Ham hock, blue cheese, yam, potatoes, barley and all other manner of soup materials are collected by the Cosmic Barbers. To fill Barry’s stomach, we need supplies for the journey into the interior.

Every other attempt had been scorned by the Almighty Galactic Sky Turtle of Choices.

For some strange reason this Old Galactic Turtle wants us to stay in the city…   (not cool almighty sky turtle. Not cool)

The sun beats down upon Barry while he waits patiently in the Super Store parking lot for the ‘Cosmic Barbers’ to return.

ENTER; the land pirate Bill with his flesh and blood swinging from the frame of the Dodge waving toilet paper in greetings to us. Bones rattle around their necks whilst Wild Bill nestles into the door of his truck drawing furiously on his Viceroys watching us approach. Captain Yom fills Barry’s tyres, checks the old boys fluids and gives Barry an encouraging pat, before lighting him up.

Wild Bill leads the way and the party slowly weaves its way through the technicoloured, yet ugly, traffic. Faces press against car windows, conservative seniors smile, girls scream and children in strollers stretch out small arms in appeal as Barry majestically paces through the melee and on towards the mountains.

First we smell the noxious fumes of the city roads, but as we continue, sniff sniff… “ahhh yeees”.  The smell of cow turd, yes, yes, the country is upon us. I’m not a huge fan of any kind of shit but that smell makes me realise that soon ill be standing in a river with a fly rod in one hand and a Spliff in the other. Don’t judge a man on his simple pleasures, as I’m only being honest.
Farm land fly by my nostrils, by flying I mean 85k’s per hour as barry is not built for speed, and we smile (so smiley) we sink into Barry contently watching the mountains expand…

                                                         BANG

We jump in our seats as Barry shakes like an addict coming back down to earth. Captain Yom confidently steers Baz’ to safety yet again. We jump out instantly anxiously searching our precious land boat’s undercarriage. The rear inside tyre clutches to the wheel like shredded cheese to a grater. Calmly we look to one another and shrug “Same shit different smell” Sorry mum I know how much you hate swearing, yet sometimes I find it appropriate.

Suddenly a mass of sweating men, like a ferocious ‘tentacles of eight’ road squid, swarm around Barry twisting, loosening and lifting in perfect unison like a well arranged performance. Ever Stoic Barry waits like a true gentleman and soon enough the eight armed road squid solves the grated wheel puzzle and the Mountains open before us like the last tin of spaghetti in the cupboard! (although we must say it has felt like we have opened said metaphorical tin with a spoon)
Spaghetti drips from our chins and we smile as the world suddenly seems to have a warmer glow and we sit, half silently in appreciation of the pure beauty and the other half in waiting of the next fly to land in the mechanical soup of doom…

Barry seems unfazed by the recent blow out and rumbles along through the pines.

Spaghetti wether from a tin or made by loving hands is best shared with good friends. Mogli has arrived and Barry welcomes him with an open carriage. (The whiskey glasses have clinked and conversation has turned back time to clinking clay cups screaming SAKE back in the Mother country ) Mogli is sitting behind me to my left his eyes are glazed, he stares out from his thick rimmed glasses like he is communing with the great Sky Turtle.

Wild Bill and the boys, Skye and Tom, lead Barry like a tug boat leads a Steamer. Occasionally stopping to show us the Natives using gill nets for the salmon, padding through forests and treading across almost forgotten bridges to nowhere. Wild Bill still furiously puffing away. Skye whistling from his bottles lid and young Tom nowhere to be seen.

We arrive at Spenser Bridge in the evenings glow and Barry settles into his much deserved rest.

Cotton Wood trunks twist, the birds chirp as the Thompson river steadily gurgles in the background. I can hear Mogli and Captain Yom quietly chattering whilst I sit upon Barry’s throne (there is nothing wrong with writing on a toilet people as one must write whilst inspired, even when amongst ones throes). The smell is not great, although it still beats sitting on a toilet in the city and you cant beat a good view with surround sound, my bum not included. “Aaaaah life is grand.” Excuse me while i wash my hands…

                       THE HUNT OF THE MAJESTIC GRASS HOPPER

“Yar over here lads” calls Wild Bill his scarred body body darting from left to right, mad dog eyes squinting against the harsh light of this arid landscape. Brandishing his T-shirt like a cat o nine tails he dances the ‘Mad jig of the hunt of the majestic grasshopper’.

“There’s another one Bill, 3 o’clock!” yells young Tom dancing to the right, skinny arms failing  the air, whipping and swirling his weapon of choice like a warrior or a child having an epileptic fit with a t-shirt in hand.

Syke and Uncle Trout circle and move in for the kill. One, young, with wild brown hair, smooth chin and old eyes, with a certain squint to one. The other, older, with the same wild brown hair and bushy reddish chin pubes also crazy of eye but broader of shoulder and saggy of stomach.

The men of young and old fire their weapons at the agile grasshopper of the sun. He sits completely still, wings folded back in pure contempt of these stumbling, oaf like, meat sticks on two legs right until the moment of attack.

“Ha Ha!” he laughs. “Fools!’. He then sneers as he flies to the next patch of open land, wings clacking, red and yellow flashing, like the naughty ladies, colourful panties blushing, that send us clapping… mad.
The men, young and old, give chase like a pack of panting dogs. “Ha Ha, fools. Give up you scurvy dogs. You can never hope to defeat a grasshopper as grand as I!”

“WAP!” Uncle Trout lands a swift downward stroke of luck.

 Mr Majestic Grasshopper falls to the leafy floor and with the last shred of hope, camouflages himself. Fat tears, roll from his buggy eyes onto his cheeks as his life flashes before him.

“Sorry Mr Grasshopper!” whispers Wild Bill as his hands cup the fallen Grasshopper. “We need you for Grandpa Trout, and such is the circle of life. I promise to make it quick.”

The Lads stand quietly in respect, then scatter across the land searching endlessly for the Majestic Mr Grasshopper of the Sun.

Stories from the Bowl… by Uncle Trout with only a small amount of embellishment.

In this time of peace and reflection, the Cosmic Barbers happily commune with Wild Bill and his blood on the mighty Thompson for a time. Country air, is deeply inhaled along with sweet wine and whisky. Tales are told, meatballs made, rhymes read, the guitar twangs and we howl and wail into the depths of night as trains of steel grind through the Valley, polluting our minds and the white sage growing along its skeletal tracks.

Even though the cities are beloved, these men slowly return to the ways of the land. Washing in its waters, catching it’s fish and cooking from fires than burn golden under the glittering heavens. Unfortunately, thoughts eventually return to the mission and our next destination Nelson

“All a-blog…” 

This boat is bound for Nelson!!!

Big thanks to Tinker for dropping off the humungous Sockeye Salmon, it tasted like love and fish of course… but amazing none the less. Many blessings!
Also to Lorrie and John at the Log Cabbin Pub,  good people and never before have we heard country joe & fish played in any pub. That place is cool!