Weekend By The Numbers

I worked hard all week and then the weekend came. It was wonderfully cool on Saturday morning. I woke up early to eat toast and cream cheese while drinking sweet black coffee. I used to have it with milk, no sugar, but everything changes—even something like how you drink your coffee.

95 is the number of minutes I skated Mini West Linn with Toby and Derek and George and Steve and Brandon, there in the shade of the tall, leafy trees. Lefty chased me barking, then got tired and laid down in the middle of everything, blocking such obstacles as the rail and the ledge (he's not called "the cutest kook" for nothing).

2 is the number of points I miraculously scored at the late-afternoon kickball game in Irving Park, running from base to base as fast as I could, which is admittedly not very fast. As said elsewhere, ball sports aren't really in my repertoire, but if I HAVE to play, then kickball, with its big ol' bouncy ball rolling slowly toward you when you're up to kick, well it's more my speed. A ball sport for the uncoordinated, if you will.

1 is the number of cans of Rainier I drank at the swimming hole, and then felt lightheaded, sunburnt despite having smeared on SPF 1,000 sunscreen. Later, we all dove in and swam through the rippling current to the rocks on the other side, where Toby climbed around and Ryan and Mark and Katie and I crouched in the cold water and let it rush on past.

3 is the number of pictures I borrowed from friends for this post. Tricia took the post-kickball picture of us at the park—exhausted, sweaty, happy, having recreated heavily. Danielle captured us at the swimming hole, with its jewel-toned water. On our hike back from swimming, Toby took the shot of the quiet forest awash in evening light. Thanks, guys!

Tough Stuff

I wanted to give you a post about a serene trek along a lush river to a fairytale campsite, but that would've been for the hike we thought we were going on. Instead, we unexpectedly summited a freaking mountain.

You see, a plan was hatched for the holiday weekend, supplies were quickly purchased, and bags were haphazardly packed. It was, as they say, "no big deal." Except it was. We hadn't read the trail description carefully. We didn't know what we were getting into. This trail, it went uphill, steeply, relentlessly. We had too many pounds on our backs, but not enough water. I gave most of mine to the dog, as he shouldn't suffer for my own dumbness. Although the path was busily sun dappled and views of the volcanoes emerged from the forest, we were all in pain. One hour turned into five, and up we still went ...

Spoiler alert! The story ends with us making it to the fairytale mountain lake. We did not die. We did not give up.

Instead of a glorification of escaping to nature, then, this post is a glorification of doing tough stuff. Like, it's okay when things are hard. It's okay to dig deep. We walked up the side of a mountain, but we felt like we conquered the world. Had we known how bad it'd hurt, would we have undertaken this mission? Maybe not. But maybe, as modern humans, we are too free to choose.

Fearless Nothing

Here I sit, on the verge of a couple months' good, hard work. I'll be busy! Busy is good. Harness all that kinetic energy ... But. Right now, while things are normal, I like right now, too.

Basically, I'm trying to get profoundly good at resting, so that when the whirlwind hits, I can be profoundly good at that, too. Make sense? I don't know. It's harder than it should be to find the balance between the doing and the not doing. This weekend I dialed it in, though.

There was skateboarding, there was wandering in the woods, there was hang time in the hammock, there was the stacking of many rocks and the creation of a giant inferno, there was camp wine and camp coffee, there was, in fact, tent camping.

Rest-wise, though, I'm most proud of Sunday afternoon, during which we came home and did nothing. We napped! Also, we basked like cats on the sunny deck, staring up into the void of blue—which, after a few minutes, revealed itself not to be a void at all, but instead a lively expanse of bugs and cottonwood fluff and one lost lone balloon flashing the sunlight back down at us from impossibly high.

I can't get the hang of meditating, but this felt a whole lot like that. I hope to stick this moment in my cap of fine, pure moments and maybe pull it out next month when I'm stressed and really freaking need it.

3 Things: Heat-Wave & Family Themed

100 Degrees: A wave of 100-degree weather came to visit at the same time as my family. Being an Oregonian, I do not possess air conditioning. Being a consummate Portland tour guide, my pride was deeply hurt that my guests were miserable due to the heat. We bickered, sweated, and generally annoyed each other into exhaustion. Many of the activities I'd planned were suddenly a no go. I was stressed. In my mind, things were headed to disastersville—but my big sister talked me down. The weather is the weather and there's nothing to be done about it. Also? The Platonic ideal of a family visit does not need to be achieved. All we really need to do is go sit on a semi-decent beach somewhere—swimming as necessary. And that's what we did.

Berry picking: The heat eventually broke and it was beautifully cool. Thus, we went berry picking on Sauvie Island. What happened was, we wandered around a farm, up and down rows hanging heavy with fruit. Yellow raspberries. Cohos. Tulameens. Early blueberries. Etc. Only about 45% of the berries picked went into the box instead of our mouths. How is this a profit-making business?! We wondered allowed. A few hours later with sunburnt necks and tired feet, we realized—oh, we're doing their work for them! I get it nowwwww.

Pream Pizza: I wanted to bring my out-of-towners somewhere "Portland," so we descended upon a baroque pizza place that started as a hip-hop pop up inside a fancy charcuterie joint. Are you following? This is Portland, guys. Aaaanyway, the menu was on the fancy tip, but pretenses aside, the cooks accommodated our crowd of vegans and picky tweens alike. Once all was said and done, we were full from eating lots of good food, and that's a happy way to be.

Memorial Day Camp Out

What is it about camping? You come home feeling exhausted but refreshed, dirty but clean. Existentially clean, maybe? I dunno.

Anyway, I went camping and swimming in the wilds of Oregon this weekend. "Swimming" is a strong term. I dove into the glacial river water and then immediately scrambled back to shore. The sun was hot by day, and the fire was hot by night. There was zero cell service anywhere. Life, for a minute there, was pretty dialed in.

I believe in the alchemy of a campsite—the fire, with its pine-scented smoke; the tent, with its blustery-thin walls (which keep out the rain but not, thankfully, the sound of babbling brooks!); the dirt; the sunset; the sooty rocks you toast your bagels on; all the pure clean time spent under the great, wide sky. Put together, there's a magic to this stuff that's, well, the province of summer.

The Clackamas River Valley is a site to behold.

Here's to chasing sticks around your own private swimming hole.

Dudes bein' dudes.

As a kid, one of my favorite things about swimming was when I got out of the water all shivery, and then my mommy wrapped me in a big ol' warm towel and dried me off.