It's my last chance to visit the Last Chance Mountains!

Adventures come in all shapes and sizes. You might be heading off to a place you have never been to before, or deciding to face your fear, to stare that which challenges you most in the eye and speet in its face, or kiss its cheek.
There are adventures endowed with mystical quality: the quests, the pilgrimages, searches for holy grails.
Darker and deeper are adventures that take you back to places you lost: places which might dwell solely in the mind, or actually exist in the physical world.
The adventure upon which I'm about to embark may be short in length, but packed into it are all the above ingredients, and hopefully, at the end of it, I will enjoy a sense of achievement.
Best of all, I will know I am alive.
Our story starts in 1995, about a fortnight after I had moved from Connemara to San Francisco.
Lost in a new continent and culture, I began to write a short story. Inspired by the opening shot of Wim Wenders' extraordinary film, 'Paris, Texas', it started with a man walking in a desert.
The first page of this short story was written over and over again. I didn't know who this character was; only that he was obsessed by three photos he had of a woman. Not one of them looked like her, held in its image her essence or presence.
Three years later, living in a tiny Californian town further north, in the heart of the Redwood Empire, I was given some old National Geographic magazines by the quirky old dear who ran the minuscule local library. On top of the pile that she left on my doorstep, the cover of the January 1987 issue promised an article about "California's Desert, A Worldly Wilderness."
At that point of my life, drowning in a vile cocktail of rage and depression, I was completely unaware California even had a desert.
But on the article's map I spied the Last Chance Range, just at the north end of Death Valley, and I immediately knew that this was where my character had been wandering.
Sadly, for the first and please god the last time in my life, my spirit finally broke. Unrecognisable to myself, I went into meltdown, leaving my then wife and life behind to return to Ireland.
A year later, whilst lying early one morning in my bed in my room in the Claddagh, I had a vision. Yes, that's what I said, and no, I wasn't visited by the Virgin, Buddha or any pointy-headed Trogs from Earthworm Land.
Over by my window I saw, in the style of an aerial camera tracking shot, a massive breakers yard lying in a desert. Pinching myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming, I watched as acre after acre of baking hot sand and the rusted remains of hundreds of thousands of vehicles of every description ran past my eyes.
I could almost hear the metal going 'kerrkunnnnnnnnnnggggg' in the heat from the sun.
Inspired afresh, I revisited the short story, and worked on the assumption that my character had been rescued, and ended up working at this massive breakers yard in the desert.
But why a breakers yard in the desert?
Who knew?
I started to explore who my character was; what was his life like as a child?
Who was this woman he had been with?
Gradually over the next few years, whilst living alone in a farmhouse in North Mayo, the short story grew into a mosaical wordy mess of 30,000 inconsistent words.
Then I returned to Galway City and last May I quit my job, and finally took on the task of writing the novel my story had become.
Six months later I had turned that messy muddle of 30,000 words into a full first draft of 300 pages, crammed with more styles and voices than you could shake a schizoid stick at.
Writing fiction is the business of making things up. Even though I have never been an English lesbian living in San Francisco's North Beach back in 1969, I have spent enough time there to imagine, visualise and then create words that might make such a person believable.
I can imagine what the Californian desert and the Last Chance Range might be like, but I simply do not know what it really is like, and so I am going to my mountains.
Using and loving broadband to research the trip, I entered into communication with all sorts of people, and was told something most exciting and illuminating by a landscape photographer who knows the area well.
He was advising me about those wilderness roads.
"There's wrecks everywhere!" he said. "There's so many wrecks that they even hung three of 'em from the top of a signboard to warn folk!"
My eyes bulged with excitement.
"So so so it wouldn't be an impossible or unlikely thing to imagine a massive breakers yard down there? Like, errr, a vast breakers yard in the desert wouldn't be an impossible notion?"
"Hell no, man! Sounds like a good idea. Sure they'd need one."
And so, laden with my past, my pain, my heart soul and body; armed by my spirit and visions and creativity, I am off away on this adventure.
In one day in San Francisco I will try to reclaim the place in which I once lived, loved hard and lost much. It will be a tough day, a good day, releasing me from a long-redundant sense of loss, allowing myself to believe that yes, it did all happen.
At the same time, I will be looking at North Beach through the eyes of my female character, seeing the refuge to which she flees to build a life she loves, in a city that loves her back.
Then, having faced the adventures of mind and heart, I'll hit the road and head off on a thousand mile road trip to the Last Chance Range; to the heart of my story; to the one place I absolutely need to visit in order to be able to finish my book.
This adventure is more about arrival than departure; more about achievement than loss; more about loving life than living it in fear.
This adventure I will enjoy, and yes, I will feel alive.

Life is nothing but an adventure - especially if you're a blind pilot!

At the time of writing, I'm a week and a half away from an exciting and challenging trip. Round and round my mind it goes: the plans, the dreams; all those promises of excitement and the dark fears of the unknown.
Sitting on the sofa, fire burning in the grate, my friend and I are watching the footie, drinking smokey single malt Scotch.
I turn to Angel.
"Alright mate, here's one for you. Define 'adventure'."
"Define 'adventure'? Life." responds he, assuredly, after only short contemplation.
Angel was right, for just as in any true adventure, we never know what lies head in life.
Despite the best efforts of control freaks such as myself, the best of us hopefully at some point of our maturation wise up to the sad and singular truth that you can plan, predict, cross your fingers, knock on wood or pray to your god or gods, and it won't make a blind bit of difference.
Even those who dedicate their lives to living by the rules of their creed, asceticism and meditation admit that here, on this plane, you're as likely to live to the age of 107 as you are to being squashed to death by the No. 24 bus.
All we can do is try to stay up on Life's surfboard for as long as possible, while the oceans of Fate hurl us as they will, towards the inevitable crashing wave and shore.
Once we've accepted that this as as good as it gets; that all we have is the moment of consciousness we live at any given second, the significance of our pasts and futures diminish as the morning mist fades in warm sunlight.
We cannot control any of it. All we can do is use what physical, emotional and spiritual strengths we have to help us enjoy the moment.
And let's be just a little bit real here. When I say 'enjoy', I don't mean that we've got to feel like we're eating chocolate whilst writhing in rolling orgasms all day every day. It is ridiculous to aspire to the living of a life in permanent bliss. There are sad times, and there need to be tears.
But what I have found is that to 'enjoy' those difficult moments we have to learn from them; add what they bring to our souls' libraries, and move on.
So here we are, living this adventure that is Life. We're trying to make sense of it all, and often failing miserably. We're trying to live in the moment whilst constantly doing our darndest to stave off the inevitable; slow down our inexorable full speed hurtle towards death and oblivion.
All we have is the moment, that annoying little moment, and the certainty that another moment will follow.
Deep inside we know that Life is incredibly simple, and that all of the complexities we see in it are nought but our own human, cultural and societal constructs. All the stresses and strains, demands, shouldas wouldas and couldas that wear us down can sometimes make Life look far too much like hard work.
So some of us strip it back to basics, and go off on adventures.
Indeed, if you think about it, once we've accepted that life is nothing but a series of empirical unpredictable links in an inestimable chain, doesn't it make perfect sense to construct adventures, to give ourselves mini runs at life?
As Yoda Casanova would put it: Macrocosm microcosm, what is up is down.
Going on an adventure allows us to see if we can survive and even maybe thrive whilst being tested by a sudden glut of fresh experiences and challenges.
Maybe people like me and others far braver and way more worthy, feel that going on an 'adventure' amounts to little more than attending a class, (a crash course in Life 101?), where we can taste a little of the extreme within a much safer and far more controlled environment than everyday life itself ever offers us.
At this point I'd like to introduce you to a gentleman called Miles Hilton-Barber. Miles makes a living by giving inspirational and motivational talks, but that is not why he fascinates me.
In fact, as soon as I see the words 'Motivational Speaker', my spine shrinks with fear as nightmare memories of days in sales and marketing plop back into my mind like loose foul-smelling stools.
No, the reason I am fascinated by Miles Hilton-Barber is that he is an adventurer, and a blind one at that.
Last year, Miles took off from Biggin Hill Airfield in England and piloted a tiny microlight
aircraft right across the world, landing in Australia seven weeks and 13,000 miles later.
The 58 year-old flew over 19 countries and nearly froze to death when he had to climb to 12,000 feet to escape stormy weather.
Although he had a sighted pilot sitting in the rear of the aircraft in case of medical emergency, Miles flew the 100hp microlight himself, cruising at 70 knots. Through headphones, audio controls specially designed by a British company informed him of altitude, speed and navigational readings, and he input commands and alterations by typing into a keyboard strapped to his leg.
But it wasn't all about technology. My heart leapt when I first read how he responded to the world around him:
"Flying like this is a very sensual experience, because although I can see only light and darkness, I can still smell the smells coming up from the ground. Even at 5,000 feet I can smell whether I'm going over a city or a factory or a field with crops, and whether they're growing corn or wheat down there. I can also feel when we're going along the edge of a cloud, because I sense the moisture in the air, and there's a damp and musty smell."
Fantastic! I raise my glass to you, Miles Hilton-Barber, and to all the other great and famous adventurers who have inspired me throughout my life.
Adventures like climbing Everest or swimming the Channel are single-minded, simple in design and yet massive in execution.
But not all the best adventures are so simple. Next week I will explain what mine will be; where I am going and why, and you will see how sometimes, adventure is able to challenge us on many different levels.

It feels so good to be back home, despite the Salthill Warshow!

Gee it's good to be back home! Traumatic times are hard enough to deal with at home, but trying to operate during them whilst being away for weeks on end really takes its toll.
Anyway, now I am home, and it's time to run around like a mad thing and try to catch up with the life I have been missing.
Time is of the essence when I return from England, because for a few days I'm so knackered, on so many different levels, that there are only a couple of hours in which I can function.
In my absence, the Snapper has done a splendid job of keeping our seedlings alive, and my first job is to get out the back, to tend and tie and water and feed our plantlets.
I'm not blind to the significance of this: thrust my fingers into the soil; get mud under my fingernails; splash water around and generally interact with the earth and the Earth, the real nature of what is home to me.
Next up is a long self-indulgent soak in a lovely hot bath. Personally I find other people's bathrooms - and their loos, for that matter - are never quite as good as your own. Last week I wrote about the luxurious life I lived in my sister's house, but even her huge bath and monochrome minimalist hoo-haa bathroom cannot compare to the feel of my average Salthill space.
Ahhh... now a flick of the radio, catch up with what's going on in Ireland...
'... claimed that he had been falsely accused of being molested by priests when he was a boy...'
Ahh, yes, back in Ireland. Nothing has changed, but just what exactly did the newsreader mean by '...being accused of being abused'?
Maybe I just heard it wrong, and maybe I didn't. Don't care, 'cos I am home, and long may I stay.
England has its plus-points, but I am happy to be back in a country where strangers smile at each other, and even chuck in the odd 'howya' when they pass walking.
Despite being a native-born Londoner, I now have to de-Irish-ise myself over there, because if you happen to cast a smiling eye towards anyone at all, you will be greeted with a verbal or physical reaction that translates as
'Wot va fuck do you fink you're lookin' at?',
which it is vital to completely ignore. The required and often desired response would be along the lines of 'Don't know, it ain't got a bloody label on it!' or 'You tell me mate, my dog died years ago, so I didn't expect to see its arsehole again.'
Any and all of the above will precipitate a fight, whilst the gentle Wesht of Ireland 'Howya!' threatens only to be followed by 'Moity morning!' or somesuch harmless nonsense.
Just as Americans are infinitely more likeable on their home soil, so too the Irish are certainly at their best when their feet are firmly planted on Irish ground.
Put it another way; for some reason, the Irish are a pain in the arse to fly with.
To be fair, I'm not talking about all the Irish here, just my 'Anns'.
For those new colyoomistas among you, my 'Anns' represent certain members of the female population aged 45 and up, who, I presume, have never enjoyed an orgasm.
Such sexual deprivation is the only reason I can come up with for them being so permanently pent-up and furious. With deep inhalations of breath snorted through flared furious nostrils, they chorus as one
'And another thing... and another thing... and another thing!', all 'things' being reasons to be verra verra angry.
I have learned to deal with them simply by dehumanising them all into a single prototype, called 'Ann D'Another-Thing'.
Anyway, put an 'Ann' from the Wesht into any airport in the world, and she becomes agitated beyond all reason.
At this juncture I have to confess that I am not allergic to a queue, and when boarding a plane with open seating, I prefer to avoid the scrummage endured by the last few on board.
Hence I will try to be as near as I can to where the queue for boarding might start. What I absolutely will not do is join my 'Anns' and their red-faced white-shirted tired-eyed hubbies in a queue for a plane that has not even arrived yet.
What in god's name is the point of queuing for something that is still 33,000 feet up and quite possibly flying over Norway?
Why do these Irish women get so worked up about flying? I accept that for some of them it might be a new and exciting experience, but the majority, I am sure, have flown many times before, yet they squabble and push and give out and snort and flare their nostrils as if there were only one seat on the plane, and imminent death awaited those who did not make it.
These women have lived their lives in an Ireland that barely exists any more. I should be more patient and appreciative of the fine people they are.
Right, sure, yeh, but I'm not. They drive me crazy with their yabbering impatience and pumped-up sense of self-importance.
Hang on a mo. If you put it like that, don't they sound just a tad like me?

****

Talking of the Irish and their relationship with planes, this Sunday sees the return of my own personal bête noir, the Salthill Airshow.
Every year at this time my home town becomes packed to the gills. The local shops and restaurants make a fortune. Families have a great day out. The Airshow is really good for business.
But so is war.
War is great for business. In fact, since the end of the Cold War, the military-industrial complex has had to work overtime to keep alive the need for the planet's most expensive, effective and profitable product ranges.
By Oooh-ing and Aaah-ing at the flying death machines, you will be doing nothing more than giving your approval to the waging of war; saying that you don't object to limbless children dying of radiation poisoning on distant desert floors; admitting that global famine and illiteracy are fine as long as the powers-that-be can waste trillions upon trillions of the world's major currencies on the pretty flying machines, and their beautiful payload of cluster bombs and depleted uranium.
cadley1@eircom.net