The Desert And Back
What happened was, my mom called a while back and demanded that I drive down to meet them in Southern Utah. The desert in the fall sounded just fine, and past me didn't care that future me would have to drive 15 hours each way to get there.
Having just returned, I'm gonna argue here that all those long hours spent in the car were almost the best part of the trip. I saw so much natural beauty outside that windshield. Fucking scenery! Roving rainstorms off in the distance, hanging their veil over the purple mountains. Oceans of lonesome sage brush. The canyon between Salt Lake and Green River, where steep ravines covered in orange scrub brush turned soft in the lilac twilight. Colors upon colors, the palette changing with every new valley ...
Anyway, we spent a couple days in Moab eating and hiking and staring at the rocks. I love that town. You're surrounded by red canyon walls, right there on the cusp of Arches, Canyonlands, and Monument Valley. Every time you walk outside, you see something worth sending a postcard about. Surreal!
Young, wild, and free on Alvord Salt Flats in Southern Oregon.
Lefty, clearly trespassing in the Ruby Mountains, Nevada. This was also the scene of a picturesque peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Paradise Valley, where we found a clutch gas station just in time to watch the sun dip.
Arches, lagoons, and cliffs carrying the stains of ages.
Nephew Pat was only mildly impressed with the scenery. Tough crowd, 11 year olds.
The motherfuckin Colorado River! Word on the street—it gets its name from its red color.
Me, thinking about geology at Canyonlands.
P.S. I borrowed this picture (and the one at the top!) from Mark, who, bless his heart, drove all the tuff shifts and crawled in the dirt to fix my tire.
3 Things
The road to Moab: Headed south to Southern Utah next week to meet moms and pops, to meet sister and nephew Pat. There, I plan to wander the red rocks, smell sage brush on the wind, and see as many desert sunsets as possible.
Work dreams: Got a couple humungous projects weighing me down. I know that I've been working a lot lately because I've been dreaming about it. Dreaming about words and sentences. Isn't that sad? Instead of spinning into strange watery landscapes where I ride ocean liners with my mom and then jump off towering cliffs into the pale, shining waves, I'm just sitting there trying to come up with taglines. It's lackluster. It's too REAL. I don't want real life when I close my eyes, I want fucking fairy tales.
Black Mass: Hard boiled. Exceptionally acted. It's one of the best modern-day gangster stories evahhhh, if you can get over the facial prosthetics that make Johnny Depp look like a blue-eyed cyborg. Which I couldn't.
Goat Lake Cold Camp
We couldn't know. We just could know that after the hottest summer on record, Labor Day weekend would be the weekend that it'd cool down 40 degrees and spit snow from the sky at high elevations. After all, we're not god. We're not omniscient. We have no power vested in us, weather-wise, destiny-wise, or other.
In other words, I need to report that I went backpacking with Mark and Jeremy in Gifford Pinchot National Forest, AKA Goat Rocks Wildneress, AKA middle-of-nowhere Washington, and it was an epic journey full of rain, sleet, wind, and deep, billowy clouds roving through the valleys; full of fierce starry skies, tear-wrenching shivers, and sweeping mountain vistas that danced in and out of the fog.
True story: we were supposed to camp two nights but only camped one. However, this did not lessen the amount of miles hiked, or more appropriately stumbled, around the Goat Lake Loop. It just means that at some point on Saturday as we traversed through the storm, someone started talking about nachos—and all was over. Our gear was wet and we were wet and our freeze-dried lunch was long, long gone, and so it was silently decided, as if by ESP, that we wouldn't, as planned, find a campsite protected by trees to wait out the weather, but that instead we'd hobble the many miles back to the car and drive all the way back to Portland—our knees, feet, backs, and wavering spirits be damned.
It was an adventure in the truest sense, entailing unplanned hijinks and great feats of strength. I wouldn't take it back for anything—it has, in fact, already become legendary in my mind. The wildnerness is beautiful, even at its most savage—actually, more so at its most savage. Now, here, I can sit back at my desk and feel lucky to have been really out in it. And maybe, just maybe, I might do it all over again. Sorry, though, only if it's sunny!
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.
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.
