Into the Fog

"Do you remember the movie "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer?" I asked Dan.  "Well the prospector guy in it says some shit about the fog being thicker than pea soup.  This fog certainly is,"  I said, imitating Yukon Cornelius' voice from the top of a cliff some 2oo feet above the Pacific.

Dan laughed, "Haha I remember him,  the guy with the pick....That was a horrible imitation, but you're right."

Insulated by the thick fog, the sound of an occasional Toyota pickup or RV cruising down Route 1 some 200 feet away barely registered over the pounding waves.

I took in a deep breath of salty air, "Damn it feels good to be back by the ocean."

After a month in the desert,  Dan and I cut through the Sierra Nevada and headed towards the ocean.  Stopping briefly in San Francisco, we followed Route 1 up the California coast.  Within a day, the climate changed from a dry alpine desert with frost at night to a constant 60° and foggy.  No rain, no sun, just constant moisture.

Hunting for surf breaks, we explored parks and pull offs.  Having not seen the open ocean in months, the sound of the sea and the smell of salt captivated me.  For four days we cruised north, into the fog.

Surfboards after a session north of Arcata.

Endless.

Camping Luxury.

I could live there.

Inspecting the swell.

Booties.

Free range, fog fed.

Low tide.

Weathered.

Windswept.

"This swell is sure a hell of a lot better than Maine," Dan observed "Let's see if it's even better further north."

I signaled my conjecture by grabbing the keys from my pocket and turning around.  "The mountains are great, but I could never be landlocked."

Nodding his head, Dan and I walked towards the Syncro and the promise of better waves.

Here are some more links,

Into the Fog (Picasa).

Pale Moon Light

I rolled over and opened my eyes.  The evening thunderclouds had cleared, exposing a full moon that  illuminated the eastern Oregon landscape.     Shoving my head out of my mummy bag, I leaned up and looked around.  The interior of the Syncro lit up like I was parked under a city street lamp.

Canon 5d Mark II, 50mm f1.4, .06 seconds.

Checking my Luminox  watch, it was just 11:17 PM.   After a day of hiking and driving my brother and I had called it a night soon after sunset.  Peeking out of the window, I spotted Tim sleeping under a nearby juniper tree, sans tent.  Cracking the window, I grabbed my camera steadied it against the window frame.

After a few minutes of walking around the high desert landscape snapping pictures, the comfort of my LL Bean sleeping bag seemed rather appealing.  Gingerly hopping across the sage-covered ground, I jumped back into the Syncro to enjoy a few more hours of sleep before a hike up a nearby mountain the next morning.

Here are some more links, Pale Moon Light (Picasa), Copper Kettle (Bob Dylan).

26 East

After months of anticipation and preparation, I checked the roof racks on the Syncro one last time, said good-bye to my mom and left the Gorge heading east.  With my brother Tim sitting shotgun, we pumped "The Weight" as an homage to Easy Rider and cruised down highway 26 at a steady 63 mph.  I rolled down the manual crank window, put on my sunglasses and enjoyed the dry air.

Taking turns behind the wheel, we took the in the scenery and headed towards Colorado by way of Oregon, Idaho and Utah.  Sticking to the back roads,  we moved slowly, camping by night on BLM land and cooking our meals at rest stops and state parks.

Open Country.

300 win mag near the John Day River in Eastern Oregon.

Brush fires in Southern Idaho. Bruneau Dunes.

Modern navigation.

A barn in Central Oregon.

John Day River Valley.

Dinner by Tim, mug by Snow Peak.

Does any one know what kind of snake this is?

Sunset on I-84.

Gas can, dry bags and 14 gallons of water.

Tim on a morning hike.

After four days ,  1100 miles, and 57 gallons of gas, we finally crossed over into Colorado from southern Utah.  For the next few weeks, we are cruising around CO, backpacking, fishing and enjoying the mountains.

Here are some more links,

26 East (Picasa),

John Day (Picasa),

Utah (Picasa).

Fishing at Sunset

As the sun set, we packed our poles into the Syncro and followed the windy road up the White Salmon River.  After ten minutes, Steve pointed to a large pull-off and motioned to stop.

"Crap, looks like we won't be alone," he said in reference to the two pickups parked along the metal guardrail as I rolled to a stop and pulled the parking break.

Grabbing out waders and rods, we quickly made our way down the rough trail towards the sound of rapids and the cool breeze of snow-melt river.   Staking out our positions along the water in a clear but inaudible negotiation, we readied our gear and cast into the current.

Familiar with our surroundings and excited to a freenzy by chatter from the other fishermen that Steelheads were already this far up the river, Steve and my mom cast repeatedly into the rapids, hoping to the catch the season's first fish.  I, on the other hand, watched for the occasional dive of a nearby Osprey and listened to the gurgle of the water rushing around a rock.   Distracted by my surroundings, I was content to simply be back in the water.

Despite the differences in our attentions and number of lines casted, we all fared the same.  Not so much as a nibble.  As the last rays of light faded, we marched up the hill back towards the road, each one of us smiling for our own reason.

Here are some more links,

August 10th (Picasa).