Up In Smoke On A Saturday

Oh hi. It's Monday. You already knew that. I'm sore from this weekend, because there were friends in town from New York and we all skated a bunch and fell down. I like how visitors can revive the squad. A new excuse to come out and hang out—to not be lazy when it's late August and 90 plus and you'd otherwise be inclined to stay home laying around pant-less in front of the fan.

Anyway, every second of Saturday was spent slashing and swimming. The extended posse came through. Everyone was smiling and no one complained. Clips were stacked. Cliffs were jumped. Copious wildfire smoke was inhaled. Beers were cracked and quickly made to disappear. It was fun—more fun than I've had in a while.

As mentioned elsewhere, your friends are your family, and I feel really lucky that I know all of these cool, creative humans. I feel lucky that, on a daily basis, I get do something I like very much with a bunch of people that I like very much. As a sort-of-adult with a job and other responsibilities, I couldn't ask for anything more.

JT at Glen. Pic by George Cutright.

Blue Moon

As you may know, there was a so-called "blue moon" this weekend. Despite its astrological implications—its deep cosmic portend of high and wild emotion—this rare second full moon of July looked much like other full moons.

I think it was the heat, though, the moon combined with the heat on Friday night, that really stirred together like a stiff cocktail and made everyone summer drunk. No one wanted to stay inside. No one wanted to be alone. Everyone was out doing something, wearing shorts and shirtsleeves—sometimes less, everyone was sweating, talking, laughing, and acting disorderly.

I stayed up late. I drank cold drinks with limes perched on the rim. I rode my bike all the way to Lombard Street and back, winding down the quiet boulevards under the grand ole pine trees as their limbs reached out like elephant trunks and pumped oxygen up into the stars.

To August

August has its very own feeling. It's quieter than June and July. The summer ends softly, like a feather floating to the ground.

I am looking forward to the calm in which to read, to walk, to wonder, to do nothing at all. There's ripe tomatoes in my garden and I'll make a galette. Work-life balance will flow naturally. Contentment will be achieved. This is my plan for August. I wouldn't be me, though, if I didn't know that plans, like rules, have a way of getting broken ...

Sk-amping In Central Oregon

I have been known to mismanage my weekends, but this past weekend wasn't one of those weekends. Instead of lurking in town and going to bars, we all packed up and drove to Bend on Friday after work—pulling into town right at dusk, right when the air turned all quiet and cool.

Our intention was to camp, which we promptly did in our pal Brandon's backyard. It was already dark when we pulled in. It stayed dark while we set up our tents and sat there drinking homemade wine, always throwing more wood on the fire. In the full light of morning, however, each of us crawled out of our tents to discover the magical view above. A big veggie garden, a chicken coop, and a private backyard skatepark. Brandon's really got a good thing going.

Aaanyway, after that, Bend's new skatepark to sweat and fall down. And after that, the prettiest swim spot on the pristine Deschutes River—which, as often happens way out in the mountains, we had all to ourselves in order to properly celebrate Toby's birthday.

That night, we camped in Sisters under centuries-old pine trees. The milky way, I need to report, was impossibly bright. Everyone told stories, and the dogs laid there at our feet—happy to be outside like all the other forest animals, happy to be wild, to be dirty, to be free.

That is, ultimately, the beauty of camping.

Three Things

Secret pools. I'm happy to live in a place where people appreciate the value of being out in nature, sure, but I'm happier still to escape those crowded trails—to find a hidden path like we did the other day, one that that leads you around a corner and out of site.

Walking to work. Hey it's just a 3.5-mile wander from Northeast to Southeast through neighborhoods crammed with roses and butterfly bush, past intriguing "free piles" sprinkled on street corners and people laughing loudly in crowded cafes or sitting quietly on shady front porches. I do it once a week—7 miles round trip. Part of the 2015 Sherowski Improvement Plan ...

Fresh figs. In July, the neighbor's fig tree droops over my driveway—heavy with about a hundred bursting-ripe figs. Until now, it never occurred to me to eat them. It only ever occurred to me to rake their sticky guts off the cement after they turn. Anyway, last weekend I bit into one for the first time. Lightly sweet and perfumey. A summer breeze in yer mouth. I picked a bunch and have a heaping bowl—come over and eat one!