Let Them Eat Sand!

"Dude. Did you see that sign?" I said, taking a sip of tepid coffee from my thermos.

"No. What was it?" Spencer looked back through the rear window of the Syncro.

"'Sandboarding!  Rentals$20 for 24 hours. The sign is straight out of Back to the Future."

"Fuck yah, lets check it out."

Signaling my concurrence, I turned onto the shoulder just north of Florence, Oregon on the 101 and let the minivan behind us pass.

"I have always wanted to try this.  It looks totally ridiculous."

Five minutes later,  Spencer and I were standing in one of the world's only dedicated sandboarding shops getting the scoop about the history of the sport from the owner, operator and enthusiast.  Resembling a former WWF wrestler, and sporting a mustache and ponytail, he informed us that sandboarding has been around long before snowboarding and that it was in fact an inspiration for Jake Burton.  I kept my mouth shut and nodded.   After the "history" lesson and short video highlighting the sport's potential in various sand dunes around the world, Spencer were on our way, boards in hand.

That afternoon, we hiked around the dunes of Honeyman State park exploring shoots and picking lines.  Although the conditions weren't ideal,  (sandboarding favors dry sand and being the middle of January in Oregon, the sand was wet) we got the hang of things pretty quickly.  Sandboarding feels like riding a snowboard in powder.  All the steering is with your back foot, and bad things happen when you put weight on your front foot.

They ollie just like a snowboard.  Yours truly shredding a shoot.

Waxing up the board before a session.

Spencer summitting the hill.

The boards have similar construction to a skateboard, but with a layer of polyurethane on the bottom.  Home Depot project perhaps?

Sand scrub.

Cranking a turn,  hand on the wave.

Dodging a patch of grass, I carved my way down the narrow shoot.  Pointing the board directly at Spencer,  I picked up speed and turned to the right at the last minute spraying him with a few handfuls of sand.

"Duddde.  Seriously."

"Haha you were asking for it."

"I'm over it.  Lets head back to the car."

Taking a moment,  I looked back up the hill at our handy work.  In the distance a yahoo's four-wheeler screamed up a hill.  I kicked off the board.  "Alright.  I'll be doing this again."

"As will I."

Here are some more links,

Sand Surfing (Facebook).

Twitter.

Southern Oregon Coast

The southern Oregon ccoast feels like no other part of the Northwest.  From Portland,  it takes five hours to get there along I-5 south with a cut through the coast range near Eugene.  Take the 101 from Tillamook or Seaside, and you're looking at seven hours of winding road reminiscent to the 1 in California.   Because of this remoteness, the area gets limited visitation in the summer and in the winter, well its all but a ghost town.   Think of it as Twin Peaks with a few bags of meth borrowed from Deadliest Catch, and without the cute girls.

After a few weeks of the Pacific Northwest's signature rain and gloom,  I headed south along the coast on my way to California.  Like most Oregonians,  I grew up spending weekends during the summer playing on the rugged northern beaches of Short Sands and Canon Beach.  My knowledge of the coast goes from good to nonexistent around Lincoln City.  With my buddy, Spencer Phillips, sitting shotgun, we worked our way down the coast searching for waves and views in the heart of winter.

Blasting.

Lagoon.

Ripping a few hundred yards out.

Late night.

Foaming.

Locs only, bro.  These gulls hold it down.

Dodge Rampage.

Sometimes slide film has a mind of its own.

Fixings.

Deers,  beware.

Holding it down.

Sunrise with Portra 160 and an Olympus XA on January 7th.

Traveling is always best in places that you don't know that well.  The parks were empty save for a few dog walkers and retirees in their RV's.  If you ever get the opportunity, head to this part of the country.  Bring your surf board,  there are plenty of waves.

Here are some more links,

Southern Oregon (Facebook),

Foreverenroute,

Twitter.

Loose Ends

This week I'm doing some house keeping, working on a few projects,  surfing and waiting for some film to develop.  Regular, Tuesday and Thursday, posts will be back next week.  In the mean time,  head over to the A Restless Transplant Facebook Page to see some flicks from the Oregon Coast that I shot on an Olympus XA.  I accidentally dropped the camera and the back popped open, giving the roll some light leeks.  Also, check out my travels on Instagram @fosterhuntington.

More links,

A Restless Transplant (Facebook),

#vanlife.

Twitter.

L.A. to Washougal

"How many days do you want to drive it in?" I asked my dad on speaker phone at a stoplight in Ventura.

"Well, at minimum, three but I would like to do more than that...I'm looking at flights right now into Burbank.  They are dirt cheap.  60$ one way with tax."

"I'm all for more days.  Three days would be a schlep.  Plus, the Syncro doesn't like I-5 much.  Lets take our time up the 1, or go up east through Death Valley and the Sierras."

"In December?  Are you fucking kidding me?  I'm not flying down from Washington to spend more time in cold weather. I want to see palm trees and eucalyptus groves."

"Ha I guess you're right.  Lets do the 1 then."

"Cool.  Tim and I will fly down on the 20th and we'll head back up to Washougal for Christmas.  This will be a blast."

As planned,  I picked them up at the Burbank airport a few days later and we headed north.  We took our time meandering up Route 1. Surfing, hiking and skateboarding, we made a few hundred miles each day.  At night,  we crammed into the back of the van and had snoring contests.

Picture this, three six footers (I'm 6'3, Tim's 6'8 and my dad's 6'1) in VW van, listening to the Grateful Dead and eating at taco trucks.

December denial.

A surf session in Bolinas.

Jalama Beach.

Shred sticks.

Could be anywhere in Latin America, but no, its Lincoln Heights.

Tshirts.

The Channel Islands.

We left the bulk of the driving for the last day and made it back to Washougal early Christmas morning.  I couldn't say exactly when, because Tim and I were asleep in the backseat.

Some memories are better captured on 35mm film.

Here are some more links,

Facebook,

Twitter.