Soft Indian Summer

En route to finding rest after the long summer, here's what I've been doing:

In the last heat of the lingering harvest, I rode up Powell Butte at sunset. There was only enough time to catch my breath and score a peek of the salmon pink sky before riding back down ahead of the falling darkness. But, in September, the night falls too fast. I ended up in the blackness on a forest trail.

I celebrated my birthday by doing absolutely nothing special, except acknowledging the passage of time, and how some things (like skateboarding) get harder but are somehow more important than ever to keep doing, while other affairs (like not taking things personally) get easier and make growing older truly sweet—which is why I've never once, not ever, wished I was younger.

I went to Idaho with pals and reconnected with my love for skate tourism. Jedda the pup came too and proved herself a naturally talented road tripper.

My big sister came to town. She wears all black all the time, and so it was only fitting that we took her out to explore hills cast in black by forest fire. It was unseasonably dry and hot. We cooled quenched with tall beers.

On a stormy Sunday night, I watched a movie called Hold the Dark, and although it wasn't at all cold in the house, I shivered with the deep bone chill of the Arctic, and the scenery and the story made my head spin, and I dreamt of it that night, and I'm still wondering about it now really.

The Days Of Piney Past

The heat here continues. All sense of freshness gone. Out with July and the tiger swallowtails. It was this time last year when Piney first learned to swim. At the Sandy, in a pool between the rocks, he discovered—you can float and paddle and make waves and it’s fun. He spent that afternoon swimming in circles, splashing a storm and biting the water as it rained down on him. Thus began a great career in watersports. Piney swam for joy, not fetch or concern for others’ safety. It was wonderful to behold.

Piney passed away in the spring. On Friday, April 30that 5:30 p.m., we “put him down,” that old euphemism for ending a life that I’ve used and worn like a suit of armor against the awful truth—that we stopped Piney’s life at a year and a half old because he had become suddenly angry and fearful, scary and aggressive. He started attacking us around the house. Whenever he felt nervous, or threatened. I quit bringing him to work. We called in a pro trainer. Life at home became tense and unpredictable, alternating between violence and silly joy—when he force-snuggled us in bed and spent laidback hours stretched out asleep in the sun by the cat.

We never knew what to expect.

Then came that last week. That last attack. Before Mark could get outside to pull Piney off me, the dog had pulverized my forearm and left a toothmark so deep in the palm of my hand you could see the pale pink muscle fiber squeezing through. I was bleeding. I was terrified. I loved Piney, and I knew couldn’t live this way anymore.

There aren’t many options for animals like him. We looked. We tried. We cried.

The last night we were all together was sweet-scented and summery. Mark and I took Piney to Mt. Tabor, laid out a blanket and drank cans of beer as the sun set, throwing morsels at Piney from a pile of treats so big his eyes grew round when he saw it. Liminality was in the air all around us. You are here now. You will be gone tomorrow.

I know we did the right thing. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Ending his life, it was the hardest decision I’ve yet to make. Everyone—the vet, the behavior therapist, our families—reminded us that Piney wasn’t healthy. We heard their advice. But. It was our decision and ours alone to make. We learned a hard lesson—how deeply responsible we are for our animals. After all they’re not teddy bears but sentient beings with minds and freewill. We bring them into our world, and we are responsible for them. This responsibility is really just the other side of love. The stronger the bond, the heavier lies the weight.

We measure our lives through our dogs. Family visits. Friends that came and went. First skatepark business. First real job in a decade. I remember the dog I had for all of these.

I remember Piney as the dog who we housetrained in the middle of an ice storm. The dog who spent the night on a mountain in a blizzard and kept us warm. The dog who made a parcel of land in the woods near Bend feel like home. The dog who loved my elderly cat Cougar so much he nearly exploded every time she walked in the room. I remember a life-affirming sunrise hike to the rim of red-rock cliffs with him. I remember the time we splitboarded up Tilly Jane. The wind on the ridge was fierce and he cowered against the leeward side of my legs. On the ride down, he chased me so close I nicked his paw pad with the steel of my edge.

I remember a lot about him.

I hope I always do.

Montana Mega-Weekend

In Montana, the plains are soft with grass and the mountains are always standing watch. At dusk, the details flatten out and all you can see is shapes, triangles stacked up North to South—each peak cast sharply against a prism of golden light. During dinner at Catherine’s house in the Bitter Root Valley, in the shadow of St. Mary’s Peak, I squashed mosquitos and sweated through my jeans while Jedda, the pup, barked and chased. She loves Montana because of all the space. No leash. No rules. It’s nice to be wild.

Since last writing to you, I drove out to Big Sky Country for a long weekend—our annual swim mission, skate mission, dog mission, beer mission, BBQ mission, bike mission, sunburn mission, heatstroke mission, hike mission, camp mission, everything-that’s-good-about-summer mission.

I bought a cowboy hat. I saw an owl. We got to skate two new Evergreen parks, one of which had ponies galloping by and both of which served up stupid beautiful vistas. We got to drink straight from streams and swim in the most lovely lake. I ate the best-tasting PB&J of my entire life next to an ice-cold plummeting waterfall. We hung with friends and their family, and we laughed a lot and baked in the sun.

I was very at home in Montana. It felt effortless and natural to be there. The sweeping scenery relaxed me as we drove along. The high-country smells of dust and pine bubbled up a sense of peace from my kid-hood in Colorado. When we drove by tidy farmhouses for sale, I saw myself buying them, selling off my Portland possessions, disowning my city life, and moving there to chop wood, grow vegetables and walk in the snow. I could do it, I swear. Not yet, though. Not yet.

My Wandering Days Are Over

It makes sense that we would go back to the forest to get married. At the altar of fern-laced trunks—the big, ancient trees that teach you how to grow and stay—Mark and I conspired to celebrate binding our two lives together last Friday.

Family and closest friends embarked on a journey to meet us there. It was far. They navigated traffic, paid bridge tolls to cross shimmering waters, and bravely left behind LTE and 3G to follow written directions to a dirt parking lot in the woods.

By the river, on the brink of a waterfall, I said my promises to Mark, and he said his to me. We talked not of chains but of the freedom in standing together. We talked not of giving things up, but of gaining strength and certainty. We talked about what love might look like—then, now, forever.

Plummeting water was the music. Garden blooms veiled my head. As I spoke, a strange salty water sprang forth my eyes. We both felt weird—light and full of vibration, floating and spinning like plumes from a dandelion. The only thing holding us to earth was the crowd gathered round. Without our people, we might have wafted clear off into the ether.

After the ceremony, we drank cups of champagne, then drove in a big caravan back to the city and into the storm. The rain fell in a curtain beyond the tents while we ate and drank. It was a soggy feast day, but warm with love and friendship. Kids played, defiant of the wet weather. The puppy turned into a feral creature—biting the heels of revelers as they walked by with heaping plates of food. Magick was all around.

People ask if it feels different. It does. It is different. We’re bonded for life, by symbolic rites carried out in front of pine fronds and faeries—but also in reality. In our purpose. In our finances. In our house. In our hearts.

3 Gratitudes

Puppies: Apropos of last weekend when I went over to Jesse's house and met his new dog, which made my day—my world. This young, sleek fellow is a parvovirous survivor. You can't keep him down. Convalesced from his ailment, he now likes to hang with the big dogs, nipping at their heels, and then fall over spent to nap amidst cool shade. I can’t explain it but I just feel better—more tethered to earth—when I’m near a sleeping dog.

Josh Brolin on What The Fuck: A great actor who shines in person, too. There’s a deep satisfaction to knowing that a guy you gravitated towards on screen due to his rough wit and hard-boiled-ness is, like, really that guy.

My garden at 4:30 p.m. on a Sunday: This weekend I sat out in the yard looking, just looking. There was a wonderful heat. There was so much noise—bees and blue jays, kids and cookouts. I could see the blue, way up there in the place you can never really go. I felt comforted. I felt confident in a future.