Crater Lake Weekend
Somewhere in the world there’s lake that’s 2,000 feet deep with water so clean you can drink it. Even though it’s set like a diamond in a bed of pine trees on top of a big mountain that used to be a volcano, the lake looks like the waters of the Caribbean because it’s so deep and sparkling and because without any impurities to catch the light, the water absorbs every color wavelength but the spectrum’s shortest—cobalts, sapphires, and ceruleans.
Anyway, because it’s going to be September in two days and because it seemed like it might be the last possible chance to sleep under the stars in the summertime, Lance and I drove to this place, we hiked down to the water, and we dove in. The water, mind you, being a joint-aching 40 degrees. But here’s the key: the massive chunks of rock lining the lake are toasted by the sun, and so we’d alternately dive into the icy pit and then drag ourselves out to bask on these giant sauna stones until our skin hurt.
We went home via Roseburg and in so doing stumbled upon Umpqua Hotsprings. It's all natural, deep in the Oregon woods, and deep in Oregon hippy territory. The look of shock on our faces in this self timer photo can be attributed to the fact that just after the camera button was pushed and Lance scrambled back into the pool, a hairy, naked human man on his way to the springs rounded the corner about three feet away from us and stared deep into our souls with his dong hanging out. I know I know, the human body is natural, and I'm being immature, et cetera, et cetera. Still, though—a person's gotta be prepared for a sight like that!
First Day School
My heart almost snapped in two when I saw this. It's nephew Patrick on his first day of kindergarten. I can't help but look into the future and see an expanse of snobs, swirlies, and other disappointments. The worst part? I can't be there to kick anyone's ass. Nope, this little man is on his own. Crikey!
New Favorite
You spend two months complaining about the heat and then you wake up one morning to a wash of sweet bright chilliness and suddenly you’re like, already??! No, it’s not fall yet, but I smelled it yesterday…
Anyhow, for those who care, I have a new favorite skate spot: the concrete creations on the side of Mt. Hood at Windell’s Camp. A race track of bumps, banks, and gaps. Rollers splitting pine trees into paved paths headed down past ledges, gaps, and boxes. Not a park, really—more of an environment of skate features. Plus, a good view, good friends, and that’s all.
Billy built the park, among other things. And did the above front smith, among other things.
Annie's gettn hitched!
My very first bachelorette party and I didn’t know what to expect. I don’t even know how to spell that word “bachleroreette” for godsake. But Annie is getting married and since that happens (hopefully) once in a lifetime, it was time to party! Jardine came and grabbed me at the Carlsbad airport on Friday aft and we gave ourselves over to the weekend itinerary of talking, sipping, and tanning.
Because we're getting on in years and so hangovers are fierce and life-giving these days, I haven't seen some of my close lady friends really cut loose like they did Saturday night on our visit to the Saloon in downtown Encinitas. Amazing stuff, really. Me? I ping-ponged around the room gaping slackjawed at the sociological experiment that is Southern California, several times uttering mom-like phrases of surprise. “Did you see what the bartender was wearing? You can see her …” and so on and so forth.
The next day we woke up slowly and stuck within the four-block radius of Annie’s backyard and the beach. Mimosas were sipped, leftovers picked at. Although I was not actually dead, I tried to move very little. When it got too hot I flopped into the ocean and floated around on my back staring up at that big perfect sky, not a single cloud, not even a jetstream. Then it was on a plane back to Portland with sand in my hair and salt on my skin.
Something I need to say: Congratulations Annie, we love you!
Rain in August
Rain in February is unpleasant—it can be gray and gross, icy and often lashing. But rain in August—it’s a revelation. I just walked down the block to Floyd’s for a Mexican hot chocolate and returned amidst sprinkles. As I was passing under the big oak tree—a soaring leaf canopy—the real rain began. I stopped there in the warmth and the green, leaned against the brick wall, and ate my banana while listening to the droplets coming down on all parched things. And smelled the new rain smells.