conservatives cruise Main Street, honking their horns and making as much noise as possible in the hopes of getting a rise out of someone. And since I moved here, the Creek Fire has been steadily burning on the west side of the Sierra Nevada, producing a constant blanket of smoke over Owens Valley. 

It's not easy. 

This is yet another challenge. I've done it before, several times in fact, and I'll do it again. 

But, I've noticed that I'm not as excited to start over again. I'm getting tired of it. And last week I realized, for the first time in my life, I was homesick! 

I'm homesick for Marin County. I honestly loved living there; it was paradise. However, it was too expensive for me to live there. I was working too much to truly enjoy and appreciate it. And most of all, the job at San Quentin made me miserable. 

28/10 - The air has been clear of wildfire smoke in Owens Valley the past two days. Surprisingly, my mood is a lot better! When the air is clear, the Eastern Sierra towers over the valley with jagged and rough peaks. To the east, the White Mountains seem to glow orange and red during the day and especially in the evening. 

An update

12/17/2019 - My journey at San Quentin State Prison began more than almost a year ago in the mental health department.

Since then, I have been inside several of the housing blocks, consumed several pieces of media about the institution and discussed them briefly with individual inmates, seen some sunrises that left me rooted to one spot in front of the castle-like gate and requested a move to the dental department on the first floor of the hospital.

Though the job isn't my favorite, I love so many other aspects of my life right now. I adore Marin County; this place is home. I love living so close to San Francisco, one of the best cities in the world and one which offers anything you can think of. I love my neighborhood and the situation with my roommates is the best I've experienced in my life. We don't often speak or see each other, but we all keep the common areas clean and drama is noticeably absent now. None of us are "friends", though, and we have yet to spend time with each other outside of the apartment; perhaps that is for the best.

I have put down roots in this area. San Rafael is my home. I have friends now. I have been volunteering at a local art organization. The weather in Marin is perfect. Sure, it's incredibly expensive and traffic is insufferable, but I believe it's all justified when one gets the opportunity to live in paradise.

It's ok that I don't enjoy the job because it allows me to live in Marin County, close to San Francisco. It allows me to pay the bills and save some money. It allows me to buy the things I need and a few others that I simply want. It allows me to travel. It gave me a role inside of California's first prison, one which practices restorative justice and one in which inmates have ample opportunities for self improvement.

I dislike my job, but I love being at San Quentin. I want to be there. My gut tells me to stay there because there has to be a role at the institution that I'll enjoy.

3/6/2020 - However, my time there is soon coming to a close.

I have an opportunity to visit Australia, Fiji, Samoa, New Zealand and Hawaii for more than a month.

4/15/2020 - Or not!

I was due to be in Sydney right about now during that trip to Australia. I had actually submitted my resignation letter to my San Quentin supervisor about a week after writing that previous entry.

But then the Covid-19 pandemic formed a day or two later and brought the world as we know it to a grinding halt. Fortunately, I was able to rescind the resignation letter because, apparently, my coworkers like me.

So at the moment, the journey down under is tentatively scheduled for late September. It is impossible to visit sooner because the Australian government closed the country's borders for six months due to the pandemic. The cruise ship line I was supposed to use docked all of its ships for two months due to the virus and a general lockdown has gripped most of the world for the foreseeable future.

Instead of writing about the pandemic and how daily life has changed, I'll explain the origins of the opportunity to visit Australia, a place that's been on my radar for several years now. (Did you know that the Australian continent is bigger than the United States of America?)

This trip was originally planned by my godfather and his partner, Warren. Unfortunately, Warren suffered a heart attack in December 2019 and passed away in January. After some intense grief, my godfather turned to me and delivered the shocking offer of taking Warren's place, in return for nothing more than emotional support.

Life at San Quentin State Prison

1/14 - Greetings from "Prisneyland."

There are certain places that you grow up only seeing on television, books or in other mediums, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon and Stonehenge. (I've been to all of those places! Isn't that cool?)

Add to that list the inner plaza of San Quentin State Prison. 

After successfully navigating the foreboding, castle-like facade of the front entrance (on my first attempt, the guard turned me away because I had brought my phone with me so I had to walk all the way back to the visitor parking lot) and proceeding through two heavy, iron-barred doors while flashing my identification card, I had one of those moments which is typically reserved for landmarks seen on my travels. 

"Wow."

I had only seen the inner plaza in TV documentaries. On the right was the Captain's Porch and various religious halls, directly across the plaza was the prison hospital (where I work) and to the left was the Adjustment Center (the prison inside the prison). In the middle of the plaza was a memorial to those who died on the grounds of the institution, going all the way back to its birth in 1852. This whole scene was dotted with the shades of green of Correctional Officers and shades of blue, yellow, orange and white of the inmates. 

On my first day, it was sensory overload. 

I felt discomfort by being in this kind of environment, one which is filled with some of society's criminals. I kept expecting someone to yell at me, for an inmate hurl some poisonous words my way. But it did not happen (and still hasn't). These men are wired in a slightly different way to the rest of us. So, I was immediately on my guard. 

I felt fear in that plaza. 

Quickly, however, I learned that because this is a place with a dangerous environment, I must adapt to it. I must check my fear at the door and walk around with a sense of confidence. Put on the poker face. If there's anyone who's able to sniff out fear, it's a prison inmate. 

1/30  - There are preconceived notions, and then there's reality. 

My words from a few weeks ago were of my first impressions and preconceived notions. In reality?

San Quentin is the Club Med of California state prisons. It's part art museum, part preserved historical landmark. I've learned that if an inmate had a choice of any prison he could stay at in California, it would be San Quentin because of the amount of opportunity the inmate has for self-improvement. The sports teams play civilian clubs; the San Quentin Warriors had a basketball game with representatives of the Golden State Warriors last year. There's a San Quentin newspaper. There's a San Quentin Museum, curated by a former guard. 

In fact, there's a podcast recorded by inmates within San Quentin called "Ear Hustle," which is about prison life and the stories from within. 

San Quentin is a fascinating place. 

2/14 As I sit at my desk listening to the distant thuds of a foot slamming into a cell door on the floor below mine, most likely driven by a state of frayed mental health, I decided to do more writing. 

San Quentin is a Level II, non-designated prison, meaning it is a lower security institution overall, and gang affiliations and behaviors are not tolerated here. The institution is commonly referred to as "soft" and "not real life," especially for a correctional officer, because there are more violent prisons throughout the state. Inmates on long sentences can enter a waiting list for a spot at San Quentin, but they need 10 straight years of good behavior to be considered. 

Correctional officers are trained in a way which reminds them that this isn't a real prison environment. Though many of the inmates have freedom of movement between their groups and appointments, the exercise yard and their cells, officers are trained to treat everyone as if they're a Level IV inmate; the highest threat. It's easy to get complacent here, to let your guard down. 

Everyone is reminded to not become the next Peter Felix, to become so manipulated by a sociopathic inmate that you become their drug mule, stuffing burritos with dope and trafficking it into the institution. 

Though there are more violent prisons in the state, one still has to be aware of their surroundings, especially when around inmates. Don't let them walk behind you. Don't give them any personal information. Call them out on attempts to manipulate. 

So when I took a walk with my supervisor last week, a tiny tornado of a woman whose head barely reaches my chest, I had to put on a poker face. We were headed into "Blood Alley," the path which leads from H Unit (Level I security dormitories) to the exercise yard. It's a six-foot wide gravel path with a tall, barbed-wire fence on one side and an imposing, yellow, asbestos-laden wall on the other. Since there are parts with bad visibility to the guard towers, this path is known for violence between rival gangs. When navigating these areas, the key is to walk with purpose and sport an unreadable face.

The same can be said when entering housing units. I've stepped inside West Block and North Block, and both times I noticed that the inmates seemed to immediately know strangers were in their midst. Men on the fourth and fifth tiers of the blocks peered down curiously at us. Inmates walking along their individual tiers glared at us. The energy was different; it was a hive of activity, with men doing their laundry, talking on phones or the barber waiting for his next client to sit in his chair and ask for a fade. 

30/3 - It's now almost three months since I started at San Quentin and am enjoying myself. I'll include some photos I've taken since moving here.