October 04, 2011

The Lost Coast

October 04, 2011/ A Restless Transplant

Two roads lead into an area of Northern California known as the Lost Coast. Matolle road snakes in from the north, leaving the small picturesque town of Ferndale and cutting through the region's infamous rugged hills. Turning off 101 and heading through the Redwoods, a filming location for Jurassic Park, Briceland Thorn road is the "mellow way in." Due to these vehicle constraints and constant erosion, roughly 50 miles of coastline and the surrounding hills have not been developed beyond the occasional house and ranch.

After driving through central Oregon with a quick stop at Elk Lake, Dan and I met up in Arcata and headed towards the Lost Coast. Despite its relative proximity to the Bay Area and the Northern California cities of Eureka and Arcata, the area remains unknown to most outside of the hippy, backpacking, and libertarian communities. At a gas station in Eureka, a little more than an hour north of the Lost Coast, an inquisitive clerk asked where we were headed with our "Bajaing Rig." "The Lost Coast," we respond, prompting a dumbfounding look on his face and another question, "Where is that." After a brief explanation, we topped off our tanks and headed south.

Crashing with a friend of Dan's in Petrolia, we spent three days surfing, exploring the rugged coast line and photographing locals for The Burning House Book. Think of Big Sur without route 1 and one road going in and out.

Anyone know what kind of cattle these are?

Dan in the distance observing the coast. No one for miles.

According to the 2010 census, roughly half of the residence in the largest town in the region, Petrolia, are off the grid. Harvesting solar in the summer and hydroelectric the rest of the year, people live an isolated, community based life. Because the nearest police station is an hour from town, people in Petrolia use a community based phone tree as opposed to 911. As for the economy, lets just say that a marijuana leaf graces one side of a Petol coin, the local currency.

Breakfast.

Travel magazine refers to the area as, "too lovely to be believed, perhaps too beautiful to last." Based on its remoteness and difficulty to navigate, I think it will be around for awhile. Its one of the wildest places I have been on the West Coast. I will be back soon.

Here are some more links,

The Lost Coast (Picasa),

The Lost Coast (Wikipedia).

September 20, 2011

Into the Fog

September 20, 2011/ A Restless Transplant

"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).

August 01, 2011

It starts with a notion..

August 01, 2011/ A Restless Transplant

The idea to leave my corporate design job in Manhattan and travel around taking photos and enjoying the outdoors crept into my presleep thoughts sometime in the in early spring. Like a virus, this notion spread from daydreams to late night conversations with a few close friends. I missed the outdoors and a sense of exploration. Leaving a comfortable life in search of something different seemed crazy, but the more I thought it the more I realized it was the right decision.

At first, it seemed like a distant dream, years off perhaps. Much to my surprise, steps started falling into place. I signed a book deal with !t Books (a department of Harper Collins) for the Burning House and shot a commissioned project with The Anthropologist. These projects gave me both the money to finance my trip and the purpose to stay productive while traveling. Eager to put my money where my mouth is, I bought a VW Syncro and made preparations. LL Bean agreed to outfit me with the necessary camping and fly fishing equipment and I was off running.

"You're going to do what? Have you thought this through? What about your job?"

Next came a series of conversations with friends, family and my coworkers. The responses were polarized, but by this point, my mind was made up. If I didn't take a leap like this now, I probably never would.

"I want to see how far down the hole the rabbit goes."

In July, I started condensing my things down. I gave bags of clothes to my cleaning lady to send back to her family in Trinidad and Tobago, sold odds and ends on eBay and gave away the rest to friends. It was easier than I thought and more liberating than I could have imagined.

As the dust settled, I packed my possessions into a handful of dry bags and my GR1 and wrapped up my surfboard in preparation of catching a a one wa,y flight back to Portland Oregon this Sunday. From there, I will pick up my Syncro, hit the road and open a new chapter of my life.

Here are some more links,

All I Need Is (Picasa),

These Photos by Jon Levitt inspired me a lot.

March 29, 2011

Meet Me in Nicaragua

March 29, 2011/ A Restless Transplant

"Our phones won't work, so let's meet at the airport in Managua. My flight gets in at 3:30. We'll catch a cab there and bounce around on dirt roads for three hours on the ride to the coast," I told my younger brother, Tim, rocking in the comfort of my ergonomic office chair in Midtown Manhattan. "Where are you, anyway?"

"Waiting for my flight in Houston. This place is a zoo," Tim said under his breath. "I am going to stay at a hostel in Managua tonight, but you should probably give me directions to the place we are staying just in case something goes wrong and I need to get out there by myself."

"Sounds good, I'll text you it right now. Let me know if any plans change. I have to run, see you tomorrow afternoon. I'm pumped. See you on the other side," I said in one breath as I glanced down at my watch and realized I had a meeting in five minutes.

"Don't forget to bring the sunscreen," Tim joked in a motherly voice.

Little did he know, but in a fit of excitement and procrastination from my daily obligations, I had ordered sunscreen on Amazon, Bull Frog SPF 36, weeks in advance.

Flying the cheapest option through Central America to a remote country and meeting someone with no means of communication turned out as dubious as it sounds.

Five hours after leaving JFK, my empty flight landed to the elated clapping of the native Salvadorians and news of the cancellation of all the day's connecting flights to Managua. Envisioning Tim moping around the Managua airport for hours waiting for me arrive, I quickly found wifi and sent out a slew of emails telling him to make his way to the beach without me. After an hour of feeling like a derelict older brother, my iPhone vibrated, alerting me that Tim had skipped town soon after arriving in Managua the evening before and gone directly to the coast.

"That fucker! what if I would have showed up on time? " I smiled in relief.

A free night's stay, three complimentary meals and a 200 dollar flight voucher later I landed in Managua at 9am the next morning. Eager to dump my backpack, I converted the kilometers to miles in my head as the cab sped through dusty roads towards Popoyo.

Moo.

The ocean's spray and my brother's sheepish grin quickly made me forget about my travel hiccups. For a week, my brother and I enjoyed the carefree attitude of the handful of other surfers, drawn to this remote beach in Nicaragua. When the tide was right, we surfed. When it was cool, we skated the mini ramp. When it was hot, we read.

Mangos, freshly knocked down from a tree.