Comfort Media

It rained today. Jedda the pup doesn't like the rain. She was born in a heat wave, house trained on the hard summer dirt. Now she’s a warm-weather princess in a fur-feather boa—and I’ve never had a dog before who gave two-shits about the weather?

In the last weeks, the fall light has warmed to perfectly golden brown. I’ve been tired, I’ve had a cold, I’ve spent my nights mostly inside on soft surfaces, wearing soft things. As the days get shorter, like moth to flame, I go in search of mental coziness. It’s a gauzy-plush free fall into a nest of comfort media—which for me is rugged-beautiful adventure documentaries and old-person arts-and-entertainment podcasts. See below!

FREE SOLO: Newsflash—Alex Honnold free-soloed up El Cap in Yosemite. This documentary on Honnold's adventure, while ostensibly about the man and his rock, for me was really about relationships—and the ways they hold you back.

GIVEN: A beautifully framed piece about nomadic surf travel through the eyes of a toddler. Let's all quit our jobs and roam wherever we wish and most of all—never wear shoes again.

FRESH AIR WITH ADAM COHEN—LEONARD COHEN'S SON: Terry interviews Adam about his dad Leonard. Adam isn't an easy interview—his brain's wired differently like his old man's. That makes this talk richer, more thought provoking, more full of a cool kind of sad beauty.

Soft Indian Summer

En route to finding rest after the long summer, here's what I've been doing:

In the last heat of the lingering harvest, I rode up Powell Butte at sunset. There was only enough time to catch my breath and score a peek of the salmon pink sky before riding back down ahead of the falling darkness. But, in September, the night falls too fast. I ended up in the blackness on a forest trail.

I celebrated my birthday by doing absolutely nothing special, except acknowledging the passage of time, and how some things (like skateboarding) get harder but are somehow more important than ever to keep doing, while other affairs (like not taking things personally) get easier and make growing older truly sweet—which is why I've never once, not ever, wished I was younger.

I went to Idaho with pals and reconnected with my love for skate tourism. Jedda the pup came too and proved herself a naturally talented road tripper.

My big sister came to town. She wears all black all the time, and so it was only fitting that we took her out to explore hills cast in black by forest fire. It was unseasonably dry and hot. We cooled quenched with tall beers.

On a stormy Sunday night, I watched a movie called Hold the Dark, and although it wasn't at all cold in the house, I shivered with the deep bone chill of the Arctic, and the scenery and the story made my head spin, and I dreamt of it that night, and I'm still wondering about it now really.

Catskill Weekend Of Love

I read somewhere that humans are "mostly restlessness and empty space." The lucky thing is to find someone great who calms you down and fills you up, and spend as much time with them as possible, and come away renewed. That's how my friends Liane and Brian are.

Last weekend, we hopped an early flight to Newark, NJ and skirted around New York City, headed North into the soft, deep forests of the Catskill Mountain Range. The purpose of this journey was to watch Liane and Brian get married in front of a lake that perfectly reflects the sky.

We stayed on the top floor of a 200-year-old farm house in Roscoe, New York—also known as Trout Town USA. Also known as the locale where Dirty Dancing was filmed. Roscoe, home to corn fields and shallow, sparkling rivers. Home to tomato vines and cheesemongers. Home to pastoral backdrops bursting with deciduous beauty.

I don't pretend to understand love. It's not something you can buy, sell or own. It's not yours, it's not mine. I know it when I see it, though. And last weekend, it was everywhere.

As Of Late

Goodbye, Cougar: Last week, I set crystals in the window to catch the light. Because in the late evening of late August, Cougar died. She died of old age, quietly, at home. As partners, we rode together for 19 years. Another lifetime ago, at an apartment on 12th street in my senior year of college, she used her pin-sharp kitten claws to climb the curtains while I tried to sleep a hangover off. What a privilege to be present for a entire life from beginning to end—and all the places that took us. She's lived in the mountains, she's lived by the sea. She's lived in a small town, she's lived in the city. Cougar, you were a great friend. You never let a lap go empty. You never let a puppy get you down. You came on dog walks at your leisure. You opened the bedroom door I'd latched shut. You, a mouse-killer with rabbit-soft fur. You, forever tidy in a grey tuxedo. You, curled up on the couch—a sense of peace brought into the room by your sleeping form. Cougar, you will be missed.

Homesteading, Labor Day edition: The thing with building things is that it takes time. I'm impatient. After a day of breaking every-known OSHA law on the tippy top of a latter with a nail gun clutched in my spindly arms, I lie in bed staring at the stars, and my heart bursts with wanting it all done right now and Wifi installed so I can sit at my desk before the window writing, while outside, happy trees repose.

Holiday speed wobbles: To wind up the weekend, we bombed the long hill from the Portland Zoo through the city to the Willamette River and the beers beyond. It was a national holidayand so the sidewalks were stacked with many shiny souls. It was an unflinching cruise through cars, humans, greenery, grit and grime. While I dislike driving or even riding my bike in traffic, skating through the human sea is different altogether—I find it's a fine way to invite the anarchy of the city.

The Days Of Piney Past

The heat here continues. All sense of freshness gone. Out with July and the tiger swallowtails. It was this time last year when Piney first learned to swim. At the Sandy, in a pool between the rocks, he discovered—you can float and paddle and make waves and it’s fun. He spent that afternoon swimming in circles, splashing a storm and biting the water as it rained down on him. Thus began a great career in watersports. Piney swam for joy, not fetch or concern for others’ safety. It was wonderful to behold.

Piney passed away in the spring. On Friday, April 30that 5:30 p.m., we “put him down,” that old euphemism for ending a life that I’ve used and worn like a suit of armor against the awful truth—that we stopped Piney’s life at a year and a half old because he had become suddenly angry and fearful, scary and aggressive. He started attacking us around the house. Whenever he felt nervous, or threatened. I quit bringing him to work. We called in a pro trainer. Life at home became tense and unpredictable, alternating between violence and silly joy—when he force-snuggled us in bed and spent laidback hours stretched out asleep in the sun by the cat.

We never knew what to expect.

Then came that last week. That last attack. Before Mark could get outside to pull Piney off me, the dog had pulverized my forearm and left a toothmark so deep in the palm of my hand you could see the pale pink muscle fiber squeezing through. I was bleeding. I was terrified. I loved Piney, and I knew couldn’t live this way anymore.

There aren’t many options for animals like him. We looked. We tried. We cried.

The last night we were all together was sweet-scented and summery. Mark and I took Piney to Mt. Tabor, laid out a blanket and drank cans of beer as the sun set, throwing morsels at Piney from a pile of treats so big his eyes grew round when he saw it. Liminality was in the air all around us. You are here now. You will be gone tomorrow.

I know we did the right thing. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Ending his life, it was the hardest decision I’ve yet to make. Everyone—the vet, the behavior therapist, our families—reminded us that Piney wasn’t healthy. We heard their advice. But. It was our decision and ours alone to make. We learned a hard lesson—how deeply responsible we are for our animals. After all they’re not teddy bears but sentient beings with minds and freewill. We bring them into our world, and we are responsible for them. This responsibility is really just the other side of love. The stronger the bond, the heavier lies the weight.

We measure our lives through our dogs. Family visits. Friends that came and went. First skatepark business. First real job in a decade. I remember the dog I had for all of these.

I remember Piney as the dog who we housetrained in the middle of an ice storm. The dog who spent the night on a mountain in a blizzard and kept us warm. The dog who made a parcel of land in the woods near Bend feel like home. The dog who loved my elderly cat Cougar so much he nearly exploded every time she walked in the room. I remember a life-affirming sunrise hike to the rim of red-rock cliffs with him. I remember the time we splitboarded up Tilly Jane. The wind on the ridge was fierce and he cowered against the leeward side of my legs. On the ride down, he chased me so close I nicked his paw pad with the steel of my edge.

I remember a lot about him.

I hope I always do.