9.30.1977

It's been 40 years since I was born—a little blonde pine cone plopping to earth in Denver, Colorado. Let the record show. It's been 40 years of fighting and working and feeling.

People have been saying to me kindly, you don't look 40! Thank you? But, like: What's wrong with looking 40? I don't buy into the culture of youth worship. I was an idiot when I was 25. And generally speaking, I do believe people become better with age. In my pursuit of being the realest, most emphatic form of me, I can only feel, look and act exactly my age. I'm me! I go to work. I go to the skatepark. I clean my own house and pay my own mortgage. I run the stairs at Mt. Tabor. I text my mom almost everyday. I drink beer and eat pizza whenever possible. And no matter what's happened, at a certain hour every night—I migrate toward the couch and watch TV. I used to be energetic and single and very eager to see rock shows. Now I have a house with a mini ramp in the garage and a hubs-to-be. There's what and who have happened to me in the past life. And there's me now. Get this—they're the same thing. Somewhere inside, I'm still 10 freaking years old crouching behind the chokecherry bush about to shoot out the greenhouse window with a bb gun. Accidentally.

Anyway, Saturday—my birthday—was a big day. A cinnamon roll for breakfast. A driveby on a friend's yardsale. A hike through the spooky Northwest fog. A dog with a squirrel addiction. A few beers with a few friends and a metric ton of laughs. We're alive, guys! What a thing.

Desertification

This isn't a curated reporting from the impossibly perfect vacation. It's just pictures from a road trip to the desert last week. It was fun. It was raw. We hung with family and talked politics. We bopped around gathering sagebrush bows and piled them on the dashboard, so when the sun beat down on the car, it bloomed with the scent of desert wind.

Speaking of, is there anything more relaxing than the desert landscape? Placing yourself under the influence of the open sky and red-rock cliffs, you're immediately at ease. You fall in line with the natural world and its beauties. You wander past sandstone monoliths thinking about the long history of the earth and how life came to be. Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, yeah—Portland, Oregon to Moab, Utah, via a maze of roads riddled with wildfires and repaving projects. Every time I venture there, I leave wanting to plan my next visit. Next time we'll bring bikes and ride out to Klondike Bluff. Next time we'll winter camp. Next time we'll drive backroads through Capitol Reef ... Then, 15-17 hrs later I get home so burnt from driving I vow never to go back.

But, you know, it's hard to stay away.

Mark and his dad. Multiple generations of awesome dudes.

On Saturday, we meandered red-rock labyrinths with my mom and sis.

The Colorado River ran through all of it.

I really wanted to swim in this dreamy desert locale, however I was warm but not hot and the water was very cold. But I waded! 

In the canyon with the cottonwoods and cool waterfalls.

Let the world make you feel small as often as possible.

A very cute coffee situation in Moab. Piney and Rocket.

Deep thoughts at sunrise. 

The road home. Sagebrush on the wind.

Happy Anniversary

Happy anniversary Lefty—it's been one year since you died. It's been a year since we buried you under the new maple tree, and then the winter came and buried you again in all that snow. Dang, though, how the flowers bloomed there in the spring. This summer was hot—you would've hated it. I would've had to finally get you that haircut everyone was always asking about. I never did touch your hair, though. It was too perfect the way it was. Au naturale was how you rolled.

Your brother Duke moved in 4 blocks away. You could've partied together daily! But your buddy Riley, he died in the spring. Both of you gone too soon.

I miss going skating with you. I miss using you as a footrest. I miss catching all the love beams you were always sending my way—always watching me, constantly keeping your eye on things, forever making sure I was safe and more importantly that I wasn't gonna leave you behind. I'm not going anywhere, boy, I'm right here.

Lefty at the river. 

Lefty at the fire lookout. 

Lefty at the skatepark. 

Lefty at the desert lake.

 Lefty and me forever. 

3 Things

Life and death in the forest. On the lot in Three Rivers, in darkest night, I let Piney out of the camper to pee. His ears perked up and he bolted off into the black. I yelled after him—but puppies don't come back when called, especially puppies on the hunt. A car was coming and as it passed, I heard it, the awful noise—the deadly thud. Confusion. Running. A black shape in the neighbor's yard. A set of eyes reflecting back at me in the flashlight beam. And a soft pale shape slumped on the ground. The car had hit—not Piney, but a baby deer. Piney had been chasing the baby deer, was maybe even upon the baby deer as it met its violent end. Like you'd imagine, the dog was terrified. The space of a single breath between his little body and death. There but for the grace of gods go I. The next morning, I peeked out the camper window and saw the mother doe standing over the carcass of her babe. When the crows got too close, she chased them away. Minutes unfolded. Cars drove by. Finally, she wandered off into the forest.

The last river days. Despite the Indian summer, the wildfires burning, the red dawn and ash dropping everywhere—despite that, the passage is happening. Summer receding, fall emerging. Usually you can't remember the last time you went to the river, because you didn’t know it was gonna be the last time—but this year's different. Sunday, we went to the Lewis for a swim, and it was hot but not too hot and the water was cool. The sun disappeared behind some trees too early, so we sat in the mellow shade. It was impossibly relaxing, improbably quiet. You could feel it—the end, and how the seasons go right on without us.

The Gorge on fire. Red sun, red moon, ridges on ridges incinerating. It's our turn for a natural disaster—in everyone's favorite place to go for cosmic nature-spiration. Stay safe, everyone. Keep your people and animals close. Send drinking water and vibrations to all the firefighters. The world as we know it is forever changed.

(Pic from Oregonlive.com)

  

Late Summer To-Do List

1. Keep my garden alive. 90 degrees, for 90 days straight, or it feels like it anyway. If you need me, I'll be out back watering.

2. Skate backyard mini ramps. This is always on my to-do list. My priorities are forever straight in this department.

3. Tiptoe my way back to reading. My dog ate my book. True story. He ate page 301-333—the last 30 pages. Time for a new story and a fresh start.

4. Avocados and watermelon. The foods of summer. More of them, please.

5. Eat dinner outside every night until rains. Have dinner conversations with the bees and hummingbirds.

6. Ride my bike to the bar. A luxury of the dry, not-totally-fucking-freezing months.

7. Procure a T shirt dress. A lazy lady's must-have staple of the Indian Summer.

8. Get a little sunburnt—one last time. Just a little, for old times sake!