Summer's Best

  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.

Pickin ye Blunder

                              

(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

                                      

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

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.

                                  

VoliFoniX @ the Coast

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

Will-a-met-té

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.

It hardly rained last Thursday

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.