3 Things

The Revenant. A revenge story set on the Montana frontier, where the rawest brutality and grand, austere beauty are married by the power vested in Alejandro Iñárritu's camera lens. Nature is savage, and humans are no more than animals, after all. The movie is 2.5 hours long. I wouldn't write about it if it weren't worth the hassle. It is. And all them Golden Globes last night just prove it.

The best cruiser-board ring. Acquired for Christmas via the bargain basement of MapleXO, who doesn't really make rings like this anymore, which is just another reason why I like it so much.

Last week's snow storm. A not-necessarily-predicted snowstorm hit while Portland slept last Saturday night, and we all awoke Sunday morning to a city of zero snowplows under 3 inches of fresh. Calamity! It was the day after the day after New Year's Day, also known as the day you chuck your Christmas tree, and the boys of the Cub Scout tree-recycling program sipped cider on tailgates in the park as people from all over the neighborhood dragged their formerly festive spruces by hand through the empty white streets.

Side note: I like the way my house looks with the powder—cute and kinda old timey.

Get Out

We're having a "real winter." The kind that sends the faint of heart back to wherever they came from (California). Perpetually dark skies. Flood warnings every weekend. Rainstorms worthy of horror films, with the wind lashing a torrential spray against your windows.

It's nice. It's what makes it a little rugged up here. More weather today? I don't even care. I'll slosh my way to work again, keeping a towel ever close to dry off the dog. Sunshine is a fantasy. The littlest blue, a fleeting pinhole on the horizon—that shit can last me a whole month. I live in the North Country.

Key to winter survival is the ability to get out of the city.

As mentioned elsewhere, I have adult-onset phobia of driving in the snow, but I happen to know a handy fellow with a 4-wheel-drive car. We've escape toward the mountains whenever possible. You can breathe a little deeper up there, take in some natural light. You can walk. You can hike. Stumble on the ice. Maybe snowboard? Hell, even telemark if the mood so strikes you. Any outing involving physical exercise in the cold is what I suggest. Bring drinks, bring snacks. Bundle up. If yer like me, wear two sweaters at once but forget your gloves. It's all about getting the blood moving and tapping into the wilderness vibrations.

See, rain is very dark (especially today—the darkest day of the year), but snow—snow is bright! It holds the light. It makes the evergreens sparkle in the dead of winter. If the spirit of the solstice is rebirth, then I would argue that there's nothing more solstice-y than retreating into the cold, embracing a polar adventure, and then driving back toward the warmth of the city through that strange late-afternoon dusk.

Fire & Ice

Despite a lot of harsh, wild, and sad events happening in the world right now, December carries on, here in the Northwestern territories of the United States. It seems like every act of turning on the news is an exercise in bravery, and I haven't been very brave lately.

Really, the bravest thing I did this weekend was attempting to skateboard after eating a monster burrito that was so heavy, it almost ripped all Hulk-like through the paper bag it was carried home in.

There was a birthday party, too, featuring an arm wrestling tournament that crowned our pal Xeno the #strongestmanonearth. And the day after that, there was a slippery hike up an icy gulch (much cat-like balance came into play). The reward at trail's end was simple and austere: a veil of rushing water and a cauldron of blue ice.

There were many, many minutes tucked away in the corner of the couch. Book open. TV or radio on. Rain rushing down the windows. And so on. Plenty of quiet hours appreciating such things as the sense of peace a sleeping animal can bring into a room.

In contrast to the rest of the world, our lives are magical, lucky, impossibly charmed. Continuing to live them in the face of impermanence and death isn't exactly brave or noble, but it's something.

What I'm Thankful For

It's the last week of November of the year 2015. How bored would you be if I talked about some things that I'm thankful for?

Not having to travel on Thanksgiving: A friend's Instagram post from an airport reminded me how little I want to get on a plane right now. Yes, yes, I'll spread all of my belongings on a conveyer belt and walk through the body scanner in socks, but only for the winter holiday. For Thanksgiving, I'll stay home and be lazy, eating in celebration of autumn with all it's crunchy leaves and it's cold.

My house. Everyone needs a spot they can go back to and recharge. Find comfort, find silence and solitude in the noise. I like the energy in my place—the house is definitely not haunted. No cold spots, no shadows, no bumps in the night. Nothing but good vibrations on 57th Street.

A few good friends. Friends take time and energy, and you can't be friends with everyone. This is okay. I don't need a bajillion friends. What I do need, what I'm actively trying to proliferate in my life are fun, joy, and meaning. If you check one of these boxes for me, then let's do this. If not, I'll see ya around.

Snow on the mountain. Not really for snowboarding, just for, you know, being there. For making the peak a pure white. For the promise of moisture, which is really the promise of life and the assurance that Oregon isn't, as was previously thought this past summer, about to dry up and blow away like a little ole tumbleweed.

  

First Snow

After a happy youth spent bumper-car-ing between snowbanks in Colorado, I have fallen out of touch with driving in the snow. Won't do it. Don't really have to. Sometimes, though, it sneaks up on you.

What happened was, Trish and Cairo lured me off the couch to hike up Larch Mountain. It was your average astronomically rainy Sunday. We thought we were prepared. We had an umbrella, a carload of people, and a carload snacks, along with a plus-sized dog to eat if things got really bad. What we couldn't predict was that on the way up the access road, the temperature would dive 15 degrees in as many minutes. No one saw the big fluffy flakes coming. No one thought they'd do anything more than harmlessly melt against the wet, dark road.

Now, snow is very beautiful. It makes the branches hang heavy. It collects the light. Everything is well defined, except for the treetops, which are buried in cloud ...

But eventually my tires stopped doing that thing they're supposed to do—making the car go. We peeled out a little, we floated around a corner on prayer alone, and when the road tilted slightly in the direction of a ditch, that's exactly where we went.

Getting stuck can be fun when you're only stuck for a little while and don't have to call a tow truck. It reminded me to buy new tires. It reminded me that the future is unwritten. It reminded me to always have at least one bad ass in the crew who will just fucking take charge and handle it—whatever "it" may be (thanks Mark!).

This is what the Columbia River Gorge looks like in November, and I ain't mad at it.

We found a new hike at a reasonable elevation. The fall colors were just fine.

Another day, another boring waterfall.