Been Thinking
Did y'all notice the rain's back? It's okay. It's only February. It's only water. Last week's epic global-warming weather, though, or the February fakeout, or whatever it was, got me thinking about this one camping trip last summer and how I want to go back to there. Soon. As soon as possible, really.
The spot's at the beach up on a little hillside—a hideaway from such things as people and wind. To the west: the Pacific ocean and then Japan.
It's where we staggered up a dune and watched the sun disappear. It's where I tucked my tent into this magnificent tree grove and then popped my air mattress on a branch. It's where we abandoned the fire to roam the beach in the dark, discovering how bioluminescent algae made our steps glow in the wet sand. It's where I kicked the dog out of the tent due to mouth breathing and he never even wandered off—just lay there on guard all night as dictated by the primal purpose of his species and breed. It's where, the next morning, we woke up thirsty and hungover—but then pooled the rest of our water to make everyone a cup of coffee.
Northwest Passage
Arose somewhat late on Tuesday after working all weekend and did things I liked. Such as scaling a goddamn mountain.
Hiking's kind of weird, isn't it? Just walking. But it's nice.
Anyway, Hamilton Mountain. The trail was very steep, winding through dark, quiet woods that may have been haunted, cutting across barren meadows that fell steeply into thin air. I overheated and then froze in the crazy wind. But the view. The frickin view!
To the East: Idaho and a veil of rain. To the West: silver river waters rolling straight into the sea. You get a sense of perspective up there, comprehending how glaciers carved out all of the valleys and that the looming cliffs really do wear the stains of the ages. As I've said elsewhere, catching a view like this can be, if you let it, kinda cosmic—the sort of thing us non-“devout” folks do to appreciate the mysteries of the universe. And so on.
Traditions/Habits
Christmas holiday in Colorado where my fam lives. It’s a tradition. Do you have those? I don't really, just habits. But “traditions” sounds nicer.
Seems like there’s always a good reason to go home this time of year, although sometimes it’s not to celebrate. That’s okay. Just gathering together with the people who gave you life and share your blood is a kinda powerful observance on its own.
Everything was irrefutably caked in snow.
I took nephew Pat to the ski mountain, and we spent the day lost in winding tree trails.
I got a sturdy pair of kitchen sheers, for snipping the shit out of chives and such.
I smelled salted caramel.
I ate toasted pecans.
I watched the dog eat scraps of shiny paper.
Now won’t it be grand when all this holiday crap is over??
How To Get Hitched In The Mountains
The truth? The truth is that we're all inextricable romantics given the right moment/situation. Even the cynics. Even the hard of heart. Given the right moment/situation, there we'll all be at some point with hands gripped over hearts, big tears being blinked away, et cetera.
Oddly enough, a wedding isn't always that moment/situation. But! The wedding I went to this weekend was.
I watched Tricia and Cairo get married in the old fashioned way—outside in the fresh air in front of all of their people under the high-country sun that cast long shadows in the late afternoon.
First, we all sat in wooden chairs and talked and laughed. Then, a quiet fell on the crowd. A wind whispering of fall set the aspen leaves clicking. Finally, out came Trish to the tune of a string band, looking, in her pale dress and veil, almost exactly like a flower. Right there in the meadow, both her and Cairo read some lines they’d written about each other—about magical first acquaintances and perfect matches, about holding each other up (most especially in tough times), about what exactly it feels like to be in love.
The rest of the night was a blur of Pimms and caramel cupcakes. And other things that cause dizziness the following morning but which are, at the time, consumed with the utmost noble intent of celebration.
Hooray for love!
Pretty Trish.
Griz, getting a snapshot of that rock!
This pic may not communicate it, but the dance floor = bumping, all night long.
Waterfall Wanders
Heat. Haze. Big roving rain clouds. Trails carved out of cliffsides. Waterfalls that drop loudly into deep, green pools. This is the seduction of Oregon in late August. Last weekend, Kelly, Marsha, and I were its victims.
After dealing with real-life bullshit all morning, we gathered at my house midday and drove east into the Columbia Gorge—for that is the province of waterfall hikes. On this day, we chose Eagle Creek Trail, a pretty famous Oregon hike that leads you ramblingly into the wilds by following the Eagle Creek itself.
Now, this trail is part of the Pacific Crest Trail, and as such, we passed tons of "PCTers" on it; all of them friendly, all of them covered in dirt—reeking of moss, earth, and abiding body odor, all of them heading north to Canada as we forged south toward Punchbowl Falls. In comparison, we were just lowly day hikers, carrying—all carefree-like—nothing but water bottles in our hands.
