Dog Days of Summer

In the mornings, the first hint of autumn creeps through open windows. Dusk comes earlier each evening. Even the bold trade in their t-shirts for long sleeves during the brisk nights. As if attempting to stake its claim on the day, summer warms the lazy afternoons. These days are few, but important.

Like the bottom of a cold beer, I treasure the last few weeks of summer. I enjoy the last breaths of summer and search for the first hints of fall. Torn between bidding farewell to the warm comfort of summer and the excitement of change, I cherish both in the dog days of summer.

The first apples of the autumn.

Lazy drives with meandering destinations.

Hikes above tree line on Mt. Hood.

Rides on dirt roads in a 1952 Willys Jeep.

My dad and brother watching a glider circle the 11,000-foot peak.

The last blueberries of the season.

Wind torn trees on a ridge on Mt. Hood.

The first bites of a ripe pear.

Lazy Sundays in fields.

Recently, I enjoyed one such Sunday in early September near Mt. Hood in the Columbia River Gorge. I hope you enjoy yours.

Here are some more links,

East of Mt Hood (Picasa).

Home in the Sticks

"Seriously, the biggest pain was getting to fucking Newark. I took two trains, a light rail and had to deal with dudes with M-16s at security," I explained while pulling a blackberry vine out of the thigh of my chinos. "The plane ride was no problem."

"Gotta love New Jersey... The trail starts in a little bit," Tim (my little brother) said between yawns as he pushed the chest high bushes aside. Ever vigilant for the sharp barbs of a blackberry vine he distractedly asked, "What time is it?"

"7:13 AM"

"Damn." Tim sighed, attempting to act annoyed at his early arousal but telegraphing his affection and excitement to share the attention of empty-nested parents.

Craving the starry nights, fresh fruit, company of my family and the feel of the outdoors, I left my office in Manhattan some twelve hours earlier and set off for the northwest for the first time in 10 months.

Waking up with a jolt as the plane made its initial approach to the Portland International Airport, I jammed my face against the window. Looking for familiar fixtures, I quickly made out the hills where I went to high school and the highways where I drove to and from Mt. Hood. With a smile, I grabbed my Alder Springs backpack from under the seat in front of me and eagerly charged by the friendly Continental staff.

The following morning, I woke early. Energized by the morning's light and the excitement of my nostalgic surroundings, I scrambled up the stairs to bother my brother in the method known only to older siblings.

"Rise and Shine it's butt whipping time!" I bellowed as I barged through the door, grabbing his Pendleton blanket and ripping it off in one motion.

"The light's beautiful. Lets go for a walk," I half suggested, half mandated.

Tim found this elk skull while in a field near Mt. Helens. The flowers maybe fake, but the story isn't.

My dad and brother on the Columbia River.

Many of the things I resented as a middle schooler slowly have grown in importance and affection in my memory. As a kid I avoided spending time at our family's second home in the Columbia River Gorge, opting to stay some 40 miles to the west in Portland. Now, as a full fledged young-urban-professional, I yearn for the seclusion and inherent beauty like a trustafarian for a chance to give George Dubayah and Mr. Rumsfeld a piece of their enlightened mind.

"Damn it feels good to be home on the range," I grinned.

"Home on the range? We are not in Montana. This is Washington, we are home in the sticks."

"The Sticks?"

"Yea, it's a Chinook saying for the woods."

"Home in the sticks," I acknowledged.

Here are some more links,
Home in the Sticks (Picasa).

Rain, Sun and House-Sized Waves

In a jet lagged daze I lay in the bed after waking up at 5am Northwest time, (8am Maine time), eating breakfast and then falling back to sleep. Despite being 3,000 miles from my typical place of slumber, I reached over to my iPhone in my standard morning routine and flicked through the apps. After reading my emails and Twitter, I eventually thumbed the Magic Seaweed application out of desperation to rationalize staying in bed for a few more minutes.

Instantly I jumped up from my semi-catatonic slumber into a state of hysteria. As an enthusiastic rider of Maine waves, I check Magic Seaweed daily and usually see numbers an order of magnitude smaller than the ones I was looking at for the Oregon coast. Like a six year old on Christmas morning I rushed down the stairs, grabbed my camera, car keys, and a wool jacket and headed to the Portland Airport to pick up my dad and then head to the coast in search of waves and rain.

An hour and a half later, I hopped out of my dad's 4Runner and scurried towards the lookout like a kid at the ball pit at McDonald's.

It was windy.

The last scene of Point Break was filmed at this beach. "We'll get him when he comes back in!" It sure looked like Bodhi's 50-year storm last weekend.

keep me honest.

After two hours of rain and wind the clouds finally broke and for fifteen minutes. My dad and I watched waves roll in and thunderstorm cells lurk closer.

From 300 feet up and roughly half a mile away these waves looked more like an avalanche on the Discovery channel than things people ride for fun.

We headed back to the car as the drops of rain fell on our backs. As soon as we got in the car and cranked on the heater, large hailstones started pinging off of the windshield. Our timing couldn't have been better.

Here are some more links,
Rain, Sun and House Sized Waves (Picasa),
Rain, Sun and House Sized Waves (Vimeo).

New England Barns

Desperately searching for talking points, my friends' awkward parents always ask me, "...So, how is New England different from the Northwest?" I usually fire back with a stock answer like, "Well, most people are much more socially conservative, and the whole preschool thing was completely new to me," and thus dodge a prolonged conversation. Regardless of my poorly-masked lack of enthusiasm for discussing cultural differences with uninterested, Xanax-infused housewives, I ponder their question long after dinner is over.

After spending countless hours driving to and from remote colleges around the New England countryside, I finally have an answer worth listening to. It's the barns.

The Northwest doesn't have old, beautiful barns. The wet climate rots wood and the harsh wind chips paint and rips off shingles. Most barns are textureless extensions of a suburb made from prefab trusses with synthetic or aluminum siding and roofs, and cement floors. New England barns transversely, are old wooden, structures who sag and chipped paint only makes them more enduring.

Here are some photos taken on the side of New England roads that embody the weathered beauty of a good barn.

Here are some more links,
Barnsaver.com (Thanks Sam).