Sk-amping

I'm not sure how I could possibly be lucky enough to have spent a weekend doing things I like very much with 9 other people I like very much. It all started as a plan in my neural pathways but became a skateboarding/camping trip of kinda epic proportions. As the first mision of the summer, there was nothing to compare it to, but I can just  hope that any subsequential trips (of which there'll be many?) will measure up.

First stop, Hood River skatepark; second stop, the Hood River (brrrr); third stop, 76 gas station for ice cream and chips; fourth stop, The Dalles skatepark; fifth stop, the patch of shade beside The Dalles skatepark; sixth stop, our campsite along the Deschutes River. We made camp under the watchful eye of the ranger, who didn't cut us any fucking slack on our perimeter even though we had seven tents to fit. That's okay—it was cozy. Then dusk fell, and so came one of the best parts of any camping trip—sitting around the firepit sharing snacks and sips and stories.

After dark, the wind carried the smell of night and sage brush. The moon, I need to report, was an orange crescent that had risen slowly over our roasting hotdogs, and then a few hours later—as we lounged on a dark hillside neath the stars—plunged back below the horizon impossibly fast. Jesse played the guitar. We all watched it go.

Tight quarters.

Hood River secret spot.

Last light on the Deschutes. No reason why you wouldn't want to stay right there, right then, for, like, ever.

Camp cooks.

Almost as many dogs as humans—at any given moment at least one of them barking.

Morning light, dogs and dudes everywhere.

Like Summer

Last weekend, for a whole weekend, all I did was what I wanted. There was blue sky in the afternoon. I worked in the garden. I skated several mini ramps and drank wine out of a honey jar while everyone else drank beer, and Lefty laid in the shade of a table stealing scraps when they fell like a good boy. It felt like summer. It was summer?

Stay Home

Think of a reason (mine was out of town visitors), and take your reason wandering all over your town—eating, drinking, crossing back and forth over bridges and walking up dusty trails. Leave behind all semblance of budgeting and schedule restrictions. Buy 5 dollar almond-milk lattes at Heart without a care. Spend hours sitting around a wooden kitchen table drinking pine-scented cocktails and just, ya know, talking. Make a list of every restaurant you ever wanted to try in Portland and knock ’em off, one by one. Drop face-first into bed exhausted every night after so much walking and so much sun. It's what they call a "staycation" I guess. It's what I did last week. And it was SO good. No airports, no train rides, no itineraries. Just good friends, sun-toasted days, and my very own bed at the end of the night.

Two Weeks Ago

Not last weekend but the weekend before, we had a perfect summer weekend. Were you here? Did you feel it? Everyone knew in advance—weather apps had warned us all. You had to choose your happenings wisely because you only had two chances to get it right—Saturday and Sunday.

I drove out to the coast and laid in the sand. I mowed my lawn wearing flip-flops and my feet turned electric green. I laid on my belly reading and letting the warmth from the deck soak into me. I ate all my meals outside. I went to a barbecue and skated a backyard mini ramp. I opened all my windows to let the sun-toasted air of, like, mid June carry into my house on this late March weekend. It smelled very good outside.

Now here we are, back in early April Portland. And there's no way to rewind—it's gone.

Steamy

100-degree heat is only acceptable if it lasts for no longer than 48 hours and then on the third morning you wake up to a cool cloud cover and a quiet kinda misting rain that's so light it's just barely, barely there. That's how we do it in Oregon, anyway.

Pile up on the couch with the AC unit on high.

Pug geezer and pit bull, both champion layer-arounders.

A bumble bee in my California fuscha. Everything I do in my flower garden is for those li'l buzzers—they're having a hard time of it, you know.