lost cascadia

Baby I'll Be Your Crashpad

2010-04-02T10:41:00.001-07:00

Evening bouldering session above Hidden Valley Campground

The Hobbit Hole. A V0+ offwidth. The last send of the trip

Sheri sending a solid V1.

The travel-size climber crushes harder than most of us who're two feet taller than she.

The Hiatus

2010-04-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

You may or may not have noticed, but Lost Cascadia has been on a bit of a hiatus lately. Ever since leaving the coast in October, I've been directing the majority of my focus towards Wend magazine, where I've been interning until recently becoming a contributing editor. If you haven't already, check out my stuff here. Also be sure to sift around and explore the site, the Wend crew has been loading the site with great content.

Moving on, I'm hoping to get back on track and resume posting to the Lost Cascadia blog regularly. There's some new projects in the works, such as Traveling Soles (sneak peak above,) and also a huge (and I mean huge) bicycle trip coming up in two months. I'll post more on it later, but for now here's a map of the route I intend to follow over the summer.

So stay tuned and keep exploring.

-Rick

Autumn First Full Moon

2009-10-05T16:05:00.000-07:00

October 4th was the first full moon of the fall and out here on the coast the sky was clear, illuminating Cape Kiwanda. At midnight I wandered out to enjoy this solace and shoot some beloved bulb shots of the majestic landscapes withheld under La Luna. I found no better mode to share my findings than the simple Haiku accompanied by some exposures.

high above the sea

eerie incandescent bulb

captures cresting wave

come new moon warm light

sparking ocean revival

transforms kiwanda

standing on long end

a skeletal vibrato

tide beating ear drum

Surf Fishin' Be Bitchin'

2009-10-05T15:53:00.000-07:00

(warning: content contains cursing like a sailor)

Six hours a day in the water has gotten me well acquainted with the ocean, but I know I’m still far from obtaining the waterman status of the guys I read about in the pages of The Surfer’s Journal.

The wind has been blowing onshore all day, turning what little surf exists into chop. So what do watermen do when the surf is down? They catch dinner—which is exactly what I decide to do.

At the bait and tackle shop in town I buy supplies and rig myself a decently complicated—if I do say so meself—set up. A 20lb leader on a barrel swivel with two #3 drop hooks and a 3oz. pyramid weight. Combine that with the 11’ surf pole my Pops hooked me up with and I look like the shit.

Knowing the cape like the back of my hand, I climb down near the boulder garden where I’ve seen fish jumping daily. Finding a high post, I pull the top of the bait can full of sand shrimp.

Oh god, the poor bastards are still alive!

Grasping a little guy, I start to get choked up… “Wait a minute” I think, “I’m a stone cold waterman, quit being such a ninny.” And so, clenching my teeth I tap into my machismo and punch the hook through the soft abdomen.

Preparing to cast I realize how bid an 11’ pole really is. It’s huge. Reel engaged, line pinched, I cock back and let loose towards the sea, watching as the shrimp go flying, no longer hooked to the line.

Oh goddamit! Not only did I cause them unpleasant pain, but I failed them the honor of fulfilling their duty. It was like a missing the casket with the flaming arrow during a Viking burial. Those shrimp must think I’m a huge asshole. I promise the rest of them it won’t happen again.

I hurl the next round of bait nearly fifty yards but reel it in to no avail. The third cast yields a hit. I give it a snap but can’t sink the hook… the theme for the rest of the evening. With each bite I practice technique; feeding line here, quick tugs there, but nothing works.

As my bait stock dwindles the only thing I’ve accomplished is hosting a dinner party for a hungry school of fish and I’m starting to think I should have just eaten the bait myself… then it hits.

I give it some line, then reel it back in. The somnabitch is a real go-getter, forcing me to take a seat. No matter how much I crank the rod, I can’t bring ‘er in… then it hits me. I’ve been in a ten-minute match with the sear floor. I decide to release it.

With the last of my shrimp gone, I retreat to my beer, sulking over the long road ahoe to waterman status… Oh shit, the Top Ramen is burning!

Summer's Best

2009-10-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

October has arrived and so has the classic Oregon rain. But before transitioning into sipping hot cocoa and getting lost in corn mazes, I've sifted through the summer's photos and chosen my favorite exposure from each trip or event. Here's to another great Northwest summer...

At the very end of the school year, I hopped in Darren's car on one of his weekly Smith trips. Here he is climbing Burl-master (5.13d)

The first big endeavor of summer was climbing Mt. Hood (ele. 11,249'). This is Rory. He'd graduated several before and would be leaving his home Oregon, where he'd been for 6 years, for good in two days.

My good friend and Volifonix frontman Trevor and I have an interesting history on Cape Kiwanda that translated into a song titled "Three Good Friends." They decided to make it their first music video and it was shot on site on the Cape.

I joined my roommate Porter and some of our friends at the local pizza buffet before they headed off to climb Mt. Thielsen (elev. 9,184'). Sure enough I was rushing home to pack the bare essentials and off I went with them. I didn't regret it.

The way I got roped into climbing Thielsen was an agreement Henry and I made. If I climbed Thielsen, Henry would join me on the canoe trip--Eugene to Corvallis via the Willamette--that I'd been planning for weeks.

I wrote a travel article about breweries and adventure for Beer Northwest. I was trying to think of a way to combine the two and my photography mentor, Dan Morrison, recommended this idea. Major props to Ninkasi for allowing this to happen and to Matt Frick for steppin' up to the plate.

South Sister is by far the most crowded summit I've ever seen. For twelve hours, however, my buddy Tommy and I enjoyed the summit all to ourselves with a few Anderson Valley Crema Cervezas and an astro bivy at 10,363' to boot.

After graduating from the University of Oregon in September, I ran for the coast to collect myself. There I met some interesting characters who helped make my coastal sojourn a memorable one.

Dawn Patrol

2009-09-28T12:22:00.000-07:00

Through the eastern window of my bedroom, the orange glow of the rising sun blankets the coastal range. Rummaging for my glasses, I laboriously struggle out of bed and stumble upstairs.

I’m not a morning person, but the rich coffee aroma and possibility of glassy surf makes me a devout member of dawn patrol. From my third story post, I scope the cove through my binoculars… chest high peelers and only two guys out. I pour my java into my travel mug and grab a pear, pack my wetsuit into my pack and pedal north to the point with my nine-footer tucked under my arm.

Four of us—all familiar faces—share the early morning surf. Gary, an older local with long gray hair and a bulldog stature, trims the waves from the nose of his log as effortlessly as buttering his breakfast toast. Another local, Stan, sits deep inside the cove and carves long, endless rides. These dawn sessions are the only time I see Bates, the local shaper and shop owner, in the lineup.

By 10 o’clock the lineup has nearly tripled, which means breakfast time. For the past week, the swells have been consistent, but mid-afternoon winds occasionally turn onshore, adding chop to the surf.

Come sundown, there’s been a welcome trend of offshore winds. Paddling out at sunset is enchanting. The sun punches holes in the jade green walls of the Pacific creating a passage into sanctuary. Sitting in the lineup, the spray catches the low angled solar rays, casting a rainbow that trails the barrel.

Surfing until dark wraps another days worth of tranquility to be continued when dusk becomes dawn tomorrow.

Stranger than Strangers

2009-09-25T14:48:00.000-07:00

“Strangers are people I haven’t yet met,” Steve-O, the skydiver whom I met at the Point the previous afternoon, tells me. Strangers can also become instant friends, which is why I’m moseying towards a Taiwanese man with long thin facial hair and a black braided hair tucked in a weathered truckers cap. He’s posted in front of a beat up white van watching the surf through tortoise shell glasses in the shade of his multi-colored beach umbrella.

I compliment his rig and we get to talking. Shortly after introducing, Salat (saw-lot) invites me to sit down on a broken stool and offers me a beer. Salat and his wife are road tripping to San Francisco along 101, but a ding repair has sidelined him in Pacific City and he might not make it to the Golden Gate due to time restraints.

He isn’t bothered by it one bit.

“This is like surfing nirvana,” he exclaims. The past three days has been nothing short of sunshine, consistent 4-6’ swells, and with the weekend crowd come and gone, fairly empty. Though momentarily boardless, a former stranger named Mike offers his longboard to Salat. The mid-afternoon surf is mediocre at best, with winds turning onshore, but Salat’s ecstatic grin after catching a couple waves pushes Mike and I into the water.

After what turns out to be a decent session, I head up to the van where Salat compliments me on my timing while arranging fresh albacore tuna on the grill. Handing me a plate of grub and a glass of IPA, we talk travel—past, present and future. Once Salat fulfills his cultural obligation of feed guests until they can’t swallow another bite, I insist on washing the dishes. When I return from the shower, Salat’s board has reappeared from Seven Surf Shop.

With the sun nearing the horizon, I leave Salat and Kadai to enjoy the last sunset of summer together as I wander around the beach wishing everyone a happy equinox… and shortly thereafter a new moon.

Once the sun crests the long blue horizon, I find Salat curiously eyeing the surf and before I realize the side ache we’re in the line up with winds blowing offshore and glassy five foot sets rolling in. I could not imagine a more serene way to end the summer.

The next morning I paddle out at the first sunrise of the fall. From the lineup I see the white van. Salat and Kadai are headed for Winchester Bay in search of more surf and new sights. As we part ways, Salat reminds me to keep meeting new people, and I assure my friend that I surely will.

Pickin ye Blunder

2009-09-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

(September 19, 2009 is National Speak Like a Pirate Day, therefore it was boat rule that all conversation aboard the vessel must be carried out in Pirate jargon. In due response, this entry shall conform to those standards.)

Y’argh the blarney tide be slippin off yonder and me mateys and I be droppin traps fer the buggers that be crawlin 'long Davey Jones locker in Netarts Bay. The three of us be handy racin up the lanyard an riggin sails an plunderin boats, but we be newbees pullin crustacean from the deep. Pete the master baiter on board be settin the traps with bottom fish and fowl while scallywag Pyle be swabbin the decks. I be mannin the riggin. Ay the traps be tossed, we pillage and plunder the bay be eyein the wenches and drownin the swill.

Shiver me timbers, the first round o' pots be bloddy empty and the crew be drownin the sorrow with swill. It be lookin like another eve burying rum on an empty belly fer the crew. Even we pirates be suffrin the rampant reseshen.

With less than one turn o’ the hourglass, we sail south yonder our ferthest pot and be pullin a full cage o crabbys. Takin cue, we toss whatever chum an traps we got handy, lookin forward to a feastin. At days end we be scramblin with five buggers over ten shillings each. The day be endin with a plank walkin as deck swab Pyle be traitin flags tryin to run home crab in hand ignoring to the traditional feastin to be had after a day at salty sea. Tis be a watery grave… couldn’t swab the deck clean anyways the blasted popper.

Flight with the Ex-Presidents

2009-09-22T14:44:00.000-07:00

It’s so crammed inside the small Cessna it feels like I'm playing a long game of Twister with the other passengers--they're only temporary though. Cowered behind the pilot seat, I observe the anxious faces of three men about to take a 10,000’ tumble. I myself have a parachute loosely strapped on in case I see the bottom of the pilot’s sneakers leaving the plane, but I'm hoping for the best. Rick, the veteran jumper, tells me I’m better off going down with the craft than pulling the rip on the spare shoot. Worse comes to worse, I figure I can tap into my “radical son of a bitch” side and hitch a ride like Keanu in Point Break (the entire time I'm wondering if these guys could be the Ex-Presidents. There's only three out of four though, and I reserve a moment of silence and gratitude for a recent fallen icon).

The fact that we’re 10,000’ over the Pacific is a bit unsettling, but watching the jumpers launch off the wing I, in an odd way, hope for the shit to hit the fan so I skydive sans $200 fee. Glancing yonder at Cape Kiwanda, however, I have second thoughts and decide I’m comfortable where I am, especially now that won Twister and have the entire cabin to stretch my legs out.

The view from up top offers a perspective I’ve imagined my entire life watching the small aircrafts constantly flying overhead in Pacific City. Cutting through the low-lying wetlands, the Nestucca River snakes its way from the coastal mountains and empties into the sea. From up here, the dune looks like nothing more than a bump and Cape Kiwanda between Cascade Head and Cape Lookout resembles Jerry Garcia’s ring finger. Haystack Rock—or Point Rock as I’ve come to know it—wears a white judges wig of sea foam visible only from this vantage.

Distracted by the view, I nearly excrete my innards in an instant as Captain Mike catches some G-force on turns that make my horizontal photographs appear to be taken in vertical composition.

Dropping in hot at the P.C. airstrip, Mike tells me not to hang on to anything but my seatbelt—preparing me for a rough landing. Surprisingly, touch down is flawless. “Not bad for a beginner huh?” the Captain tells me.

Coastal Days

2009-09-22T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm turnin' my back to the Valley and the Cascades and skippin' West to find my balance at the coast for a month. While I'm in Pacific City Oregon, I'll be surfing, hiking/moseying, photographing, writing and meeting eclectic strangers in hopes of getting my head straight.

Here's the view from my deck.

Commencement Day

2009-09-03T18:33:00.001-07:00

Today marks the last day of my college career. Since I forewent the "walking" process, I decided to treat my folks to a graduation self-portrait. We all remember the "first day of school" photographs our parents took of us when we were in grade school--back when our parents used to dress us as well. As an ode to those days, I decided to end my scholarly days dressed the same way as I started them. Thanks Mums and Pops.

Don't think this means I've grown up though.

Summit Brews to You

2009-08-31T17:02:00.000-07:00

Light and fast is the mantra of the new era of climbers, which sometimes makes last minute packing decisions at the trailhead painstakingly difficult. The sturdy tent typically takes a seat to the lightweight tarp; camp shoes are an accoutrement so luxurious, yet so unnecessary. Thus, after an hours worth of debate and debacle, packs carry the bare minimum.

Why is so much comfort sacrificed for the sake of a little weight off the shoulders?

While the answer varies individually, there’s one simple reason why I choose to climb sans comfort… the summit brew(s).

My Oregonian roots have grounded a personal passion for beer and the outdoors, and the combination of the two might as well be heaven on Earth. I might camp atop a windy, frigid mountain with only a thermal and thin raincoat for layers, but the two stouts I packed in place of the insulating layer provide all the warmth and comfort I need.

Think I'm crazy? Check out the other adventure junkies who love good brew as much as I do at UpaDowna (Up a mountain, Down a beer).

Another Day Grindin' Up Stones

2009-08-24T17:43:00.000-07:00

At Four p.m. we depart the Devils Lake campground en route to the summit of the South Sister. From here on until the top we carry on despite the skeptical reactions of those we pass by on the trail after we inform them of our camp destination atop the 10,340' summit. In three hours we make the final push to the caldera that awaits us at the top and watch the sun sink beneath the coast range. Oddly enough, my camera's memory card malfunctions just before sundown and the only images I have are tucked safely in my mind.

After a windy slumber atop the peak, we mosey out on the glacial caldera and filter water that taste as though it'd been blessed by Charity herself. Rotating 360 degrees one last time, we say our farewells to the panoramic views that surround us and make space for the 100+ people (not an exaggeration) trudging towards the summit. The heavy traffic running up the cinder pile saturates the alpine air with dust, and a dip in the glacial pool is irresistible. On a mountain so crowded, it's the only place few will venture and I swim alone.

With Broken Top and Bachelor bordering us to the east and the Sisters to our backs, we hop in the Wilderness Battleram and take of northeast along the Cascade Lakes Highway towards Smith Rock for a couple days worth of high-angle goodness.

Shortly after arriving and getting ahold of our buddy over at the Phoenix wall, we check out a grassy patch for a second, lie down for a minute, and nap for an hour. Two hours later we're finally rope up for a couple pitches and retreat to 7th Street Brewhouse for a couple pints of Cascade Lakes Grizzly Mountain Stout.

Since I didn't get a chance to shoot some cosmic exposures (which I can't get enough of), I pulled out the tripod at North Point and captured the Milky Way above the Marsupials.

The sun rises above the Marsupials and instantly bakes us in our sleeping bags like uman Hot Pockets. A dirt bag breakfast of granola, yogurt and cowboy coffee kicks the day off as we read the beta for some pitches in the park. We set off with a slight idea of what we want to climb, and in ten minutes we're making the steep, crumbling approach to Voyage of Cowdog; a relatively new 5.9 multipitch. As we roped up, a local halfway up the first pitch twists his head 90 degrees about his torso and eyes us from his perch. Three draws into the route he decides to get some shut eye for the afternoon and soars away.

Atop the second pitch, Hardman turns over the sharp end to me for the summit pitch. The latter two pitches were like ugly step children compared to this final 60' of clean volcanic tough and exposure that puts 500' of air beneath your ass. The holds were there, but the route proved mentally draining. The runouts between the bolts makes 20' whippers into the void a real possibility, which became even more real during the final stretch. Battling 60' worth of rope drag over a bulge leaning over the deck a long ways below posts the toughest clip I've faced in my two years climbing. Reaching for the rope pinched between my torso and the bulge, I waste no time clipping into the draw and my breath rate relaxes simultaneously with the snap of the caribiner gate.

Resting at the anchor I laugh while looking on toward the Sisters and our campsite atop Charity.

Almost... Mostly

2009-08-18T13:20:00.000-07:00

I don't have a stopwatch. I don't have shoes with a sensor that tells me how far I've gone nor do I have an iPod to fill my head with motivational soundtracks. The only running attire I have is a pair of four year old trail shoes where rocks and dirt sneak in through the gaping holes near my big toe.

I am by no means what you'd call a runner, but I love running.

I pay no heed to logging my runs according to distance nor time, rather by the things that I see and feel.

This short animation is an astounding representation of what running is to me; a chance to explore and observe the surrounding environment that you wouldn't typically experience otherwise.

Onwards from AKQA on Vimeo.

Skating is Commuting

2009-07-30T10:38:00.001-07:00

I love street skating but I've never been that good at it. I can't pop big sets of stairs or slide down hand rails, but I find pure enjoyment trying to mimic the nonchalant style of Tom Penny while cruising to class, work, the market or wherever. I was always infatuated by Penny's style because he looks like he was merely skating to some destination rather than the typical try and try again style of the top pros pulling ridiculous maneuvers over big gaps and long rails.

This is one of my favorite skate parts of all time from Flip Skateboard's first film, Sorry.

I recently came upon this segment of skateboard--now musician--Tommy Guerrero pushing the streets of San Fran and my love for skateboarding has once again been solidified. This is the essence of skateboarding. I can picture Tommy saying, "Ma, I'm gonna run and get some milk... be back soon!"

VoliFoniX @ the Coast

2009-07-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

Early this summer, Volifonix climbed the dune with instruments in tow as the explored the shore for the perfect spot to shoot their first music video for their track, Three Good Friends. In their never-ending episode to rock the Coast, they wrapped up a four set show in Yachats--the gem of the Oregon Coast--with a fire and an open invitation to kick it with Ninkasi.

Here's a slideshow narrated with the help of Volifonix lead singer and guitarist Trevor Forbess about the making of the video:

After passing out at sunrise the vehicles were loaded and the crew skipped north to Cape Kiwanda to shoot at the conception site of the song.

A day on the cape with the VFX crew I didn't mind spendin' time. Tomo spent his time hanging from rock protrusions while Joe went tumbling down the dune.

Afterwards, Elijah stood in dismay as the market's Aloe Vera supply was drained.

Listen to VoliFoniX

Insomnia on Hood

2009-07-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

Rory slams his third (but not last) 5-Hour Energy drink as Hardman and I race to change into warmer clothes while we wait for Tommy and Peter to show up in the Timberline parking lot. It's 11:00pm and none of us has slept for sixteen hours and now we're preparing to summit Mt. Hood.

Having conceived the plan just days before, we were now attempting all of our first ascent of the tallest mountain in Oregon sans guide. I've never even ascended a peak over 6,000 feet.

Burning up the terrain park at Timberline, we were en route to the Pearly Gates via the Hogsback. Within the first couple miles we were greeted by cold shoulders at the warming hut courtesy of those forgoing the slow march up the groomed tracks to Palmer Glacier. We would later reconvene with these folks as we waited for them to slowly ascend (and painfully) the final steep push to the summit where we were forced to withstand the putrid sulfuric stench billowing from the fumerol nearby.

Eventually patience paid off and we ran up the steep slope through the Pearly Gates and traversed the knife edge to the abandoned summit.

In the screaming wind we found solace as Rory and Pete slugged their summit brews while I tried to swallow my stomach back not capable of thinking about drinking the Longhammer IPA I'd packed up, (It was to be enjoyed with the company of a sandwich the following day.)

Staving off altitude sickness in a state of insomnia left us stumbling during descent. Unfortunately for us the hard snow kept the convenience of glaciading--or sliding and self-arresting downhill--out of question. The snow was also bumpy, making a shovel ride a painful ferry, aside from the groomed trails, but the skiers weren't stoked about that.

After 26 sleepless hours, the parking lot never seemed to get any closer, but the thought of burritos, Dos Equis and bed kept our feet moving and eventually we found ourselves back in the concrete jungle where Rory downed another 5-Hour Energy. We were dead tired, dehydrated, hungry, and hurting... but most of all, stoked.

Thielsen on a Whim

2009-07-15T14:40:00.000-07:00

Sitting stuffing as much food as we can at the local pizza buffet, I find a buddy willing to paddle the Willamette to Corvallis with me so far as I climb Mt. Thielsen with he and some friends.

Twenty minutes later I'm packing quickly and crammed into the back of Henry's pickup.

Just north of Crater Lake and brushing east of Mt. Bailey and Diamond Lake, Thielsen stands 9,184' into the sky in a spire fit for a Tim Burton film.

Thielsen, Diamond Lake, Bailey

The scramble to the summit push was sketchy loose scree. It required light feet and a quick pace.

Henry's boots gave him blisters, driving him to hike in sandals. For the last forty vertical feet, however, he was deduced to bare feet.

The traditional summit brew.

Will-a-met-té

2009-07-06T23:24:00.000-07:00

Contrary to the common opinion of the Willamette River, the mild paddle along its course is surprisingly serene. Three days culminated into these haiku's and a few exposures.

late start boat packed

flooded rig too long delay

scrape bottom chow well

two bridges new city

five sheep lay roaming on shore

two burns rest by sunset

corn valley spare time

forty tees pulling soaring saucers

sunny day shade tree

Haiku inspiration stems from the works by Taku Hokoyama in Frank Wolf's "Boreal Summer," featured Fall '08 in Wend magazine. The article peaked an interest in canoeing that has thus far been an eclectic safari.

The full story is in progress.

When It Comes Around

2009-05-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

The sun was setting on the McKenzie River Highway and I had two kayakers cold and ready for a brew. While Peter and I made it to the shuttle car, Tommy's lost drain plug left him stranded in a backyard somewhere near Eagle Rock. As I cruised down the road, I breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted Tommy looking like a fool as he waved his arms like a drunken sailor. I hit the blinker and pulled to the shoulder to scoop him.

Quick on the draw, he was in the car before I could help him get his kayak on the racks... but there was no kayak to load. When I leaned in to ask its whereabouts, I was startled at the sight of a dirty weathered man parked in my passenger seat.

"I ain't mean no harm man," he tells me. "There's a little store three miles down the road, can you take me there?" Befuddled I agree but explain that he's out once I spot my buddy. "I ain't mean no harm man," he assures me.

His name's Ted and I try to piece his story together with little success. "What year's this car man?" he asks. I tell him it's a '73 Ghia. "When they're still ion charged," I can't tell if it's a question or a statement and nod my head. "You know like a burst in the atmosphere?" he says.

I chuckle and nervously eye the weird electronic device protruding from his old purple pack while he continues to brokenly ramble. I ask what it is but his attention is soon transfixed on the grass stain on my jeans that he equates to marijuana. "Weed man. You should smoke a joint you know." Please... please don't pull out a joint I thought. Whatever this guy was smoking, I wanted none of it.

"You know what... JOHN Lennon," he bursts. What else could I do but nod? I was trying to focus on finding Tommy, but how could I focus when Ted was lecturing me about how bears from Alaska--where he's from--are bigger than Oregon bears and want to eat he and I. That's when we pulled up alongside Peter's car at the putin and I had to give ol' Ted the boot.

He asked how far away the store was. Neither of us had any idea, but I told him about a mile as I'm fairly sure it didn't matter.

While I was a tad nervous the entire time, I was happy to cross paths with Ted. It's these random encounters that keep me separated from the "daily norm." What should have been a ordinary run down the McKenzie became an experience.

I wonder if he found that store?

Spring escapade

2009-03-02T09:44:00.000-08:00

Spring break is coming up and trip plans are in progress. This year the crew is embarking upon a multi-day canoe journey down the Siletz River on the coast. Inspiration for the (mis)adventure comes from one of Cascadia's best journalists, Frank Wolf, and his project in the Boreal forest of Canadia. Check it.

Equipped with my neighbor's old canoe, a little river sense and unabiding desire to explore new means of discovery, Peter, Porter and I will set out on what will be our first adventure by boat.

Road Karma(nn Ghia)

2009-02-22T18:31:00.000-08:00

I wasn't lost in space, but I'm glad Greg thought I was.

For over five years my '73 Volkswagen has been my travel companion. Countless trips to Central Oregonia and sporadic roundabouts to the coast of Norcalia and the VW has never quit. That's why my gut sank when the gas pedal went lifeless and we coasted into a desolate rest stop at 10:00 PM on a recent trip to Portlandia.

Shit. Stranded right? If you've never driven a Volkswagen before, there's a few things you should know. You NEVER leave home without a toolkit and extra oil... NEVER. If you do, your car will break down. Murphy's Law. Second, if you do have a toolkit, the problem can usually be fixed.

Poking and prodding around the engine looking for the culprit of my bum pedal, I was having little luck as I've only begun embarking on the challenge of learning how my 4-cylinder German engine works and building mechanical competency.

After close to half an hour of tinkering, I had nothing to show for my work but hands slick and darkened with oil.

Then Greg rolled into the rest stop for what would be the longest piss break of his life.

For an hour we pulled fuel lines, tightened clamps and scraped corroded points trying to solve the riddle. Finally, I caught an inconspicuous metal pin lying behind the battery at the same time Greg's face took an disconcerting look as he eyed the empty hole in the fuel pump.

Cursing German's uncanny ability to place nuts and bolts in the most awkward of locations, we finally pulled the pump free and made the reparation.

Voila. The Ghia sprung to life.

With nothing but a few dimes, half-drank coffee and some old toothpicks, I told Greg I had nothing to offer but good karma.

"Dude... we fixed your car," he said as he approached me for an oily high-five. "Now get to Portlandia."

I can't help but wonder the chances are that someone would help another for an hour on a a late Sunday evening. Greg would have easily been home by the time we finished reparations. The way he put it is, "if you were in outer space, I couldn't just leave you there."

Perhaps all who drive VWs are in fact lost in space, and maybe that's why no matter where you are there's individuals like Greg around to get you back in orbit.

It hardly rained last Thursday

2009-02-11T10:54:00.000-08:00

The Cascadia weather is always a topic of conversation. Sitting in a cafe, "it's freezing today," or "god I hate the rain" bounce around the dim lit environment. People come to Oregon and fall into a somber state, dragging their feet through puddles.
Truth is, it hadn't rained for a week and for some it was almost overbearing standing under a cold shower fully clothed while beating a cookie sheat to recreate that last great thunderstorm. Raised in Pacific Northwest, the odd climatical patterns sweeping past Juan de Fuca and bombarding the Cascardes are a thing of the norm, and most certainly enjoyable.
In a world evermore standard, the sporadic rainshowers amidst a bluebird day are a welcome change. A change I can believe in. Caught in a hailstorm in boardshorts and a tie-dye tanktop is a remembered moment. Walking to class in reefs on a clear day is not.
There is a sense of apology to be felt for those who stuggle to adapt to Cascadias eclectic weather. The ability to rearrange one's perception of ideal weather from standard sun to sudden storms is not an easy task. To truly appreciate the cascadia frontier, however, respect for the elements who stand atop the ladder of hierarchy is necessary.