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.

                                  

Commencement Day

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

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

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

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.