Dispatch From Camp
The last time I spent the night outside, it was high on a mountain during a freak snowstorm. Mentally, I'm still recovering. So it felt good to pack up the ole backpack again the other day with all the windows open, the sun streaming in, the screen door screening the bugs of May, the birds birding around, the buds, budding. Everything's just easier in the summer, isn't it? Throw a few things on your back, walk down a trail until you come to a river. Spend the night there, relaxed.
By the way, did y'all notice the trend in canned wine, recently? How fortuitous for me, an appreciator of the grape and its juices, fermented or otherwise. Mostly fermented. Bottles, as you know, are heavy, unwieldy. You can fit them in your backpack, and I have, many times, but only at the expense of looking a little ridiculous. Those canned wines, though, they stash perfectly in a pocket meant for camp-stove fuel or some such. What did we ever, ever do without canned wine? Whiskey, I guess.
I'm related to the best dadgam gift givers. Every time I swing through my parent's house on holiday, I come away with a new fancy thing for being outdoors and adventuresome. The Big Agnes air mattress my dad gave me is one such item. It weighs next to nothing and takes around two wheezy minutes to inflate. Then all you have to do is throw it in your tent and have a lovely, comfortable night. I'm one of those featherweight sleepers. Typically, a night of camping would mean mostly lying there awake. With this mattress, you can get all cocooned up in the fetal position on your side and sleep like a lil baby, though. Sure, I still wake up sometimes, but only now and then. The other night I woke up because—I swear—the river had gotten incredibly loud. Do you think that happens, around 3 in the morning? Witching hour? The air thins out and the river rages? Maybe preambling a wild battle of the spirit world? I wouldn't know. I never did leave the tent—just cozied back in, willed my brain into submission, and drifted off again until the sun woke up the birds and then they woke up me.
P.S. Thanks to Dorian for the lovely pic above of me and Lunden wrangling the dogs.
Puppy 2.0
By now you probably figure me insane. All I ever talk about is dogs and backyard mini ramps. And forest-bathing. (Ah, but aren't those the good things in life?)
I thought I'd tell you the story of Piney. If you're one of my people, then you already know Piney is my pup—Puppy 2.0, we call him. We adopted him from the Humane Society out in Hermiston. Roving farmland. Watermelon country. What happened was, I had a right-hand man named Lefty, and he died. I took some time, and then I got another puppy and called him Durango. He was a magical beast—part St. Bernard, part panda bear. I loved him impossibly much. And he died.
This is old news. The heartbreak that was Winter 2016.
What you may not know is that, no joke, ten days after Durango died, we went and adopted Piney. In the hush that falls between Christmas and New Years, we kicked solitarily around the house, did chores, put dog toys away in closets. But try as I might, I could not forget what needs forgetting. And so in between snowstorms, I made Mark drive me out to Eastern Oregon to pick up another puppy.
To his credit, Mark said he thought it was too early. I joke with him now—"At least I beg you for puppies, instead of begging you to have babies like a normal girlfriend!"
I believe there's no such thing as "too early" when it comes to providing shelter and love for a critter in need. I also believe I could've waited a little longer. With that said, every creature, humans and dogs included, is so damn different. No matter how long you wait, you will not get your old pal back. So F it. Bring on the puppies—and all the joy that comes with them.
Three months later, we're just getting to know Piney still. He has a fierce streak about his food bowl. He pees with joy when he sees someone he truly loves. He sun bathes. He howls. He dawdles over dandelions. These are all revelations—Lefty did none of these things. What will Puppy 2.0 turn into?! Will he fetch? Will he swim? I can't wait to see. Here's to new friends (and never forgetting the old ones). Here to new adventures (and all those old, happy memories).
Homesteading, Part 1
I purchased a little land in Central Oregon, just a twirl down the road from the Deschutes River. As mentioned elsewhere, my plan was to build a cabin of dreams there. No undertaking works the way you think it ought to, though. It happens that the groundwater in this area is too close to the surface to build a regular old septic system—no, to install a tank for my cabin, I'd need to drop many Gs on a fancy sand filtration system.
The short of it: I'm priced out of building anything for now.
Who cares? Less work for me! I'll be happy with a tidy fence and a modest camper trailer. We could put solar panels on the trailer. We could set up a wood burning stove. We could build a shed for a couple bikes. We could, we could, we could ...
I spent this weekend backfilling the septic test pits. In other words, shoveling dirt into big holes. When was the last time you shoveled for a couple hours straight? Crikey! It nearly killed me. In life, I feel strong. But in shoveling, it's clear that I'm a pathetic weakling. I've got the arms of a typist, a tinkerer, a delicate herb gardener.
No matter, though, because I also happen to love hard work. Mark and I shoveled and shoveled, while the sun warmed the earth and the Ponderosas kicked out that sweet perfume of the Northwest. We heard the rhythms of the neighborhood, we saw where the shadows fall. What can I say? We bonded with the place.
South Century Drive, we'll be seeing you!
Spring Precipice
Guys, I'm always and forever in search of experiences with fun and meaning. Lately, they've been hard to find, though.
Where is all that joy we used to know?
For me, it both is and isn't the weather. It's the weather and the other stuff, like death, and like almost dying, and like being stuck in town—both literally (with snow and mudslides closing the passes) and figuratively (with a new puppy we must care-take instead of hopping a plane to Hawaii)—that have made this winter a winter to hibernate.
However, in a rare act of magnanimity this weekend, the sky got sunny over Beaverton skatepark on a Saturday who's forecast had preambled rain showers, allowing me to do what I like, which is skateboarding, outside, in the sun, with friends. No small miracle.
Then, on Sunday, we got up early and drove into the Gorge to skate more and climb a mountain, where we walked through glowy green fields, sun dappled, flower dappled, with silver river waters off in the distance.
It wasn't the nicest weekend, as weekends go. But it was nicer than any in recent memory, juicing with enough of that second-tier happiness I needed to pull me back from the precipice—out there where I was teetering, close to becoming so grumpy, I'd be forever lost to the lands of Curmudgeon.
Overnight On The Mountain
Dark was the morning we loaded the car and drove south through Eugene, through Oakridge, and up the side of Warner Mountain until we reached the deep snow. Ten miles of freshly powdered road separated us from the Warner Mtn. Fire Lookout, a cozy cabin atop stilts atop a ridge with 360 views of the Cascade Range. We strapped into our split boards and swished off into oblivion.
Fast forward through 8 hours of rugged uphill ascent, and we were still on that trail. It was pitch dark. The storm raged. Mark was slurring his speech, suffering from severe exhaustion. In the light from my headlamp, the tracks of the people who'd skied out earlier that day were buried, wiped from existence by snow and wind. This blizzard of March 5th, it wasn't half hearted—but brave and full of force.
It's a funny thing, memory. Already what happened is all jumbled up in my mind. I remember a moment when I realized something was wrong with Mark. It's really hard to see someone who's always very strong, always taking care of you, suddenly need help. It hit me over the head—it was time to stop, stop motivating, stop rallying. We had to go into survival mode, which meant digging some form of shelter and staying put. And—not kidding—calling 911. Yep, only 1.5 miles from our cozy cabin destination, we were immobilized by exhaustion, by darkness, and by the storm.
We shimmied into the area under a tree well, threw down a sleeping bag, sat down, and then put another sleeping bag over us. This is making it sound warmer than it was. We were soaked to the core from sweating and from the storm. We were very, very cold. Cold is an understatement. Drifting in and out of consciousness, we shivered violently from 8 pm until 4 a.m., when, thinking I was hallucinating, I saw the lights from the Search And Rescue snow cat.
What we did wrong.
-We had too much stuff. Just because you're going to a cabin, doesn't mean you need to bring your 700 page book. If I did again, I'd go so much lighter, so much leaner.
-We brought a 4 month old puppy. Sure, he's part Malamute. But he's a freaking baby. We were prepared for him not making the whole trek—we just weren't prepared for the extra strain pulling a 30+ pound pup in a sled would put on Mark.
-We didn't eat. We had plenty of food, but not super accessible trail snacks to keep us super fueled up. We were prob burning thousands of calories, but we kept thinking, we gotta just GET THERE! Turns out, taking care of yourself is more important than anything.
-We didn't turn back when we maybe thought we should. My new mantra—it's okay to quit!
What went wrong.
-There was (way) more snow than expected. The park ranger had told us the trail would be packed by snowmobiles, but instead, we were skinning through feet of fresh. This was a game changer.
-The GPS made us look closer than we were to the destination. There was a tragic moment just before dark when we made a final push, thinking we were 2 miles away, and then saw a road sign that read, "Warner Mountain Lookout, 3.7 miles." FLlksjdfla;jksdbuasdfja;sjkdgjl;dajsg!!!!!!!
How we got so fucking lucky.
-Like a ghost, 1 bar of LTE service shivered in and out of my phone. Just enough to get some calls off to 911 and text my mom our location.
-The sheriff's department was able to get a snow cat sent up from Roseberg. It was hours away. It took, literally, all night—but the cat was everything. It got us out of there in 25 minutes flat. All hail volunteer Search and Rescue crews, everywhere!