As the morning progressed, the parch in Kyle's throat increased to a sandpaper fineness, a dry cough  that erupted every few minutes to reveal the ash inside him. He could go on like this for another few hours, he thought. It was intense effort putting one foot in front of another, as thirst hedged in on basic functioning in a constant, gnawing way. Eventually willpower would break against the tether what was possible without lubrication, functional movement become an impossibility.

Kyle cracked a smile through the pain--the fact that he was experiencing this torture in a sentient way, still capable of coherent thought and movement, was enough. He counted four vultures at a  distance--a direct warning not to expend any more energy than was absolutely necessary. Knowing that they could not quite take him, these birds of prey were not going anywhere––the sharp movement of their eyes, the economical slant of their beaks, indicated relentless attention. They would not be wasting their time here unless they thought there was a good chance that they would be feasting on something that could sustain them for a week, longer. To them he was no human overlord--he was a meal far more substantial than their usual diet of rodent, coyote, and rattlesnake.

Minutes passed and Kyle began to sense a subtle communication between these birds that seemed to have nothing better to do but wait. Their eyes not unaware of his gaze on them, of his aching fear of an event that would temporarily fill their bellies. He was meat, nothing more, to be torn apart sinew by sinew, his bones left to bleach and dry in the absence of shade. Life he thought, blinking through the sting of his eyes, the bone dryness of everything around him--what did these creatures who were comfortably alive, though well beyond the crease of civilization, have to impart?

More steps, more watching of birds and their not-quite-alien movements, trying to understand.... What if they were in subtly encroaching ways guiding him in an intended direction, just as his pursuers had last evening--from what hidden source of water had they travelled? They had to have come from the ridges, he thought, and were willing him in a direction in which a trickle of water would be an impossibility. With this in mind, Kyle took a few steps toward an open plain where he knew no water could exist and gauged the birds' reaction. Knowing nothing about avian communication, he thought he saw a flash of a nod from one vulture to another, a turned smile under the beak-–reminiscent of a child on the edge of his seat, impatiently awaiting the lunch bell. All life was connected, you just needed to be.… Kyle turned abruptly toward the nearest ridge and the vultures fell back, ruffling wings and muttering with abortive squawks. Not quite perturbed, but... he subtly shifted his route along the forward-facing ridge line in 30 second increments. Tacking in minutely changing directions, trying to gauge exactly which plane of movement upset their balance the most. It was there––a momentary break in certainty, a series of darting glances, as he moved toward a point on the ridge that rose like a hook, a three quarters crescent. He might be down to a single blind, but he was alive. Kyle picked up speed, the vultures lifting their wings and scattering at some distance––still skeptical, not believing that he had any chance of leaving with life intact.

Kyle watched carefully as a black speck coasted along the ridge line from the crescent point and spread wings above him, another vulture come to feast. That was enough of a sign to set his course—if life was emanating from that particular crease in the ridge, he was going to aim for it with all his remaining energy. If he was wrong, if that vulture was coming from an endless circling, an unsuccessful foraging expedition.... no choice, there was exactly one route open to him. Nearing the base of the ridge shadows emerged, a hint that there would be a fractured multiplicity of rocky creases to choose from. Kyle shrugged--pathway settled, doubt out of the equation, he had one urgent mission: find shelter and ride out the hottest part of the day without movement or exertion.


(From Cowachunga)

Kyle headed up the gradually rising wash toward a ridge that had appeared achingly close yesterday when the sun set. Vultures had picked him out on the infinitely contoured landscape hours ago, the first one swooping near in a predawn glow that allowed light to filter through a landscape of brittle, ancient scars. Volcanic remnants, water-scoured rock that created long raised ribs, upwellings against desolation. Kyle had a sense of deja vu that for a time hid the gnawing in his stomach––vivid memories of visits to aunts, uncles, and cousins on the outback, a small mining town far removed from life-giving rains. It was a place that would not have existed at all if not for the cold imperatives of commerce. 

On the Gold Coast, Kyle's primary fears had related to watery predation. Shark attacks were on the upswing in recent months, as sources of food were depleted offshore––the year-in, year-out reality of scorched earth trawling having its cumulative effect. The sense of imminent danger that hit him sometimes paddling out, a feeling of elemental heave within heavy surf, of the bottom dropping off the coast, was now as far removed as the memory of water itself. Odd that the bone dry landscape Kyle had found so comforting in his youth, eloquent in its very emptiness, would turn out to be the most hungry for his bones. As he walked doggedly toward the nearest ridge the sun crept from its comfortable recline and gave intimations of the merciless enforcer it would become. 

One thing was certain––the relief that had flooded through his pores yesterday, to have broken somehow free, was no longer remotely present. There was an acute realization that, unless he found some sort of shelter he would not last through the day––a cave, some lone hermit's habitation, a spring harboring the scarcest of all commodities: a trickle of water. Given this area's mining provenance, there must certainly be roads criss-crossing the area––but from which direction and where to   he had not a clue. Having taken off at an undetermined angle, following the grim imperative of eluding those who were intent on extinguishing his life, there  were no familiar landmarks. The tribe in pursuit had fanned out in a single line––in retrospect, the direction in which he had escaped had been coordinated––his pursuers prepared to lose him, so long as he retreated to a place where there was no risk of him finding a highway, flagging down a diesel truck––finding a way out to civilization. 


Kyle grasped for remnant memories of basic survival techniques as the sunrise crept toward him in subtle gradations––orange and red giving flickering life to pockets and crevices of what would soon transform into washed out, chalky desert. The reflective surfaces taking hold of the light and surprisingly quickly becoming radiant forces of their own that mimicked the sun's heat––burning from every surface, earth transformed into ovenware. He'd be dead soon––if not today, early tomorrow. The sun now firmly affixed well above the horizon and bearing down with unrelenting intensity. The few clouds that passed just wisps and fragments. 

As far as Kyle could see to the west there was nothing, just blank sameness. To the east, tortuously near, a jumble of ridges and valleys that extended like saw teeth. Folds that might just harbor underwater springs, caves. He remembered stopping at a visitor's center in the outback with his parents years before, pushing a large button that lit up tiny blue points on a topographic model, indicating the places where early settlers had found water. Carefully marked replenishing points on their traverse, searching for silver, gold, precious minerals. Trading stories beside stumpy trees too rare and valuable to have been used as campfire wood. Friends of necessity on a harsh, barren landscape where the stars opened out in infinite calmness, a perfect balance to the oppressive heat of the day. This sort of lone way-stop,  untravelled for generations, was his only way out. 


(From Cowachunga)

People in power don’t really respect originality
cause it is beyond their understanding
to many, the earth is very simple --
for me the complexity is where interest lies
if everyone believes one thing, I want to explore the other.

There is a correlation between winning a Guinness Book of World Records for endurance poker and succeeding as an endurance-focused author and musician. I tell this to myself every day. Let me rap for a while in my four-cornered room and explain it to you as well (actually poolside at the Las Vegas Hostel).

Basically, being the type of person I am, I have traded a lot of short term recognition for the opportunity to exist on the fringes, without too many expectations. Why? Because I can observe, observe, and observe.

At age 19 I decided to follow the path of the Tao. This seems fairly ludicrous when taken at face value, but I promised myself I would hone my abilities in writing, music, and the arts as far as humanly possible. I had a higher purpose, which involved getting low down (suits me anyway). “The straightest path appears the most crooked.” This was the Lao Tsu quote that really got me. I was hiking a lot at the time, it was particularly apropos.

I spent a lot of time doing shit that made people wonder where I was headed. Not drugs, though this is the explanation that most find easiest to stomach. Collecting life experiences, you might call it. Traveling with no other aim or purpose than to experience life and store these life experiences until I was able to synthesize them into meaningful prose. I found in particular that women did not understand (or were not attracted to) what I was doing. Maybe I was just shy.

It saddened me that people (Americans in particular) had become so superficial and focused on a McMainstream suburbanization and automobile-driven spreading out. It sickened me to my soul, if I can be honest. Creating sheltered, status-bound progeny on this overcrowded earth became far from a priority.

Endurance writing requires sacrifices that I did not realize, or really think of as sacrifices, when I was younger. For one, it required giving up on that which those around me coveted. Whether it was an attractive woman at my side, a pathway to dot-com riches, the ability to buy a meal. I admired Van Gogh a lot when I was younger. Now I understand him.

So where is this all leading? Somewhere in the mix, around my early 30s, I lost faith in my gift. I had a girlfriend for a couple years while living in Japan, I saw another life opening up before me. And when the moment of decision came very close at hand, when I was going to have to “grow up” and accept life as a bread winner, sacrifice my early dreams — I rebelled. When push came to shove I preferred adhering to my own higher purpose (what some would consider shirking more elemental duties) and pushed on on that lonely path, the crooked/straight path of the Tao. Only now I am chasing the sun.

On which our usual suspects Nathan & Damon talk about:
* Marked Cards and X-Ray Specs - an alleged $10,000 HU WSOP cheating case
* WSOP dealers pissed at a very small down rate during Colossus, may walk
 * A Very Dark Game & how not to get thrown in a river.

From the Usual Poker blog.