Money Dump on a Fuel Pump (Homeless for Two Days)

Vans that cost $1,300 definitely come with their fair share of $1,300 problems and fixes. First, it was replacing the tires. After the right rear tire flatted while the van was just sitting in my driveway, I had a choice to make. The old ones still had about 30% of their tread left, but with the flat tire and winter around the corner, biting the bullet and installing some "treadier" all-seasons seemed like the best way to spend a quick $800. Plus, when your house is riding on four wheels, you better make those four wheels pretty bomber.

So yeah, tires. I also spent over $1000 on materials and equipment for the interior living arrangements. There was the auxiliary battery, battery isolator, inverter, lights, wiring, tons of lumber and plywood, miscellaneous hardware, insulation, etc.

I also spent some money on an alarm system, parts to fix the door locks, power windows, and fuel access door. Needless to say, there's always some cost associated with doing anything new.

But what costs the most, is the price you pay for repairs and replacements due to parts that are beginning to fail. And older vehicles with lots of miles (cough, cough...Victor) tend to have an abundance parts in such a weary condition.

Three days ago, Victor began acting up on the highway. I'd be cruising along around 55 to 60 mph and suddenly it would feel as though I was running out of gas. The sputtering would continue until I accelerated. Stepping on the gas made the problem go away, but a couple minutes later, it would start happening again.

At first, sputtering at highway speeds was the only issue, but then two days ago, it began to happen when I took off from intersections.

What's scarier than stepping on the gas to cross a busy road with cars approaching from both directions, only to lose power in the middle of it? Not much. Well maybe flying snakes. But the mental images of getting double or even triple t-boned by oncoming traffic came to mind, giving me enough motivation to bring Victor to the shop the very next morning.

Not having a suitable driveway, garage, yard, or tool shed to get down and dirty with Victor on my own has been a bit of a drag. I'm usually a do-it-yourself-er, but life in the van restricts your ability to do too much of your own work; especially when your car knowledge is more on the "novice" side of the spectrum and far from that of "expert".

The other drawback from doing my own work would be if something did go wrong, I'd be very very very boned. My home and car would be stuck in place. And with fuel pump work requiring the act of dropping the gas tank, I wasn't going to risk running into trouble.

Today, the van is in the shop for the second day in a row. If all goes as planned (which it seldom does but my confidence is high with the gents working on Victor), I should be going to pick him up this afternoon. Getting Victor's wheel back under my fingers will be a relief no doubt. One, because I'll have my vehicle (and my freedom) back. But also because having your belongings in so many places is really getting to me. It is extremely stressful having so much of my stuff (most of which is crap and can probably do without for a day or two) spread out across the Everett area. I have belongings in the van, in the storage unit, at work, some necessities with me, and a mountain bike getting worked on at the bike shop (irrelevant really, but still!).

Last night, I wanted to grab my bike out of the storage unit but needed to figure out a way to get there. I ended up borrowing an awesome VW bus belonging to my friend Brad (who is also graciously letting me stay in his extra bedroom whilst I experience homelessness for two nights) and puttered the 4 miles south on 99 to get there. But then I remembered that my bike helmet, gloves, light, and lock were all in the van! Luckily my old helmet was in the storage unit, and I was able to borrow a bike lock from Nikko. Using work gloves instead of breathable biking ones, and forgoing a light (safe enough with longer daylight hours these days), I took my bike to work today to reclaim my freedom and mobility!

My hope is that a new fuel pump (which could be yours too for just $680!) will bring new life to Victor's spry attitude towards huffing long distances and crushing it over mountain passes. Because in less than three weeks, I am planning on driving him from Seattle to Iowa, where I will find some cheap storage space for him to wait for me while I vagabond my way to New Zealand and beyond.

As for the $680 dollars, I am chalking it up to peace of mind for when I do decide to make the voyage east, and also the cost of not paying any rent to have a place to do these sort of things yourself. Someday, I'll have a home with a garage and a sweet quiver of tools to tinker and troubleshoot problems on whatever van I'll own. But that day is not today.

From the Fire to the Freezer

My body was not ready for this. In two days, I transitioned from sleeping comfortably with the windows open and curtains down to curling in my twenty-degree sleeping bag watching the steam billow in front of my face. I guess this transition wasn't that significant of a phenomenon, considering I had just driven 10 hours directly north and gone up in elevation (slightly). That fact, combined with a little cooling trend in the weather resulted in some cold sleeping conditions I wasn't expecting. My one night in Jackson Hole Mountain Resort was somewhere in the high teens for temps. This made the decision to cook dinner inside the van (not outside) a very obvious one to make.

After brushing my teeth, taking one last visit to the bushes outside before curling up in bed, and watching another episode of Game of Thrones on my tablet, I fell into a shivery slumber. My subconscious toiled with thoughts of what my final day van-faring recreation would be like.

As expected, I awoke with frost on the ceiling and the extreme desire to stay in my sleeping bag where my toes could semi-comfortably wait out the morning chills and emerge when the sun finally decided to begin warming the van. I probably would have overcome this urge on my own, but it received a boost when two cars pulled into the Teton National Park trailhead where I spent the night and parked directly behind me with their lights baring down on Victor. I'm not sure what they were there for, but I left before any interactions were had.

Maybe my early-morning paranoia was showing, but one of the two cars immediately followed me out of the trailhead, onto the dirt road all the way back out to the highway, and then into the entrance for Jackson Hole. It wasn't until I turned into one of the parking lots that they continued past. Just a little weird having a random car follow you roughly three miles from a trail head in the woods back to a resort town. What a great way to start your day! 

Moving along, my flustered, groggy-eyed, self also managed to look straight past the ever-so-obvious parking lot barrier (a single strand of twine strung between sections of movable fencing) that roped off the parking area, corralling all drivers towards the parking booth and attendant. I slammed on the brakes to avoid taking out the "barrier" and continued on to the booth.

"Good morning! Is it just you?"

"Yup, just me."

"Ten dollars then."

"Parking isn't free?"

"Not for cars with less than three people. You're showing up at 6:30 AM and you don't know that?"

I never heard of this before, nor did I know what showing up at 6:30 had to do with anything. Avoiding a ridiculous parking fee for skiing solo at Jackson, I followed the attendants advice and drove several miles back towards Jackson (town), and parked at the nearest park and ride, where I could get a free shuttle back to the mountain.

Ignoring my frustration (which was also immediately doused by the complementary coffee at the bus stop hut at the park and ride), I gathered my ski gear for the day and hitched a ride back to Jackson Hole Mountain Resort.

Low temps overnight and in the morning along with the lack of fresh snow meant skiing groomer laps was the only possibility for the first few hours of the day.

I got to get back to basics and practice more skiing techniques that I otherwise ignore or can't focus on when I'm skiing backcountry laps or tree runs. Keep your shoulders square, facing down the fall line; lean those knees in to edge more into the snow; keep your body weight forward (or at least my body weight). I have the irrefutable habit of leaning too far back when I ski. Going backseat like this causes your turn-initiation to be weak. Not enough weight on the front of your skis lessens the force your leading edges impose on the snow, resulting in an insufficient bite. To much of this, and you'll find yourself sliding all over and not making those beautiful carve turns we all see on TV!

Part of the view from the top of the tram.

After, enough "practicing" and once the sun started to warm up the snow, I slowly meandered across the mountain to the tram, where I spent the rest of the day doing long runs from top to bottom (over 4000 vertical feet).

With the temps hovering at just below freezing at the summit and the sun warming the base all the way up to 50 degrees, I got to see a lot of variation in snow conditions. Every run was an elongated transition from choppy moguls and dust-on-crust all the way to mashed potatoes and corn snow at the bottom.

Between having the opportunity to keep lapping 4000' runs over and over again (unheard of in Washington) and the awesome views from the summit every time, riding the tram for the rest of the day was a no-brainer.

Looking south at Cody Bowl, from the summit of the tram.

Cody Bowl.

Four o'clock rolled around fairly suddenly and before long, I was sitting on my last chair of the day. Which meant this was going to be my last run of the day; which also meant that in about 30 minutes, I would be sitting in the van with my ski boots off and post-ski beverage in hand, mowin' down on some cheese n' crackers.

To my extreme satisfaction, I came back to the park n' ride to find Victor intact, containing all the possessions I left with him, and completely defrosted. Sheltering from the brisk, early-evening winds, I got inside to relax with some food and brew. Before long, I found myself ready to turn the ignition key and begin the long journey back to Seattle. From here on out, driving was all I had left to do. It was Friday night, and I wanted to be in Seattle to celebrate Easter on Sunday.

After one more semi-chilly night spent at a rest stop in Idaho, and countless hours going through the plains and passes of Montana, and driving back into Idaho again, I found myself staring down the eastern plains of Washington, awaiting for the Cascades to emerge from the earth in the distance. I was only a few hours away from the city I would call home, only for the next six weeks. This adventure was only a precursor to what awaits for me shortly down the road. On June 30th, after spending a few weeks with family on the east coast, I am leaving for New Zealand. What awaits there, I have no idea. Maybe a new job, maybe new friends, maybe the rest of my life, or maybe a few months of straight up fun. All I can say, this little van trip was the perfect reminder that going with the flow and not fighting to keep your itinerary intact is the best way to have a good time. Compare this map below to the original one I posted on March 26th in Gettin' Dat Chedda Before Desert. Not terribly different, but heading down to Moab and Indian Creek was obviously not a part of the plan. And doing so took me away from going into Canada altogether. Motto for the trip: Do what you want, when you want. That's the key to keep having a good time.

The other key to having a good time is making it back to Seattle in time for a little more bluegrass...because sometimes you just can't ever get enough. Nuff said.

The Brother's Comatose, at the Tractor Tavern in Ballard, Seattle, WA

Breaks, But No Brakes

Three full days and four awesome nights of dirtbaggin' around Indian Creek had Victor covered in grime inside and out. Dropping anything on the floor of the van resulted in a plume of sandstone dust billowing like a mushroom cloud, thereby dispersing the debris evenly across all my cooking gear, clothes, and bed. Driving north on 193 toward Moab with the windows open only made the dust swirl around even more, resulting in every orifice and crevice becoming a stomping ground for thick deposits of southern Utah pixie magic.

Needless to say, some time to recover and recoup was extremely necessary. I left Indian Creek early in the morning with the intention of finding a mountain bike ride to shuttle that afternoon, but upon arrival in Moab, my body gave an unrelenting objection to that idea. Paralyzed by fatigue and the desire to bask in the sun whilst lying on my bouldering pad listening to water flow past, I obeyed my body's request and sought out a campsite along the Colorado River. After gathering info about mountain biking shuttles, making my reservation for a seat the next morning, and grabbing some hydration necessities from the local grub hub, I was driving Victor eastward and upstream, past filled campgrounds. By the time I reached Big Bend, roughly 8 miles outside the center of Moab, I happened upon an empty site at Oak Grove Campground with easy access to a sweet spot down by the banks of the river where I could stick my feet in and literally chill. And so I did.

That afternoon, I stayed away from everything strenuous. The sun warmed my skin while the cool water rushing past my feet chilled my body. Occasionally, I submerged my arms and hands into the chilly river (nature's icepack) to subdue the throbbing after three days of climbing crack in the creek for the first time. Time passed at a pace that was unknown to me. Sitting on the banks of the river wearing just my underwear, a speed boat loaded with Moab tourists jetted by. I waved politely, but all I received in return was blank stares and what looked like expressions of amusement from the boat's driver.

After cooking dinner that night using as much of my food that needed to get eaten, I passed out in the van will all the curtains down so that I could watch the stars hovering peacefully above me. Hydrating for the next day was of the utmost importance, so it was no surprise to me that at 2 AM, I had to roll out of the van to go hydrate some desert plant life. By this time, the moon had swallowed up the stars, and was casting ominous shadows on the cliff faces that engulfed the entire river valley. It was quiet. The nocturnal silence was broken only by the river, with its never-ending avowal of exaltation.

Morning came quickly after that. My alarm successfully went off and woke me up at 6:30 so that I had enough time to cook breakfast, drink some coffee, tear down camp, stop at Gearheads to fill up on water and replenish my stash of Clif Bloks, and make it to the bike shop where the Coyote Shuttle would be waiting at 8:30 to take their first load of slick rock thirsty buffoons to the top of Porcupine Rim.

The Porcupine Rim Trail is one of the most iconic mountain bike rides in Moab. It comprises the final 15 miles of The Whole Enchilada which is the classic 25-mile epic ride of the area, but due to early season snow coverage higher in the mountains, Porcupine Rim was the highest riders were being taken.

With a peak elevation of 6,800 feet and a finish at about 4,000 ft, this "peddler's downhill" satisfies even the gnarliest of thrill seekers...okay so that's an exaggeration. But still, this ride is epic, and there's a reason why its a part of The Whole Enchilada. Its got flowy single track, technical rocky sections, hesitation-inducing rock drops, speedy downhill descents, chilling cliff exposure, and you're guaranteed to eat some dust.

I was fortunate enough to ride nearly 90% of the trail without having any serious crashes. By the time I reached the final mile, where some of the trickiest navigation through rocky traverses, cracks, and drops exists, my arms and brain were feeling jostled and jello-y. And for me, no ride more that 10 miles is complete without some form of mechanical failure. So it was completely natural for me to endo going down a steep techie descent and have the plunger for my front brake lever miraculously dislodge from my brake housing.

The bottom of the Porcupine Rim where it empties out onto
the bike path that follows the Colorado River to Moab.

Despite my absolute frustration at the fact that I had just replaced the back brake lever on this bike, and it was beginning to seem like this bike could never own up to having two functioning brakes at any one given time, I had no choice but to continue the last mile back to the Colorado River.

I was fortunate enough to have lost my front brake, and not the rear. Had I lost the rear, I would have most certainly had to walk the last mile. Sharp descents, tight turns, and rock drops are nearly impossible to maintain control over without the control of your back wheel.

Back on my bike, it was no time at all before my frustrations were gone, and I was pulling off the trail and onto the path that would lead me back to the center of Moab. I locked out my shocks, pulled up my seat, and cranked the last 4 miles or so back to town where my American chariot awaited to escort me back to Salt Lake City.

I had 6 hours to be in Park City that night for a Yonder Mountain Railroad show. So I quickly replenished my body with a mediocre tuna sandwich, a warm beer, and snacked on Nutter Butters as I drove the 300 miles north.

After arriving at Jon's, I took the first shower I had had in a week, though it felt (and looked) like three with all the dirt and dried sweat plastered to my skin. I came out of the bathroom feeling like a new man, and ready for bluegrass.

Dirtbag Or Not, Here I Come

Two and a half weeks seemed like plenty of time to hit up all my planned destinations. But, I forgot to account for all the unplanned destinations that would be taking up time as well. When every countless enticing opportunities in life solely exist immediately in front of your dashboard, its easy to remain in one place for a while longer than anticipated; especially when that place is Indian Creek.

                                                                                                                                                    

The plan was to spend a couple days in southern Utah and then make the drive to Canada and catch the last remains of winter in Lake Louise and Whistler. A couple days quickly became several days and next thing I knew, it was time to start thinking about making my way back to Seattle.

I drove to Moab from Salt Lake City in hopes of finding some solid mountain biking before friends from Salt Lake showed up to climb Indian Creek for the weekend.

Ignoring the beta I got from a guy in Gear Heads to ride the Pipe Dream Trail (an "advanced" trail in the guide book), I instead opted for a "moderate" trail farther along Rt 191 towards Indian Creek. Never again will I doubt my abilities as a mountain biker when referring to the guide book. This "moderate" trail shared with OHV's ended up being flat and boring with lots of sand. Regardless, it was beneficial to get out and reacquaint myself with the ways of the desert (like blowing dirty snot out of your nose no matter how hard you try to keep you nostrils clean) and get a solid dose of Vitamin D.

Basking in the final hour of sunlight for a post-climb beer sesh after Day 1 in
Indian Creek. In the background stands Second Meat Wall where we climbed
classics like Tofu Crack (5.10), Top Sirloin (5.11), and Extra Lean (5.12-).

Later that evening, I waited along the side of the road for the Salt Lake (Black Diamond) fools to finally catch up with me. They had work that day and hit traffic on their way out (so lame).

It was about 9:30 when they finally reached me on Route 191 where I was waiting patiently next to the van with a tasty Washington beverage in hand. Jon hopped in my van to ride shotgun and direct me to where we'd be camping in Cottonwood Canyon (one of the many canyons in Indian Creek). Simply following Leanne's truck was not an option since [A] her ride was about 20 years newer and [B] she's a faster driver. Chicks with trucks...

Driving into Indian Creek for the first time at night is a bit like eating a cannoli without any taste buds. It feels amazing (as you know it should) but the one sense that really allows you to take it all in just can't deliver. Not being able to see any of the cliffs or strenuously long crack lines was such a drag. But I knew in less than twelve hours, I'd have my hands and fingers mangled into them, so I kept driving along.

After a long decent into the valley, taking a turn onto a dirt road (at which the closest crapper was located; BLM doesn't like it when you poo in the desert since nothing really happens to it afterwards) proceeding two miles down said dirt road, driving through two streams, pulling into and out of three campsites (Indian Creek is an off-the-grid playground meaning no cell service to call your friends to "see where they are at"), we finally found our home for the weekend. The first night was chill, sorta. Beers, whiskey, camp fire; chill.

The best way to start your day? A half pound of bacon; with eggs, cheese, potato, and salsa all wrapped in a perfectly heated tortilla for optimum hand-to-mouth sustenance delivery. After consuming my glorious cylindrical breakfast along with a cup of "campresso", I was more than psyched to experience the creek. And experience it I did...

My taped hands after climbing Top Sirloin (5.11), my third climb
of the day and first failed attempt to complete a climb.

The first two climbs were a 5.10 and 5.10+, both of which I finished only taking a few times on each, which left me feeling pretty good for a first timer. Or so I thought. Then Top Sirloin (5.11) came around, and I felt the ruthlessness of climbing in the creek. Go after go, trying to pull myself to the 1-inch finger crack section left me tired and helpless. Yet still, I got on two more climbs that day (one of which was Extra Lean (5.12-) that was super fun to flail on) and got shut down some more.

Me on Tofu Crack (5.10)

When the sun was beginning to taper towards the horizon, and our hands could bear no more pain for the day, our feet made way for the trucks where relatively cool cans waited for us in the coolers.

That night, we washed down steak fajitas with some imported PNW suds with better flavor than the local supply and huddled around the fire. I was probably the only one nursing my hands from the throbbing I was feeling.

Day 2 began just like Day 1. Breakfast with coffee followed by a trip to the corner of the dirt road and the paved road where we could do our daily business, and then proceeding to our climbing destination for the day.

Day two was spent at Pistol Whipped. Succumbing to the effects of peer pressure, started fast for me with leading Short And Stupid (5.8), which was indeed short and stupid. Three people in our group had to leave early-ish that day, leave me with Leanne and (other) Ryan. The three of us rocked it chasing the shade northward around the wall. The last climb of the day was Dusty Trails to Nowhere (5.10) which took all 2" cams and a couple 3" cams, translating to "Glorious Hand Crack" in the climbing world. This climb became the first climb I ever completed clean in Indian Creek; a pretty awesome milestone in my book of achievements.

Me belaying Ryan as he tops out on
Dusty Trails to Nowhere (5.10)

Chasing the shade around the corner for our final pitch of
the day.

Leanne and Ryan had to head out of the creek that afternoon as well, which left me on my own again to decide where Victor was going to take me.

When I returned to our giant campsite where Victor was still parked, I met two more Washington folks that had just arrived that day (two others had showed up the night before and joined our party of six). Now there were five of us Washingtonians dwelling together. Since I had already made friends with these guys, staying the night only seemed like the obvious thing to do. Conversation about all the awesome things about Washington coupled with more good food, more beer, and more smelling like camp fire gradually turned into bed time and sleeping with all the curtains down so I could stare at the stars as the moon settled over the horizon.

When the sun came up, I decided to get on some boulders. A while back, I had read about bouldering in the creek and how underrated it was, so I decided I would check it out and see if I could find anything good. After bidding fairwell to the fellow northwesters I turned Victor around and charged down the road in search of fallen chunks of rock, still beckoning to be climbed despite their ancient stature.

It wasn't long before I pulled over to scope out some prospects. Per usual, the bouldering was more difficult than I anticipated. The other amazing effect I experienced while scouting the boulders was how much larger the boulders were than they appeared. Without any trees, bushes or people to bring their size to perspective, it was very difficult to approximate their height from far away. Many times I would be driving or walking along, think a boulder might be too small to project, but then arrive at its base only to discover that it was quite the high-baller.

After a couple failed boulders, I got back in the van to keep driving along. It was in the next parking area for the Reservoir Wall that I met three guys from Iowa climbing in the creek that week. Our tiny world felt even tinier when I quickly learned that one of these guys works at Climb Iowa (the only climbing gym in the Des Moines area) where my mom and I went to climb this past Christmas! What a coinkidink. After a minute or two more of small talk about Iowa, my quest for boulders, and how dedicated you need to be to drive from Des Moines to Indian Creek for three days of crack paradise, they invited me to climb with them for the day. I looked at them, looked at my hands, looked at them, and respectfully declined. My hands were badly swollen from two long days of losing my sandstone crack virginity to all the beautiful splitter lines on  Second Meal Wall and Pistol Whipped. Sticking to technical face-climbing boulders was a better way to not put myself in more pain...righhhht.

One of the many random boulders that I thought looked like
they had amazing potential for clean fun.

Failing to find any more established boulders and scrubbing choss off rails and crimps got old pretty quick. This wasn't how I wanted to spend my last day in the creek. So I made the trek back to the van, grabbed my rope, and made the approach to the base of the Reservoir Wall to join my newfound Midwestern compadres.

As luck would have it, I couldn't find them up there. But in the midst of my venture back and forth along the base of the wall, I met two more people (one girl from Joshua Tree and another guy from Bend, OR) that insisted I climb Three Fools (5.10) with them. It became apparent pretty quickly how fitting it was that the three of us were getting on this 60-ft wide-hands/narrow-fists crack. The three of us encompassed just about every humanly possible hand size (mine being the largest, and the girl's being the smallest) making our climbing techniques very different for this crack. In our own individual fashion, we all made this climb our own foolish struggle. Despite my struggle, I managed to make it the second clean route in the creek for myself.

Next, after fooling around on the wide hand crack, we hopped on Dr. Carl (5.10-), a really fun twin crack with some powerful sporty moves (untypical of the creek). As I was cleaning this route, the three gents from Iowa strolled by and caught my attention.

Ernie Used To Box (5.11)

They were headed over to Ernie Used To Box (5.11), a classic mix of off-width climbing and big fist-jamming moves. I hadn't experienced climbing anything like that before so I seized the opportunity to get on it and test my ability on top rope. Utilizing arm bars, fist jams, foot cams, elbow jams, and something awesome called the Circle of Power, I made my way to the top, taking only a few times in the final traverse section.

Looking back on Reservoir Wall after day three in Indian Creek.

Several pitches later, the sun was sinking low over the Bridger Jacks and the cooler temps were drawing us back to the parking lot where our cars (or vans) awaited with bountiful gifts of carbonated barley juice.

Being low on my Rainier stock (note to self: bring more Rainier next time), donated PBR's became the common canned beverage of the post climbing parking lot party.

When the darkness finally settled in enough so that I couldn't even see where I set my PBR down, the Iowa guys invited me over to stay at their site for the night. Feeling super flexible and commitment-less, I followed them down the road to site 20 at Creek Pasture Campground.

Twilight in the creek.

That night, while sitting around the fire, drinking the potpourri of leftover beers in my cooler, passing around whiskey, and eating my dinner, I came to a deep realization of how incredible of an environment Indian Creek is. Not only is the scenery stunning, and the climbing world-class (and seemingly endless), but the people that go there to climb are some of the most approachable and down-to-earth people that I have ever met. Anyone who goes to the creek is there to do one thing: climb. What this creates is a demographic of like-minded roudy dirtbags with vans (if you don't drive a van, you're probably going to find yourself in the minority) who are all in it to just have a good time. Indian Creek is a mecca of free access climbing and camping, attracting only those who wish to have a frill-free and minimalistic vacation (or life) and come out of it feeling dirt between there teeth, the throbbing in their hands, and a 100% refreshed attitude about what it means to live a life doing only what makes you happy (well maybe not everybody is there is in it for that last part, but that was how I felt when I drove back to Moab the next morning).

Victor inviting me to take the wheel and put the pedal to the
floor. It was time to leave Indian Creek to seek Moab
single track.

Indian Creek released me back into the land of cell service and convenience stores just in time to catch the sunrise coming over the mountains of the Manti-La Sal National Forest. In those mountains awaited my next physical endeavor. I was headed to Moab to catch a shuttle to take me up there where I would ride a 15-mile trail with a 3000 ft vertical decent. But not after doing what would make me happy first; this day was for finding a camp site and basking along the banks of the Colorado River. My body was begging for R&R, and I had no issue with abiding.