July 31st

In regards to July, it happened.

I did work. I did skate. I did swim. I did spend the night sleeping under a dome of stars. Well, inside a tent, under the stars. But that night we took off the rainfly because of the heat, you could peer straight out into the black above.

I wasn't very sad very often, and I didn't think too seriously about too much.

Mainly, I tried to water my garden enough and apply enough sunscreen.

Water Management

Like little leaves atop the current, we floated down the river on Saturday. It took the entire afternoon. It was hot as eff. Sunscreen was applied liberally but in general was not enough. Many of us turned a peculiar lobster red.

I forged the river face down on an inflatable inner tube, flipping from time to time in the interest of sun-burn management. For the most part, things were peaceful and the water was glassy smooth. Once or twice, though, our floating friend barge encountered "rapids," which, although they were class like minus 2 or whatever, still wrought pandemonium. There was no point in fighting it. When you're on the water with nothing but your two hands for oars—well, then you go where the river takes you. In such situations, you do what you can to keep your head above water and your sun spectacles in check, and in the end, you forgive your beer for being, now, part river water. It's all okay. It's summer!

I don't have the energy to float the river all the time—the giant float is more of a once-in-a-summer deal for me. It involves shuttling cars and and inflatable-orientated air pumps and dry bags for your keys and the like. But that one time I do motivate, it's always worth it—a deeply lazy, deeply summer moment that I immediately stick in my cap of fine, pure moments from the year.

Stuff To Do When It's 98

Go to the fruit stand on Hawthorne, where everyone will be in a panic trying to "save the raspberries." The heat will billow in shimmering waves over the tender fruits of summer, causing them melt into piles of mush right before your eyes. The guy behind the counter will force two cantaloupes for the price of one upon you and several extra peaches, screaming, "Take them before they rot!"

Wait as long as you can—say, 3:30 or 4 (remember how the hottest arm-pit of day is always like 5 in the afternoon?), and then go to the Sandy River with intentions to swim. Swim.

Eat potato chips.

More swim.

Walk back to your car in the cool shade of trees, where the air is damp and smells like sap, and the forest feels very much like a jungle.

Take Stolichnaya out of the freezer, and make the cold cocktail described here with intentions to drink it. Drink it.

Birthday Bingen-ing

June days are very long. The longest! Here in the north country, you can have two complete days in one if you want—if you have the energy. Which you def don't sometimes. But the reality is that it's very possible to navigate an entire workday, and then meet up with your friends after to drive 60 highway miles to a skatepark, where you can skate for several hours as evening sunbeams stab through purple cloud banks over rolling Tuscan-like hills in the background. Then, after final dusk, there's STILL time to head into town for late-night feasting, after which you can drive home under tiny, pale stars—pulling into town at a very respectable midnight. Tired as dogs. But accomplished-feeling, you know?

Again, you don't always have what it takes to make this kind of thing happen. But sometimes, it's the healthy thing to do. It's okay if it takes a special occasion to get there. Like, say, a special guy's birthday?

Norcal Camping, Memorialized

Wanting to go camping and going camping are not the same thing. Case in point: last summer, when my tent only came out of the closet once (but it was a good once!).

Anyhow, there is a stretch of road in Northern California, right across the Oregon border, that I particularly love. The road follows a river—one of the clearest, gem-like bluest you'll ever find—all the way to the Pacific Ocean. And just a few minutes before you run head-first into the waves, the forest suddenly explodes in size. The concept of scale gets weird. You feel like an ant in a prehistoric celery patch. It's the very northern tip of the Redwoods—and it's a bewildering place.

I drove this road again over the weekend and camped by the river for two dark, starry nights. In the cool of morning, we walked in the woods, slipping through the shade beneath those towering giants, and by afternoon we'd sit in the sand by the river, letting  our skin get warm, then hot, then burning before we'd make ourselves splash into the freezing cold water—sometimes just for how good it felt when we got out, like every single cell in our bodies was electrified.

Yep, got home late last night, smelling really bad in the best possible way—like campfire, sweat and sunscreen.

Happy summer everyone!

Lefty was ready before we were ready—leaving no chance of getting left behind. 

After a 5 hours in the car, nobody doesn't want to cool their feet in the water.

Delicacies of the forest, to be eaten by starlight.

Calm waters at dawn.

The anatomy of the kind of camp breakfast that wants not.

Big. Bigger than big. 

Inspired evening activity: take off wet bathing suit, stand near raging inferno.