Grand Canyon Passage
Every so often, Tricia and I get it in our minds to go somewhere. It's nothing too thought out or planned out. I have a list of things I gotta do, not on paper, more like in my head, but these trips are usually a way to cross items off of this.
Anyway, last time it was Hawaii. The big island—jungle hikes down to secret snorkel spots and roasting on the beach. This time, the Grand Canyon. You go there like going on a pilgrimage, looking down into the pit and contemplating it solitarily—kinda like staring into a pile of burning embers. But the thing is, seeing it from the rim is a whole lot like just looking at the photo. There's a haze in the distance between you and it, and you are very, very far away.
So, we climbed down to the bottom, stuck our feet in the cold-ass Colorado River (just like John Wesley Powell did, I'm sure). Then we hoofed it back up. Even a mile down the trail, we both agreed that this was the only way see the canyon. You get a sense of perspective, inspecting layers of rock first-hand as you stumble past them and feeling like an insignificant spec as you sneak by looming cliffs wearing the stains of the ages.
It was an amazing trip, kinda cosmic. In fact, the Grand Canyon is a cosmic place—where us non-"devout" folks go to appreciate the mysteries of the universe.
Sure, I'ma nerd. But I'm about to hike 4,500 feet down and back up again in two days. I could barely walk for days. So sore.
Yeah, take the burrows, you pussies. We're gonna walk.
A new set of thunderheads rolled through every hour ... we could see 'em coming.
Down, down, down, keep going down.
At last, the Colorado River, and a quiet beach to rest our weary selves.
But what't this? A thunder-hail extravaganza on the way back up? A good excuse to sit the fuck down.
We camped out half way up the canyon. The next morning, after torrential rains in the night, the chasm was shrouded in cloud.
And it was time to climb out. Yeah, all the way to the tippy top of that cliff up there.
Sedona sunset later that evening, dog tired and readier for a cocktail than I've ever been in my life.
Dirty, tired, sore—but we made it. Yep.
AZ Awesomeness
Just returned to my Portland residence after a week in the southwest. I’ve got much to say about its astonishing awesomeness. The air smells like dust and piñon. Real cowboys shovel dirt into divots along Bright Angel trail. And the sun sets at 5:37 p.m. to resplendent effect. More to come, stay tuned…
autumn weekend
Well so that new Nike bowl I keep talking about got finished a few days ago (see above). It's, like, perfect. I seized my opportunity, knowing it might be the only one, and materialized right when the boyz were sweeping up the last pile of sawdust. And guys, it's good. Nice birch, pretty, smooth and fast, and coping like stepping on a silver bullet.
Lance got so fired up that he front-boarded the railing that leads up to the new bowl. Unlike other rickety-ass wooden handrails, Ben Mohr built this one, so of course it didn't disintegrate into a pile toothpicks. Quality craftsmanship. Sorry ’bout the blurry photo.
And after many long hours adding up to long days where many important deadlines were met, I drove over to Dude Barn for an impromptu Q. The sun was catching the crimson leaves just right on broadway, and it's October, people, have you noticed?
For Melissa
Along with it being October 13th, today is the anniversary of my big sister's birth. So ... below, a song for her. Fifteen, covering Jawbreaker. This is to kick her morning in the ass. It's also as a tribute to the old days back on the front range, when she was at the 12th Street house and I was at the 20th Street house, and when we both lived on Marine Street, and when the nights were alternately too hot or too cold, and when Jawbreaker got us through the many disappointments of young adult life.
Happy Birthday Melissa!
Face-space love
Here's a bit of writing I did for the Nike Snowboarding Facebook page. Extremely proud to be involved, as there's nothing but good folk over there. I get to kickturn with Meeks at the skatepark from time to time, and Craighill I'd always see with a camera attached to his face on the side of the X-Games course or something. Although now he lives in Portland, so I bet we'll start running into each other at Walgreens and stuff. "Rash cream, eh?" Anyhoo, there you have it, a small piece of what's been keeping shackled to the keyboard lately, proudly, and with love, of course.