Exit Spring
This weekend, I threw off a long, dull two months that had hung heavily around my neck like dead weight. I pointed my car to the highway with a cooler full of bread and peanut butter and drove—south across the flats of Salem and Eugene, up and around through the winding trees of Grants Pass, down and out onto the parched plains past Redding and the gray-green olive groves north of Sacramento, all the way to the greasy blacktop of the Fresno Amtrak station. There, Lance stepped off the train, and next thing ya know, we were camping in Yosemite.
Mt. Shasta springs up suddenly, the second you cross the Oregon-California border. I've been jaded by my proximity to Mt. Hood so I was only nominally impressed by this view.
Dusk in the Sierra Nevadas—so many shades of green.
This little view is what John Muir was on about. Minus the girl and the dog. Not bad, eh?
Beyond the tour busses and open-air people movers packed with butt whites, there were pristine meadows like this one.
Sleeping in the dirt. Barking at the wildlife. Chewing on the firewood. Lefty loves camping!
My first swim of the ’12 summer season was at this, the mother of all river spots—right at the base of El Capitan. Then we hit the road.
Now, no offense to anyone who lives there, but the section of California between Fresno and Sacramento is the worst. Driving through it filled me with dread. Shanty urban sprawl made from drab, depressing vistas of sun-parched America where, on the way down, I ate lunch by myself in a Motel 6 parking lot just because there was a little merciful patch of shade. Ugh. We drove as fast as possible to get this leg of the trip behind us, only stopping when Shasta Lake came into our view.
Four minutes off the highway, empty, crystal clear, complete with rope swing. So fucking good.
Sunset over Williams, California.
Mid-Winter Mini Escape
When I was just a little bear cub in the mountains of Colorado, I had no idea that I'd someday grow up to live in one of the year-round-awesomest and yet life-givingly-dismal-and-mold-farming-during-the-winter cities in the country. But here I am—Portland. And around about February, escape becomes advisable—nay, ESSENTIAL, to mental survival.
So ... after gambling all my remaining frequent flyer miles, I was in Aspen at the home of one T. Byrnes putting on my snowboard boots after almost way too long. We rode Ajax through cold and ice, and then aprés-ed at Little Nell. Too much fun to elaborate.
Gondy laps with Trish—they're good for one's spirit.
Ricky's room. You know yr ballin when you have your own cider-making station.
For those who don't know, the term "aprés" is a French euphemism for "drinking after riding." It's a nice way to end up in your snowboard clothes past dark.
This ain't vintage—the spirit of the poma lift is alive and well at Snowmass.
A 22-foot vert ramp made out of snow. Scccarrry.
One of those moons that makes you shoot a blurry pic with your cell phone while driving 80 on the freeway.
There and back
Two weeks of traveling and now I'm back home again. There is nothing better than your own bed. That's the truth. But I'm already missing the road a little bit. And missing my family. And missing the snow—that kinda cold makes you feel alive. Anyway, a few snapshots of a Colorado Christmas—lots of snowboarding, wine, sugar in all its forms, and Dexter on Netflix.
Christmas day was extra sparkly this year.
Nephew Patrick and his army of dragons. Seen How To Train Your Dragon? So good—that's no joke.
We went hotdoggin' every single day.
Pretty, pretty.
Playing. It's good for ya.
road runner, road runner
It's almost Christmas and we decided not go to the airport this year. Angry crowds and body scanners and other afronts to basic personal freedom ... who needs it? Instead, we're driving to Colorado by way of the American Southwest. As you know, I've long loved the desert, and it looks equally magnificent in the winter as the summer—maybe even more so, actually, because the season renders it empty and austere.
An early morning in the Columbia Gorge on our way to Salt Lake.
Possibly my favorite photo of the whole trip. He's sweeeping....
We went from feeling like we were on the moon....
Outside Salt Lake we stopped at Homestead Crater for a swim. The dark waters are 65 feet deep and 90 degrees—eerie/relaxing.
Salt Lake looks most lovely from afar—Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake. I kept thinking of Frank Black for some reason, and "Palace of the Brine."
Stay tuned for more, much more....
Nomad's Land
Remember when I went to Kyrgyzstan last winter? You don't?! Hey, that's okay, I don't blame you. Anyway, it was last February—about two weeks before political unrest escalated into full-blown riots there. We went snowboarding and had a grand time, and now you can read all about it in Transworld—in Transworld Snowboarding's 200th issue ever made, to be exact. Exciting, no? All pics were taken by the talented Frenchman Eric Bergeri. Stop by a newsstand and peep it!
