The Gorge

Cruising down the PCH on my way towards LA, my cell phone cut out, ending my conversation with Dan.  I was in a talkative mood and tried call him back.  Nothing.  "The service is always shit here,"  I thought to myself and continued on my way to Malibu.

Up a head,  a slight figure walked d0wn the side of the road wearing a backpack.  As I passed,  I slowed and gave him the once over.  He was clean cut,  maybe in his late fifties, wearing a pull over fleece and running shoes.  Certainly not your standard variety of Tropical Zombie that wonderes up and down the California Coast looking like an extra from Waterworld.  Down shifting,  and pulling into the shoulder,  It took me a couple hundred yards to slow to a stop.

In my rear view mirror,  I watched has his slow gate pick up to a jovial combination of jogging and fast walking.

"Where  are you headed?"

"South, as far as you're going.  I'm on my way to San Diego."

"Alright, well I can take you to downtown LA or Santa Monica.  Hop in."

"Thank you so much,  I really appreciate it," he said as he slid open the back door and dropped his backpack next to my board bag.

"No problem man,  happy to give you a lift."

"My name is Abel,  what's yours?" He asked genuinely as he jumped up into the passenger seat.

"Like Cain and Abel?  My name is Foster.  Nice to meet you Abel."

For the next hour, our conversation rambled without the limitations of acknowledged future interactions.  When time with another person is finite, conversations develop quickly.  We talked about our travels, where we've lived and surfing. When he asked where I was from, I told Abel that I was born in Portland but grew up in the Columbia River Gorge.  Looking like I just rattled off a name of a Mongolian provence, I then explain that it's about 50 miles east of Portland on the Oregon and Washington border.

Outside of the Northwest, few people have heard of this region or its beauty.  Answering the primordial desire to explain your home, I take it upon myself to enlighten people about the Gorge to anyone that will listen.  Seeing that Abel was trapped in my van on our way southward,  he had little choice but to listen to my prosthelytizing.

Sunset on an old pasture.

The Bridge of the Gods in Cascade Locks, Oregon.

The green room.

"She will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine."

The Washougal River Valley.

Maddie is the most famous dog in Hawaii,  maybe even the world.

An orchard in bloom in Moiser.

Dock Life in Washougal.

High flows on the waterfalls.

The mobile changing room is back in action.

"Alright, anywhere hear is good.  I'm going to try to take the PCH down to Longbeach tonight," Abel said motioning towards a parking lot on the side of the PCH in Santa Monica.

Pulling over at a Chevron,  I shifted into neutral.  "Good luck man.  Hope you get down to San Diego soon and if you ever make it up north,  check out the Gorge.  It's a little slice of heaven. You won't regret it."

"Sounds like it. I can't wait to see it.  Safe travel's Foster," Abel said shouldering his pack.

"You to Abel."  Pulling out of the parking lot,  I watched in my rear view mirror as Abel marched down the Santa Monica Sidewalk. "Good luck!" I yelled out of the open window.

Here are some more links,

The Gorge (Facebook).

First Time West

The Syncro idled roughly in the arrival area of Portland International Airport late Monday night.  Glancing in the rear view mirror, I watched the lone police officer maker her rounds, motioning to stagnent drivers to continue their laps. I was already on my third and had little interest in making it a forth.

"Brrootherrr!!!" a deep voice echoed.

Sticking my head out of the window with hopes of spotting the origins of the thunder,  I spotted a red headed man wearing a leather jacket running out of a revolving door.  If the local Oregonians weren't thrown off guard by the mohawk,  the boogie board dragging behind him put them over the edge.

"Uncle TTT!" I screamed back in an equally obnoxious but unthreatening tone.  Pulling the emergency break.  I opened the door and ran over to meet my college roommate, Tucker.

A few months after my 18th birthday, I told an admittance officer from a small college in Maine that I would love to attend their college having never stept foot in the state.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  That fall, I made the 3000 mile trip across the country excited to see a new place and meet new people.  I had never seen a lacrosse stick, heard Dispatch or watched a Red Sox game.  I thought about leaving my school for a more wordly place often but my connection with Maine and a handful of close friends kept me there.  I'm very glad that I did stick it out, because without that isolation and boredom, I probably never would have taken up photography or started this blog.

Despite having a relatively well traveld student body,  few of my peers had ever been west of a handful of posh ski resorts in Colorado.   Most people talk positively about their homes, but my experiences in New England compounded  my appreciation for the west coast and the Pacific Northwest in specific.  After six years of constant sales pitch resembling the late Billy Mays,  Tucker finally bought a ticket west and headed west for a 10 day safari.

Flying into Portland and then out of San Francisco 10 days later,  we planned to head down the coast.  Call it a best of trip.  It sounds easy enough, but the task of showing some one very close to you a place you love so well is a surprising daunting task.  I rushed to show him places that I thought were interesting.  We headed east of the Cascades,  spent a few days in portland and then meandered our way down the Oregon Coast to Northern California.

Wet campfire wood.

Tucker enjoying the signature Northwest rainwater by way of this barrel.  My guess is that it was in the mid 40s.

The green room.

Spring in Portland.

Retreat.

Campfires.

 Things I took for granted,  like Multnomah Falls or the size of the fur trees that ubiquitously dot the country side stunned Tucker.  I once heard that, "In the east, man is god,  but in the west,  nature is god."  Now I'm not a religious person,  but this mantra speaks to me as I'm sure it does to a lot of people that have experienced both Coasts.  By the time I bid farewell to Tucker,  I could tell that he was starting to agree.

Here are some more links,

First Time West (Facebook). 

Fire on the Mountain

A few cars parked on the shoulder made me take a second look as I rounded the bend on 101 heading north on the Oregon coast.  Seeing cliffs, ocean and foam though the sparse trees,  I deliberated.   If I head back to Portland now,  it will be dark by the time I get back.  No point in hurrying. Some few hundred feet past the pull out,  I turned around in a gap in traffic and headed back to investigate.

Turning off the ignition, I unplugged my iPhone from the stereo and kept Fire on the Mountain Cornell 77' playing through the speaker phone.  An unseasonal south wind blew in warm air,  making January 1st feel like April and I left my sweater in the backseat.  "Blooop Blooop" my alarm sounded as I shoved  my phone in my breast pocket, and grabbed my camera.

Disregarding the family of four walking towards me on the trail,  I continued my air guitar solo and passed with a smile, hair still wet from a surf session at Short Sands.

"I wonder if they can guess which car is mine?" I chuckled to myself.

The sound of waves bashing against the cliffs beckoned.

Soon,  the trees and land stopped, abruptly,  a few hundred feet above the ocean.   From this vantage point, the swells' dark shadows lined up towards the horizon. Hopping the fence,  I brushed some gravel off a ledge and sat. Fire on the Mountain wound down to some cheers from stoned college kids now in their 50s.  Being in no rush,  I pulled out the my phone and pushed repeat.

What if...

Pebble throwing,  idea jotting.

As far west as it gets.

Narrow.

An hour of daydreaming,  pebble throwing and wave watching passed.  Despite feeling like April,  January shadows reminded me of my hour and a half drive back to Portland.  Taking one last look,  I climbed back over the wire fence and walked back towards the pulloff.

Happy New Year.  Longer days are coming.

Here are some more links,

Scarlet/Fire on the Mountain (Cornell 77),

Out of Reception.

Facebook.

Dark and Stormy

The river along US-26 boiled like two week old coffee down the drain.  Rounding the last corner before merging with 101,  a gust of wind shook the Syncro's flat sides, forcing me to take a kiddy pool sized puddle head on.  With a crrrrshhh, we displaced half the puddles contents onto a Toyota Tacoma in the oncoming lane.   For the last few hours,  the rain had battled with the fastest setting of the windshield wipers.   Advantage rain.

Pulling off the highway a few miles south, the streets of Canon Beach were empty save for a few SUVs and local pickups.  Gusts on the flags at souvenir shops and water around the storm drains hinted at why.   Eager to catch a glimpse of the ocean,  I pulled off onto a side street.  Familiar with the saying, "We'll get'em when he comes back in," well the last scene of Point Break was filmed at this beach in similar conditions.

"That looks like...hell," my mom said rolling down the windows to get a better view.

"Yah.  Wow,  that's what a half mile of whitewater looks like."

"Let's go for a walk."

"A walk?"  Looking down the beach I spotted a lone person leaning at a twenty degree angle into the wind. "Yeah lets."

Shortsands Beach.

Serious #vanlife envy.  These Mitsubishi Delica's can't be imported into the US, but our friends to the north, and the rest of the world, can get one for a few grand.  They are 4wd, come in turbo diesel and get between 25 and 30 MPG.

A duly named street.

Some fresh driftwood.

Wet.

Taking it all in.

It's often said that, "the Pacific Northwest has two seasons,  August and 11 months of rain and fog."  While I agree with this maxim,  it fails to capture the violence and intensity of the storms that charge down from the Aleutian Islands in the "Winter Months."   Before bringing waves to Hawaii's north shore,  these storms slam into the PNW as feral beasts, pulling trees from the ground, flooding rivers and closing harbors.  They breaking up the endless months of fog and mist,  with weather alerts and road closures.  Nowhere is their power more evident than on the northern Oregon Coast.  They make you feel small and vulnerable.

Here are some more links,

Facebook,

Twitter.