River Otters

The sound of overflowing whitewater cut through the densely wooded forest  long before the single track trail led down to the stream.  Walking in our wetsuits,  we moved quickly,  hoping to avoid unnecessary conversations with hikers about our clothing choices and plans to scramble up a high flow stream.

Sliding down the steep banks, we rested on the narrow shore.  Staring at the clear flowing water in anticipation, I pulled the hood flap over my head and secured the zipper of my 4/3 wetsuit on my chest.  Tim and Spencer followed suit,  tightening their hoods around their faces.  Stepping into my knees,  the cold water rushed through a slit in my left bootie.

"Ohhh yahh, it's cold,"  I said moving further towards the base of a small waterfall.  "You guys ready?"

Reluctantly,  Spencer and Tim followed suit,  wading into surging stream.

"Bro..this is frio," Spencer said in exaggerated, Socal surfing fashion. "What do you think the temp is?"

"Ughh maybe mid 40's,  It's always warmer than you actually think it is."

"It's pretty fucking cold," Tim added.

Taking the plunge,  I dove forward in the chest deep water.  The cold attacked my sinuses and forced me to surface and gasp.

 "Shit.  Maybe it's low forties."

Keeping our heads above water,  we moved upstream towards the first set of rapids.  Taking turns,  we tried to climb the small waterfalls.  Taking others failures and success as examples we slowly made our way up the stream.

Taking a break from shooting with film,  I took these on my 5d Mark II and an underwater housing.

Wet feet.

As kids, Tim and I hiked the trails by this stream and watched its changing flows.

Cairn Culture.

My brother and I accessing the next obstacle.

Spencer making his way across a shallow section.

"There's no way we are getting up that," I said, pointing towards a 12 foot raging waterfall.

"Not happening," Tim agreed.

Looking up the narrow canyon towards a log jam,  my mind immediately raced, imagining a catastrophic failure of the make shift damn.  A wall of water the height of a refrigerator would charge down the canyon.  Accelerated by the occasional log,  I imagined bouncing down the canyon like a pinball before being deposited on the bank.  That wouldn't end well.  Looking up and down the walls, I eyed an escape route from the hypothetical flood.  There were none.  Sheer cliffs covered in moss,  extended some 20 feet up towards the canope of the various evergreens.  The only way out of the canyon was back the way we came.

"You guys ready to head back?"

"Yah I'm over it," Tim said in a tone that could have been explained by a similar conclusion about the surging pile of logs at the mouth of the canyon.

"Lets go."

Here are some more links,

River Otter (Facebook).

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).

"Down Hill from Here"

The syncro's starter cranked, lagging for a second before catching.  The liberally muffled exhausted echoed around the small mechanics shop in Arcata.  I grinned at John, the grey haired man poking his head into the engine bay.

"It's still doing that slow crank thing... we cant really figure out what that's about.. but it's not cutting out any more," John yelled over the rough idle of the syncro. "One of the guys went through and secured the harness with zip ties and checked all of the grounds.  Not sure exactly which one it was, but its not cutting out anymore."

"Awesome.  I just need to get back to Portland.  I can handle a slow start and rolling her if she craps out."

"Just park on hills," John replied with a laid back tone echoing his roots in the far northwest corner of California.

"I've gotten pretty good at that,"  I laughed.

"The other option is that we order a starter from Go-westy,  but that wont be here until early next week."

"I'll take my chances."

"Thought so.  Safe travels man."

After the better part of a week in Arcata, I tossed my backpack in the back seat of the Syncro and headed towards the 101.  The freedom of having a wheels again overcame my fear that the starter could crap out at any moment.  At the same time, it made me realize how good I had it when the van was 100% reliable.

Sticking to the coastal rout,  I followed the 101 up from Humboldt into Oregon.

"I can get 70 miles to the gallon on this hog..." My week in Arcata prompted me to pick up this hog.  She fits well in the back of the syncro and is perfect for motoring around town.

Memories flooded of all the times that a break down would have been a serious problem.  Middle of nowhere in Baja,  500 miles from the nearest van mechanic.  BLM Land in Utah,  50 miles from the nearest cell tower.  20 miles down a 4x4 road in Death Valley.  All of these scenarios would have required multiple day efforts just to get the van to a mechanic.   It's best to count your blessings, I mused to myself.

Cresting the peak of the coastal range and the syncro descended into the Willamette valley.  In the distance,  the radio towers dotted the west hills.  Like a spot light singling an attraction,  these towers spelled an end to my mechanical plagued journey that started over a month before.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's all down hill from here," I informed the empty passenger seat.

Here are some more links,

North (Facebook).

Tepid Coffee in Arcata

"Well,  I'm looking at the schedule right now, and uhh we're booked pretty solid for the next two weeks."

"Fuck me..." I cursed under my breath in a momentary bout of frustration that had been building since the syncro first broke down a week and a half earlier.

"What'd you say?"

"Oh nothing," I paused for a second, before leaping into the explanation of my situation with hopes of dislodging this stonebricker, "I'm stranded here;  I was on my way to Portland and my van broke down on Saturday night.  Is there anyway you guys can check her out if someone cancels or something?  It's VW Vanagon Syncro,  she's parked right out front."

"Ohh thats yours?  We figured she was towed here. I can't promise anything, but swing by and leave your keys."

"Thanks man,  I really appreciated it."

"No problem.  Can't promise anything though."

"I totally understand.  I'll be by this morning."

Taping the red button on the screen of my iPhone, I leaned back on a old couch and sighed.  Northern California's May showers dripped down the single pained window of Dan's apartment.  Staring out the window, my initial frustration subsided as I evaluated my situation.

Taking advantage of the empty apartment, Dan was back in New England for a few months, I spoke out loud to myself. "Hopefully they will get to it in the next few days,  and I will be out of here by the end of the week.  It cant be anything major,  I had the fuel pump replaced in LA."  Rationalize this out loud put me at ease.  Grabbing the last clean shirt from my backpack, I pulled it on, kicked on my worn out Vans and headed to the door.  Time to kill.

 I quickly fell into a cycle.  Waking early, I would skate (or walk depending on precipitation) to a coffee shop. As I waited for my large black coffee cut with honey to cool down, I people watched.  Somewhere in the neighborhood of 50% of the economy in Humboldt county comes from growing pot. Guessing which members of the Arcata community earned their bread from the illicit trade provided constant amusement.  The early 30s guy with dreadlocks down to his ass, a Bob Marley shirt, and a brand new Dodge pick up the size of football field?  Looks like a landscaper to me.  I took another sip of tepid coffee.

After satisfying my appetite for caffeine and observing enough of the flora growing fauna, I'd wonder around the town's small neighborhoods passing the time until my morning tire kicking session at the Mechanic.   Lunch was simple,  Lengua taco's from a truck parked in the middle of town followed by a trip to the skatepark.  After taking a few spills and exchanging a few words with the locals at the park, I'd push off in search of an undiscovered street.

Crisscrossing familiar streets fanned the flames of my cabin fever.  10 months of constant movement at the turn of a key made the time spent with no mobility in Arcata drag on.  I felt like a fifteen year old trapped in the dog days of summer with no drivers license or friends to cause trouble with.  Luckily I had nowhere to be.

 I checked my watch, 3:47.  The sun wouldn't set for another five hours. Time for some more tepid coffee.

Here are some more links,

LA to Arcata (Facebook).