What astounds me about my travels is the good, and often strange, fortune I stumbled into during the first weeks of my adventure. First was the bike repair I needed to make. Part of my vision for the Whatever Journey involved mountain biking the majestic peaks of the West. So I purchased an expensive machine, rugged enough to handle everything I (or someone who actually bikes) could throw at it. After a few rides around my local trails in Connecticut, several of which involved rigorous hills, I had my bike shipped west. I diligently took notes on the back of some Post-Its about how to put it all back together, noting that the key tool was an Allen wrench, something I possessed in every drawer of my Ikea furniture. Needless to say, a part was missing after reassembly. So, when I arrived at my first solo campsite, I Googled the nearest bike shop. The next day, I set off, retracing the road I had traveled the day before, back down to Morro Bay. I dropped my bike and the guy said it would be 30 minutes, which gave me enough time to explore this great little seaside town, shopping at a farmer’s market and a thrift store. After retrieving the bike (only $15!), I left for the campground, except this time, I had more time to spend driving up the coast. So I stopped at one of the many vistas I had bypassed the day before and went for a long hike along the shore and sat with some seals sunbathing on nearby rocks. I couldn’t believe my slight misfortune had turned into such a beautiful day.

 

 

Second (and third), because Yosemite doesn’t allow dogs on any of its trails, Willy and I decided to head through Yosemite and over to Mammoth Lakes to visit another National Monument called the Devil’s Postpile. Three hours later, and following all of the signs, we ended up at the base area of Mammoth Mountain, which turns out to be the jumping off point for the Park. For those who don’t know, for the past 25 years I have published a trade magazine for the ski resort industry, a magazine started by my father in 1962. I knew the Devil’s Postpile would be near Mammoth, but it was a last-minute decision and a Saturday, so I decided not to visit anyone at the resort. As I wandered around the parking area looking for a space, I noticed a guy on a bike ahead of me and I thought, “No, it couldn’t be.” I followed him and, when I got close, I shouted his name. He turned. Among the hundreds of people on bikes in the base area, I managed to run into one of the owners of the resort. After catching up and marveling at the odds of bumping into one another, we parted and the pooch and I made our way up to the Monument, which I learned on the shuttle ride, contains a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail. Seriously?! I was going where Cheryl Strayed walked in “Wild,” the book that gave me my final push out the door?

 

These moments of serendipity, plus many other smaller ones, have left me, once again, humble, grateful and eager for what lies ahead.