Norcal Camping, Memorialized

Wanting to go camping and going camping are not the same thing. Case in point: last summer, when my tent only came out of the closet once (but it was a good once!).

Anyhow, there is a stretch of road in Northern California, right across the Oregon border, that I particularly love. The road follows a river—one of the clearest, gem-like bluest you'll ever find—all the way to the Pacific Ocean. And just a few minutes before you run head-first into the waves, the forest suddenly explodes in size. The concept of scale gets weird. You feel like an ant in a prehistoric celery patch. It's the very northern tip of the Redwoods—and it's a bewildering place.

I drove this road again over the weekend and camped by the river for two dark, starry nights. In the cool of morning, we walked in the woods, slipping through the shade beneath those towering giants, and by afternoon we'd sit in the sand by the river, letting  our skin get warm, then hot, then burning before we'd make ourselves splash into the freezing cold water—sometimes just for how good it felt when we got out, like every single cell in our bodies was electrified.

Yep, got home late last night, smelling really bad in the best possible way—like campfire, sweat and sunscreen.

Happy summer everyone!

Lefty was ready before we were ready—leaving no chance of getting left behind. 

After a 5 hours in the car, nobody doesn't want to cool their feet in the water.

Delicacies of the forest, to be eaten by starlight.

Calm waters at dawn.

The anatomy of the kind of camp breakfast that wants not.

Big. Bigger than big. 

Inspired evening activity: take off wet bathing suit, stand near raging inferno.  

How To Move A Mini Ramp

Not too long ago, I saw vast expanses of aromatic sage brush, scorched mountainsides dressed in nothing but black trees, clouds of red dust, and one tiny, pale scorpion with pinchers fast and sharp. I was down in Sisters helping Sasha rescue an unused, disassembled mini ramp off some "farm land" there. A U-Haul was involved.

I was only along for the ride, but really, there's no such thing. Unbeknownst to my earlier-in-the-day self, I'd be tasked with driving that big ol' truck up and over Santiam Pass through the darkest, rainiest evening of early May. Now, I've never driven a 20-foot U-Haul weighed down with the bones of a mini ramp before, but I did okay. The gas pedal stayed on the floor. The wheels turned true. The V like 100 or whatever engine kept us at an an even 55 on all of the uphills. Round about 11 p.m., our little caravan pulled onto the wide lanes of Gladstone Street in Portland, Oregon, and an old ramp found a new home.

A band of traveling carnies.

A pair of painted shoes, and a mini ramp nestled into SE Portland.

Waking at Night

Waking at Night

by Jack Gilbert

The blue river is grey at morning

and evening. There is twilight

at dawn and dusk. I lie in the dark

wondering if this quiet in me now

is a beginning or an end.

Spring Broke

Spring break's for kids—or is it?! I'm gonna argue here that in the Northwest, us "grown ups" need it more. We bravely get up and out of bed everyday, carrying on the business of living as our hopes are routinely toyed with, lifted by dazzling sun and then crushed beneath senseless rain.

Anyway, a trip begged to be mine. I didn't care for how long. I didn't care about the forecast for "heavy rain." We were gonna walk beneath the cascading curtains at Silver Falls State Park (a fairy-tale type place you MUST see) and then suck in some of that arid pine-laced air in central Oregon. Yep, and in 48 hours we did all that. There was also incendiary Mexican food, many coffee breaks, a couple of llamas, and my very first time ever watching the movie Purple Rain (!!!!).

A quick voyage, to be sure—but I walked away anew. 

Misty woods and it was raining very, very hard. Can you tell?

See? Fairy-tale type shit.

A Harry and the Hendersons moment up on Black Butte.

Inexplicably sunny at the Sisters skatepark and the gods (or whatever) are smiling upon us.

They call him Fernando.

Travel Returns

I like the way the sky looks in Colorado. The ceilings are high. The clouds pile up with quiet drama and somehow there's always a snow capped peak in the distance all backlit by the sun. The sky is also very blue, very often. Do you Colorado people even appreciate this?!

I also like the neighborhood of Park Hill in Denver—where my sister lives, where all the houses are made solidly of brick in the fashion of an old plains city accustomed to wildfires. I like how when a snowstorm comes in the night (long after you fall asleep) and also leaves in the night (long before you've woken up), you can peek out onto a quiet row of houses blanketed with powder and feel transported straight back to the 50s or something.

I'm up in the mountains now writing to you from a sunny kitchen table (and wheezing with the altitude). But I gotta go! More later, I promise.