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.

#vanlife

Like live canaries in a mine,  a high concentration of vans in an area suggests good things.  Adventure,  free spirits and exploration.  Parked on side streets, some of these vans lay waiting for a long weekend or a the occasional road trip.  For others,  these streets provide a safe harbor away from the watchful eye of the area's finest.  They all dream of the open road.

Portland Oregon has a lot of vans.  Over the last few weeks,  I have been stopping and snapping shots of vans that catch my eye.  Here are some of my favorites.

Red stripe.

Syncro love.

Hippies.

Warriors.

Hunters.

Pinstripe.

V-8.

Tiger style.

Business in the front,  party in the back. Mullet.

Syncro love.

There is a lot of green going on here.  Both outside and inside I'd wager.

Fall Colors.

Two tone.

Mobile command station. VanRAD

To celebrate vans like these and the notion that, "Home is where you park it," I have started a new tumblr called #vanlife. #Vanlife will be composed of my van shots and submissions,  so if you have a van or  see a one or another ship of the open road, take a picture and submit it here.

Here are some more links,

#vanlife (tumblr),

#Vanlife (picasa).

Elk Lake

I woke up at sunrise, checked all of the tires on the Syncro, made sure the racks were tight and said my good-byes.  Heading east through the Columbia River Gorge, I pulled off I-84 in Hood River and followed signs towards Mt. Hood and central Oregon.   After a brief stop to inspect the Palmer Glacier, I coasted down the eastern side of the Cascades into central Oregon.

Cross-referencing a moving dot on my Google maps with an out-of-date road atlas of the lower 48 given to me by mom the day I bought my Syncro, I took my time through Madras and Bend.  Stopping for coffee, photos and gas I added two hours to a prescribed four-hour trip.   Following directions texted to me the night before, I arrived at a gravel road with the national forest sign reading "Elk Lake Recreational Area."

Accelerating to the top end of second, the Syncro vibrated down the washboarded road.  Shifting to third, I reached the perfect speed and the rattling finally subsided as pines opened up to an alpine lake.  I followed the lake's east bank, dotted with the occasional sail boat and rustic cabin,  eventually coming to a parking spot behind a clustering of familiar cars.

Inspired by the last remnants of summer,  I pulled off my T-shirt, inspected the depth at the end of the dock, and back pedaled a dozen feet or so.   Taking a deep breath, I sprinted towards the water and braced for the cold.

Adirondack chairs made green for Oregon.

Glassy.

Potable water.

Thunder storms.

Heating.

Storage.

Blue.

Reflex.

Fire light.

Send me the dock.

My feet clapped against the surface as I landed with a less than ideal plunk.  Compensating for my botched dive, I dolphin kicked until my lungs burned, then surfaced with a gasp.  Making my way towards the nearby floating dock one side-stroke at a time, I heard the sound of two more dives and looked back to see Matt and Gordon following suit.  As I scrambled up the side of the dock,  the mid 70's September air never felt so good.

For half an hour or so we sat chatting and periodically jumping back into the lake.  Eventually, a storm marching up from the southeast caught our attention.

"We should head across the lake to get more water before that thunder storm gets here," Gordon said removing his arm from his knees and pointing toward the dark gray blob.

"How long have you guy's owned this place?" I asked pulling my T-shirt and fleece over my still wet head.

"Well we don't technically own it.  We have a hundred year lease."  Gordon replied, drying his hair with a towel.

"A hundred year lease?  How does that work?  What happens after a 100 years, do you just fork over the house?"

"It's a saying more than an actual time period.  Since the Forest Service owns the land, we lease it from them and built the house.  In effect, its ours.  It's legal jargon," Gordan said as he took a tug on the Mercury's ripcord and squeezed the gas line.  Taking another pull, the engine caught.

"Gotcha."

Pulling away from the dock, we headed towards the far side of the lake to fill up a few jugs with potable water from the alpine inlet. As the small 4-stroke buzzed I looked back at the distancing shoreline and the volcanic peak of Mt. Bachelor.

"One year or one hundred,  I'd take it."

Here are some more links,

Elk Lake (Picasa),

Out of Reception.