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!
Favorites 9.3.15
September: I always do spectacular things in September like burning stuff in backyard fires and turning my back toward the cold of night, like drinking beer and eating chocolate birthday cake. It's my month. Razor blue skies and the season pulling at you like a tide.
A homegrown cucumber: Cucumbers are cucumbers. Except they're not. The good ones taste like perfume.
A Winter's Tale: A fantastically long book by Mark Helprin (that was made into a lackluster movie starring Colin Farrell). It's a vivid dream of grit and magic in turn-of-the-century NYC.
Bloodline: A slow burn. Takes you 4 episodes to get hooked—but then you are. The music. The storms. The heat. The faces. An unflinching family drama set in the sun-bleached Florida Keys.
Pop Punk Stories
Divers. Also known as a Portland rock band I've been listening to lately. Saw them play at The Know last night, and it was great. They've got a wild energy and a raw pop-punk charisma. Sometimes they play quiet. Sometimes they play loud. It simmers and simmers until it boils over. I stood atop a bench so I could actually see the band over the tall people's heads, and thus I can confirm firsthand that they shredded their instruments into tatters up there.
August 27th
I took this picture of Justin years ago. Shitty quality, but I still love it so. Mainly because it sums up my feelings about skateboarding in the fall. How great it is. How empty the parks are. How the air's all crisp and alive. How you can skate for a few hours and get really tired, and then as the last light and warmth disappear from the day, you can go eat some grand, savory meal at a place like Dots (the Gentle Ben with fries) or Free House (the mac and cheese, obvi) and not even feel bad because, like, hey, you're stock-piling calories for winter and stuff.
Anyway, yeah, I'm ready for that.
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.