West Wind

A statue honoring the Veterans of the Korean War stood watch over a lone Dodge at the county park.  Across from the empty jungle gym, unidentifiable country music from a Central Oregon radio station hummed through the 'lowered windows.  The west wind bent the top of the pine trees and wafted over-heated coolant from the front grill of the truck.   A girl's legs  hung from the passenger window and a shirtless teenager slouched in the bench seat.  It was late summer 2012 in The Dalles.

"Should we tell them their engine overheated?" My mom said,  leading her Irish Terrier, Lucy, down the sidewalk.

"No, Mom...  let them be," I said, taking the leash from my mom's hand and continuing along.

It's hard to predict which moments come to identify a specific place or time,  often it's the most seemingly trivial ones that capture my imagination and spark my sense of nostalgia.

Here are some more links,

West Wind (Facebook).

"Do Not Frustrate..."

Our empty plane banked right over a sea of clouds.  Sensing a shift in motion, I lifted my head from lying across an empty row and looked out through the port window. Two snow-capped volcanoes marked the center of our compass as the plane continued in a holding pattern.  Leaning back down on my makeshift pillow, I closed my eyes and dozed back to sleep.

Sometime later,  I moved from my semiconscious state and looked out the window again.  The volcanoes were in the same place at the center of our holding pattern.

Keith, siting behind me,  "We've been circling for 45 minutes,  I bet we're going to have to land somewhere and refuel."

Tired from 20 hours of travel,  I grunted in disapproval and lied back down on the empty row.

A thick accent blurted out over the loudspeaker,  waking me from my slumber, "Do not Frustrate... our flight need refueling and we must head to Magadan.  We will be back in Petropavlosk-Kamchatksi in... 3.75 hours." Following this announcement, he offered the handful of Russian nationals on the flight the same story in their native tongue.  Spread through a half dozen rows,  our crew, composed of Trevor Gordon, Cyrus Sutton, Ben Weiland, Dane Gaudauskus, Keith Malloy and Chris Burkard, perked up and sat to attention.

"Is that Siberia?" Trevor asked rubbing his eyes.

"It must be , that's the closest airport,  either that or we land in North Korea," Cyrus chuckled.

As predicted by the pilot, we were on the ground in Kamchatka four hours later, marking our total flight time from Anchorage at a hair over 10 hours. The airport, a relic from the Cold War,  resembled a mid 90's documentary on the History Channel, sporting a full squadron of long range strategic bombers,  tanks, helicopters and the occasional German Sheppard.  The custom officials ushered us and the thirty or so fifty year olds dead set on either catching boatfuls of rainbow trout or hunting for the region's three types of native sheep, never breaking from a mechanic demeanor.

Keith's beard posed a problem at immigration.  His ten-year-old passport picture presented him with long hair and scruff, (he now has short hair and a Poseidon-like beard).  That difference in appearance, combined with enough stamps and Visas to make James Bond blush prompted the immigration official to call over a gun-wielding security guard for a second opinion.  After twenty minutes of displaying multiple forms of ID's and offering to shave it off, Keith made it through beard intact.

Cyrus and Keith catching some cosmic rays after a session.

Trevor and his a symmetrical finless Rabbit's Foot.

Volcano cones.

Cy fresh off the plane.

Sunrise session.

After the clouds broke.

Keith's bodysurfing setup.

Trevor chasing Silver Salmon.

Cy warming up his feet after a sunrise session.

After gathering our boards,  pelican cases and dry bags, we congregated in the parking lot.  Volcanoes dotted the horizon in every direction.  The weather was in the mid 70's, and felt more like Central America than a remote sub-arctic peninsula known for its fishing and grizzly bears.  Waiting impatiently for our ride, we heard the low rumble of the 6x6 diesel engine long before we could see it.   After 36 hours of travel from Southern California,  we were finally in Kamchatka.

Here are some more links,

#Kamshaka (Instagram),

A Restless Transplant (Facebook).

Dirt Rippers

A sea lion's bark emanated from the fog covered shoreline some three thousand feet bellow as Trevor and I walked up the empty dirt road one late afternoon in July.  Shifting my skateboard from my right to my left hand, I paused and listened for a second call.  Nothing came.

"Did you hear that?"

"Yea... How the hell can we hear that up here.  The ocean is at least a mile away. Crazy"

"YYahh, well, there's no waves to drown them out.  Still wild though," I said, continuing my march up the hill towards a long flat section of compacted dirt.

Dropping my board, it bounced off the ground in a cloud of dust,  finally settling on its side.  I kicked it back onto its trucks with and angled it into position by moving the tail.

"Grip and rip it, Bra!"

"If you want the ultimate,  you have to be willing to pay the ultimate price!" I said, doing my best to mimic the late, great Patrick Swayze.  With half a push,  I started rolling down the road.  Rocks popped and shot out from under my polyurethane wheels.  Shifting my weight to my back foot, I bounced over a washout and caught my front truck on a strategically placed rock.

Sprawling, I caught myself after a few steps and looked back up the hill.  Trevor took the queue from my fall and pushed off.

Trevor clearing a gap.

Building up speed it rushed by in a cloud of dust and rocks.

Rooster tailing it.

Approaching the turn/wave.

Pulling into the dirt wave.  Trevor is pretty comfortable on a surfboard too.

After Trevor rounded the corner,  I repositioned my board and followed.  As the the sun settled into the fog, we made laps up and down the quarter-mile stretch of dirt road.  The occasional distant motorcycle on the PCH punctuated the relative silence, but then again, they may have heard our hooting and shouting too.

Here are some more links,

Trevor Gordon,

Dirt Rippers (Facebook).

750k Miles

"Is that your van?" I asked the man sitting in a chair looking out towards the Channel Islands from a campsite in the Los Padres National Forest.  I already knew the answer.

"Sure is," the man said looking up from his book with an unidentifiable accent.

"Mind if I take a look? What year is she?"

"Of course not! She's a 66 and will love the attention."

Taking his cue,  I walked around the Westfalia, inspecting the heavily used, but well loved machine.  Rust dotted the pumper and window seems,  After years of heavy use and sun,  the original color had faded to a cream. Bottle caps bejeweled the engine bay.  Clearly this guy had spent some time with his van.

"How long have you owned this thing?"

"Thirty-five years," He said, keeping his head buried in his book.

Art deco touch.

Well decorated.

Home is where you pop it!

Vanlife is all about balance.

Well broken in.

Philipe has owned this van for last 35 years, rebuilt the engine on the side of highways, and changes the transmission ever 150k miles.  He has lived in it for the last 15.  To keep costs down,  he keeps his van parked in the same place for at least a week.  He knows a thing or two about vanlife.

After inspecting his van from top to bottom, chatting about the last year of my life and last thirty of his, I headed up the dirt road towards the trail head.

"Safe Travels."

Here are some more links,

750k Miles (Facebook).

Vanlife.