MARY, JUNER, JURLY, & AUGURST (Just some of the many months with 'R' in them).

Uncle Rico did a quick back-of-the-napkin calculation. "144 beers." he mumbled, "assuming we each drink 12 beers a day".

"I assume bringing water would be entirely out of the question?" I broached.

But he just looked at me as if I were entirely crazy. I didn't know about Kip for sure, but I was having a hard time fitting the concept of 12 beers a day into a low carbohydrate eating routine. I was also having a hard time fitting 48 beers into my kayak.

In an act of unparalleled beneficence, Uncle Rico stacked my ice chest on the towering pile of gear extruding from the cockpit of his stable fishing platform/drilling rig/aquapod, relieving me of my ill conceived plan to tow it in a leaking rubber raft.

We set off around the sheltered south side of Long Island on water so smooth you wouldn't even think it was Willapa Bay, where 9% of all oysters in the United States are grown (thank you Wikipedia entry on Willapa Bay).

Pinnacle Rock...in the distance.

We had stayed at the Pinnacle Rock campground back in 2011, and though we would eventually explore much more of the Island on this trip, we were quickly seduced by the easy availability of non-private oysters close to shore - a feature not so much in evidence at the other campsites on the West side of the island. 

As always, we vowed only to eat the things we could find in nature...144 beers (or so)  not withstanding.

A middle aged lady and her son were camping down the beach from us. She seemed very knowledgeable about the island so we asked her what caused the holes in these trees. She said "Huge peckers hammered all these holes." she paused and then added, " I sure would have liked to have seen them in action."

Uncle Rico was only half listening and was consequently forced to ask, " Did you just say 'huge peckers hammered all these holes'?"

Kip, who had been paying attention, answered, "Yes, that's what she said."

This evening's entree, Oyster 'Po boy' sandwiches.

It took some time to fine tune the deep frying strategy for the oysters, but to sum up the research, the oyster's inherent gooiness lends itself to a 'dry' breading application and not so much a thick beer batter. Also, a camp tested condiment that proved to have multiple applications - Kraft chipotle flavored mayo - in a squeeze bottle.

According to Wikipedia, Willapa Bay is the 2nd largest estuary on the Pacific coast (The San Francisco Bay being the largest), and half the water in this mostly shallow bay leaves and enters with every tide. This makes for a fairly dramatic difference in scenery depending on the time of day.

Out on the bay, the dominant weather pattern established itself as a cool stiff breeze from the north that encouraged single file lines of low lying clouds to file past the island on some undetermined pilgrimage to the south. Meanwhile, the island seemed somehow inoculated from extremes in temperature, our camp sheltered by trees and perhaps topography.

In the gap between the island and the Long Beach Peninsula, trains of un-threatening clouds scurry southward on into the night.

Tired of waiting, Uncle Rico hauls the beer barge into the rising tide (If the tide won't come to Muhammad then Muhammad must go to the tide).

The promise of access to the interior of the island at Smokey Hollow Campground becomes something more like cruel taunting  when it becomes clear a population of mosquitoes, the result of exponential growth in ideal low swampy terrain, would be intent on accompanying us on any inland expedition.

It meant piloting our various watercraft into the wind driven waves, but we persevered until we reached the northern-most campground - Sand Spit.

Here the beach is delineated with great swathes of green and browning seaweed, as if the bay is some vast graduated basin.

I try to take a dramatic picture of Kip suitable for his cage-fighting publicity posters.

Clear evidence of old roads suggests a history of lumber harvesting. The roads evidently run the length of the island.

An ambiguous marking at an intersection.

Deep in the woods, Uncle Rico took time out to explain the life cycle of the Dungeness crab, and how, at suspiciously unspecified times of the year, the female crabs obey nature's dangerous imperative to climb the hills of Long Island to lay their eggs under the leaves of suitable ferns.

We counted ourselves fortunate to find a rare indigenous garden of jalapenos, especially since the receding tide failed to reveal any legal oyster sources.

Pinnacle Rock marks the location of our first campsite (far left)

As the tide continued to recede, the rotten stumps of enormous trees revealed themselves to be futilely clinging to sand in an obviously intertidal area. Uncle Rico began to share his theory that these giants had been victims of the massive Cascadia earthquake of 1700 (or so) when the activity of the Juan de Fuca Plate suddenly dropped established forests into the intertidal area. Of course, after the natural history lesson on Dungeness crabs, I was not entirely sure Uncle Rico's ideas could be trusted. 

After dark, and under a nearly full moon, a solitary oyster boat plied the incoming waters of the next high tide.

At daybreak, I began to notice new animals that made me question the wisdom of sleeping out in the open without a tent. This hand-size cricket/spider hybrid will likely be the source of countless future nightmares.

The trip back to the Pinnacle Rock Campground was like a big payoff for all the effort we had expanded paddling against the wind the day before. Now, the wind pushed us and the waves playfully nudged us, perhaps daring us to surf.

Tree hugger.

That's pretty much what she said.

Other fungus among us.

Oysters!

Kip samples his authentic French 'fortified' wine with the expected level of French snootiness and elegant decorum.

At moments, talking around the campfire, it seemed we were on the verge of solving significant world problems.

But we didn't take any notes...and by the time the moon was setting, I found I couldn't remember any of the answers.

And then the sun rose and the whole thing started again.

Harvey the Rabbit, Paul Bunyan, and Portlandia walk into a bar...

So...some artists have been generous enough to let me hang some of my pictures in their art show this Friday (Well to be honest, I submitted four images, but I'm not sure if they'll actually hang them up). It's supposed to be a celebration of Bastille Day, and the theme is Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, and Tenacity. The show is at the Troy Laundry Studios, 222 S.E. 10th Street (Between Ash St. and Pine St.).

Looking at the front of the building, you'd step through a Black Iron Gate and find Studio #1 at the top of the stairs.

The show is hosted by Jennifer Lanphier, Julia Gardner and Matt Weiers and takes place between 5 & 10 P.M., Friday July 18th. I've been told there will be jewelry, paintings, prints and perhaps even bronze castings. I am not sure if there will be any beverages, so I will try to have some beers in the back of my truck.

I'm always thrilled to be able to hang some of my photographs, particularly in an environment where they might be mistaken for art. Some of you may be wondering what the hell my pictures have to do with Bastille Day, but I think if you read the titles you will begin to see how much thought I put into this project.

For instance, this one is called:

A hopeless Portlandia throws dice to cast her vote, the very antithesis to the celebration of Bastille Day.

And this one is called:

A lonely Harvey calls Paul Bunyan, saying, "There's this girl I saw downtown...would you be my wingman? I'd really like to storm her gates."

See.
Because French people stormed a prison fortress in Paris back in July of 1789 or thereabouts.

Harvey, Portlandia, and Paul Bunyan all agree to go out for drinks at The Hour Glass, ostensibly to celebrate Bastille Day.

Harvey gets stood up by Portlandia who gets a better offer from the Lincoln Memorial. Paul Bunyan decides to stay home and polish his ax. Harvey, feeling forlorn, signs up to test cosmetics which is probably all for the better since the Hour Glass likely didn't have enough beer on hand for both a fraternity of giant icons and the masses clamoring to celebrate Bastille Day.

I'm the Decider, and I Decide What's Best.

Out from under the compressed expectations of a short work week, I launch my kayak from Heritage Landing. The fast flowing Deschutes ejects me into the Columbia River Gorge.  I paddle into a stiff wind, the captain of my own fate...for a change.

Moments before, a man with a new jet-ski tied to the shore told me the water was too 'crispy'.

"You mean 'choppy?'", I asked.

"Crispy." he nodded.

But eventually I settle for the adjective 'spooky'.

What looks to me like serpentine standing waves, the massive undulations of a barely submerged plesiosaur, are camouflaged by the spray of wind whipped whitecaps. 

I ride the bucking cryptid as it sweeps me off course.

"Captain of my own fate my ass." I mutter.

Swept, eventually, into the wind shadow of Miller Island, I regain my bearings and make landfall at the first smooth sandy beach I find, which, because the water is higher than usual, means a protracted search.

The wind curves through basalt lined valleys, pushing the heads of the tall grass downward. They bob up and down like blinking fireflies, in dramatic contrast to the tortured skeletons of burnt shrubs.

The island valleys parallel the flow of the river, and hint perhaps their current appearance owes much to ice age flood waters...

...with only the strongest basalt outcroppings surviving the deluge.

Now windswept dunes migrate the length of the island's interior...

...mostly appearing to labor eastward.

Paper cracks rock.

Fire burns paper.

Rock ignores Fire

Click on image to view larger version

08-24-2013    -   07-04-2014

The sun sinks behind hills on the Washington shore. The wind is strong enough to knock me off balance as I step from stone to stone, which isn't ideal from this high perspective.

Using my dumb phone, I call friends with smarter communication devices and inquire about wind forecasts. The lowest wind speeds are expected to occur at sunrise.

You'd think those things would look like frenzied pinwheels.

At about two in the morning, without proper camping gear, it occurs to me that I should also have inquired about the expected night-time temperature.

I also begin to reflect upon the psychological importance of blankets. When I was little, and in fear of monsters, there was no greater comfort than being able to pull my blankets up over my head for safety.

For adults in the wilderness, it works exactly the same... if by monsters you mean the noisy black beetles I discovered with my flashlight...or any number of imagined ticks, spiders, ants, snakes, scorpions, tarantulas and foul tempered beavers.

Click on image to view larger version.

The valley floor at five in the morning.

Because it gets light at four.

Note to self: Remember where you parked.

(Especially if by 'park', you mean  'hide your kayak in tall grass to protect it from pirates'.)

On this particular morning, the clouds take a crack at tessellating, after catching a glimpse of an M.C. Escher book abandoned at a picnic, its pages slowly flipping in the breeze - waving at the sky.

(Editiors Note: See comment number two)

Mother's Day

My mom lives in Portland.

She's lived there for close to half a century.

But she's never been to the Portland Japanese Garden.

During Portland's Spring, it is often ill-considered to depend upon non-rainy weather for outdoor events, but as the weather reports grew more and more optimistic for the weekend, I began planting the idea of a garden visit. I expected the 'ole trick knee excuse, but Mom surprised me by accepting my offer.

My mom's trick knee excuse is not without corroborating  anecdotal evidence. She often (and by often I mean really often) tells the story about how, when I was an innocent baby cradled in her protective arms, her trick knee suddenly went out on her causing her to fall and somehow jettison me high into the air. Later, she reports, they managed to find me under a bed where I had evidently bounced. This story may explain some of my trust issues. It also may explain why she walks carefully, eyeing the ground as if it has betrayed her in the past.

We brought a folding stool with us, in case she needed to sit down along the trail, but were pleased to find ample quantities of comfortable benches.

There are so many benches that I was initially going to make this blog post be exclusively about The Benches at the Japanese Gardens. I thought it would be pretty funny to ignore all the beautiful parts of the garden and just show my mom's favorite benches...but there were many beautiful parts of the garden.

While not actually a bench, countless butts sit on this bridge rail, helping their owners pose for stealth portraits - stealth portraits because the rules forbid portrait photography which mostly means the garden society doesn't want visitors to have to put up with portable-studio wielding professionals.

This bench, at the east end of the bridge, really fits well into its environment, though mom thinks it's a little bit short.

This bench provides a marvelous view of what I like to call the Portrait Bridge, and the infinite line of portrait takers.

There's a bench off to the right, but it didn't fit in with my efforts to capture a maze-like picture of the zigzag bridge.

I think there were 3 benches at this location. 

I think my mom enjoyed the time she spent on this bench. She has a deep appreciation for the beauty in creation. However, she is not likely to be pleased to find out  she was included in some of the pictures I was taking.

This bench graces the intersection that leads to the Natural Garden. The path through the Natural Garden is narrow and uneven and supposedly one-way. I was concerned that maybe this path would be too challenging, but by this time on our visit, I found Mom sitting on this bench, filling out an application to become a Sherpa.

Here Mom is reading the map saying, "I think this is the Three Arch Rocks national wildlife area, but I can't see the ocean." 

From the Stone Garden, a significant staircase climbs to the Pavilion, but this bench is strategically placed about half way up. 

This bench sits at the top of the stairs.

My mother gives this particular bench very high marks.

A bench on the pavilion veranda.

This picture reveals the Flat Garden, but what I seem to remember most is the curves.

The bench next to the Gift Shop.

My parents brought me into the world, and with all the experience gained from a twenty year head start, they began blazing a path through life, teaching me to walk, showing me directions to go, giving me examples to follow...and my Mom is still up ahead on that path, encountering new challenges...forever dispensing grace and love.

Thanks Mom.