Notes from above the 49th
I’ve been alone a lot more now that Colin is in Champaign, though I have done more than my best to occupy my every waking moment with activity. Time to embrace some aloneness if I can can mangage the urge to find others.
Here’s a poem I stumbled across on the depth of aloneness. Not crazy about the drawings floating across the page, but I do like the idea of a poem put to video.
Well I’ve been holding back on some old posts, but they are up now. Plus, here’s video from Monday’s hike up the Grouse Grind. Music by the lovely Mynabirds- Numbers Don’t Lie. Rainy Labor day. My first video on YouTube.
“Esalen-1749-Edit” in Thomas Kuoh’s Flickr stream.
Licensed via the Creative Commons.
I’ve hiked through Oregon woods and up Taiwanese riverbeds to sit in the natural warmth of springs. I’ve ventured into rivers heated by active volcanos and more domesticated springs infused with lavender and milk. But I’ve never before gotten up in the middle of the night for the reward of hot minerally water, to the sound of waves crashing and a show of falling stars.
Why the middle of the night? Spa policy. At the Esalen Institute in California’s Big Sur, unless you are studying massage or meditation in one of their workshops, the only time you can come to the spa is between 1 and 3 in the morning and that is of course with reservations. Still, I couldn’t resist the idea of a spa situated on the rocky cliffs of Northern California, waves crashing down below. The hour of our visit didn’t hurt the mystique either.
Arriving at Big Sur from the South requires a day on one of the most twisted portions of the Pacific Coast Highway and while our bodies needed the night at the spa, I wasn’t happy about leaving our campsite to drive another 15 miles to the Institute in the night. When we arrived we were met at the road and lead through the dark grounds with the rest of the witching hour visitors. The demographics were pretty stable. It seemed as though almost everyone was there with a partner and somewhere in the age range of 25 to 45.
“Esalen Shower w/ Sliding Glass” in JasonUnbound’s Flickr stream.
Licensed via the Creative Commons.
The spa itself was rebuilt in the 1990s and is a primarily concrete structure open in numerous directions to the open air. Because the spa is so close to the water, I suspect that one of the caveats to 1990s rebuilding was that the institute open it to some extent to the public, but I really have no evidence for this. One enters down a series of softly lit steps in to a co-ed changing room. The changing room abuts the showers with its large sliding glass windows that allow you to look out over the ocean when it’s not pitch black. The open air structure includes under its cover several pools and a series of individual tubs along with massage tables used during the day. The sky being crystal clear, we only dipped our toes into these before heading out to one of two pools open to the sky and settled in.
The rich water has a somewhat sulfury smell, but it could only possibly drive away the most sensitive nose. Like many spas the temperature can be raised by pulling a peg to allow direct spring water into the pool. Still, in the middle of the night this all seemed like a dream and finding the plug in near complete darkness took some doing. We spent nearly the whole night in that one tub with other couples occasionally arriving or departing, always whispering quietly to on another.
“Woman in spring” in Lewisha Jone’s Flickr stream.
Licensed via the Creative Commons.
Though we lost half a nights sleep for this, the time spent was almost more restorative than sleep. The warm water for the body, crashing waves for the ears and a sky full of stars for the eyes. Amidst the white glow of the milky way we watched for the occasional shooting star. We never noticed the attendant who was supposed to come around at a quarter till three and when we finally willed ourselves out of the pool it was nearly 3:30. In a warmth induced haze we meandered our way back to the car, to our campsite and back to sleep.
I had always wanted to fly fish. My aunt growing up was a fly fisherwoman and I have hazy memories of a lake in California and a trout grilled up fresh in butter. I really wanted to, but as with many hobbies I dream of taking up, I never wanted to enough to go alone into a fly fishing store to get started. That is what friends are for.
At the end of my first outing with the Trouts and Stouts fishing club I said to Eben “That was really fun, but I don’t think I’m ready to buy all of this stuff and go out to the rivers of BC alone.” After all, at the end of that lesson-filled but untroutful day on the Guadalupe river, I had yet to even see a fish caught. Eben’s response- “I don’t want fishing buddies, I want my friends to fish. I realize it will take many years to get you all fishing, but that’s my goal.” Pressure off I returned to my busy architecture and rowing filled life in Vancouver.
Only two months later I was in the Bay Area for school and planned to spend a day in Oakland with David and Amynta. I arrived in early in the evening to the news “We’re going to dinner, Eben and Sarah are coming up, and we are going fishing tomorrow in Carmel. You don’t have to come, but…” California in January is not the dark and cloudy Vancouver I had escaped and I jumped at the opportunity to stand in the sun in a river all day. Again ,David and Eben lent me gear and as many flies as I could loose. Again, I didn’t catch anything and I’ll admit to spending an hour of the day napping on a log, but I nearly leaped across the river when I saw Eben catch a lovely little steelhead.
Before I left back to B.C. Eben handed me John Gierach’s Trout Bums. I didn’t start reading until summer, almost right before our trip to Yosemite and more fishing. Reading one the road ,I found some elements I was extremely attracted to and some, mostly the need to fetishize a massive collection of equipment and flies I still couldn’t imagine relating to. Is this for me?
The first fish I caught… well the first was one of those accidental catches. I was in-eloquently climbing out of the river when a little tiny brown trout took the fly and did all the work for me. Well… Eben took the fly out of the fish’s mouth… the fish didn’t do that on it’s own. Both Eben and David reassured me that in fact, that fish counted as did the few I’d hooked but hadn’t managed to hold in my hand before they slipped away.
The second fish though, the second fish was all mine. I identified a probable fish location, cast caught photographed and released. I ran over to David and Eben in a flurry of excitement all the time thinking, that’s a good end of the day, time to quit on a high note. But I didn’t. I kept fishing until the fates had me cast three times in a row into a tree and I knew quitting time had really come.
So here I am. I still haven’t bought any gear, but I’m really thinking about it. More than anything though I’m thinking about fishing. On our cross country trip I leaned out over small rivers looking for fly fishermen the same way I lean out over large rivers looking for rowers.
So you want to know the secret to teaching your friends to fish. Patience. Be there to guide, answer questions- even if they are the same questions over and over. Be generous with you time and knowledge. You probably won’t get everyone and you won’t get most of them very fast, but be persistent and they’ll come around. I mean who can really resist the rush of a stream, sun glinting off the water and a chance for a bit of a battle.
You can’t beat a long weekend with friends, good food, perfect weather, campfires and streams. Can we do this all the time?
A note on going to Toulumne. Staying up here is much nicer cooler and calmer than Yosemite Valley, but you must reserve early- as in- February (thanks Ned and Alice). Must have campsites are in the A section by the river but the rest of the A section is packed tight- not so nice. We were in the E/F section. Lots of room, lots of quiet (except maybe for us), a little far from anything outside the camp.
Edward took me down to his team’s boathouse this morning and I got a nice little guest row in. Perhaps somewhere in my mind I was trying to do a little spying on a team that gave us a run for our money at NW master’s championships and that I would be pleased to be part of should I have the pleasure of moving back to Portland.
The boathouse is in a larger office building and opens up onto a parking lot right under the I-5. The boathouse is quite new but they have a bit heftier walk sown to the dock than we do.
Our row took us from the I-5 down almost to the Ross Island. A series of 5 minute pieces. For a boat with throw in from another club and a few folks I understand are fairly new, it was a pretty good row. Nice bright Vespoli 8 that set itself pretty well. Oh yes, and I was in 5 seats which means I have now sat in every seat of an eight.
That was all at 5am this morning though and as it is now nearing 11:30 I’ll have to leave it there.
Sometimes I don’t know what I would do if we stayed in Portland for more than a few days. Somehow, each time I come back I repeat the same pattern. I almost always end up at the Hedge House for lunch. If we’re lucky, it’s two fifty dollar beer Tuesday. I get a PABST sandwich. This time I was surprised to find that the S in my PABST, sprouts, had been replaced with salad greens (the rest being provolone, avocado, bacon and tomato). The whole thing was something about new management- frankly, nonsense. After lunch I always seem to end up back at Reed. I’m pulled to it like a current that needs grounding. This time round we found two of my favorite profs, one of which we spent the afternoon chatting with on the grass. We visited our home of an Admission office and assured Jenny we’d be staying with her on our return trip. I had to check out the new dorms while there were no students to scare me away and.
I was quite impressed but left wondering the $/sq ft. for those guys. To save me from the sense of opulence, I was happy to see that the dorms hadn’t stayed too pristine and graffiti still has some place at Reed. 
I checked out the “I love a…” bathroom stall in greywood. Still there, but the symphony of voices doesn’t seem to have the depth and complexity that it used to. Is it me or is it the wall? 
By then the day was done. With the requisite stop and Mikes Drive-in for raspberry and blackberry shakes (do I remember them having marrion berry shakes?)
we returned to our lovely hosts home and found tasty food and gelato near by. Now the day is totally spent and we’re hitting the road again. If we missed you on this leg we’ll catch you on the way back up. I promise.
When we started planning our summer adventure, we made sure that it started before the 4th of July. It can be one of my favorite holidays and I’m always a little disappointed to be in another country for it. Canada has it’s Canada day 3 days earlier on July 1st, but it’s just not the same.
As with all holidays you have really got to find a place to celebrate it right and I’m pretty sure the best place for the 4th of July is Horsehead Bay on Washington’s Olympic penninla. Family friends have a house on the bay and they know how to do things right. We arrived to a patio full of food and flowers and friends. The table centerpiece was a giant bowl of steamed clams picked up right on the beach below their house and cooked up with just a little bit of celery. As fast as we ate them the bowl just kept filling up. 
While our hostess Jane manned the clams, our host Jess pulled the teens in the group around a bay. Two years ago when the temperature was closer to 80 this looked like more fun, but I guess if your dad offers to pull you around in a boat, you take him up on the offer.
Lest you question the superiority of this 4th of July event by noting that clams are not BBQ, don’t worry there was plenty of burgers to go around and of course dessert, American style.
Then of course there were the fireworks. We had made a requisete stop at the Indian reservation for fireworks but even though we had bottle rockets, roman candles and real sparklers we really couldn’t beat what was all around us.
See, on the bay here, there is almost a competition between households up and down the waterway as to who can do the best fireworks display. Starting before the sun went down around 9:30 we watched thousands of dollars go up in smoke all around us. Our dock’s crew waited until the sun had completely set before launching their $4k worth of kaboom.
The whole place sounded like a war zone, but I love fireworks and I’m happy to thank Francis Scott Key for getting us to associate big noises and bright sparks of fire with independence and national pride. Sometimes when watching a particularly beautiful bloom I hand help but hum to myself “…the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” It’s a little sappy and perhaps misplaced, but it’s Americana at it’s best and I love it.
Oh the sloth I've been
I realize checking this site that I haven’t written in almost 6 months. I even had trouble remembering how to log on. In truth I’ve had trouble figuring out exactly what is worth writing about. This blog doesn’t have a clear focus and though I wish I had a eccentric passion like my friend at Bashfully Designed does for mail, I don’t. I don’t have enough drive to write exclusively about architecture, rowing, gardening or Vancouver, the 4 topics I appear to have covered most. So this will continue to be a journal in the most traditional of senses and probably only of interest to my friends. Frankly those are the blogs I like to read and I always wish my friends would write more about themselves.
So now for a quick run down of the last 6 months.
It was a good semester for me at school. I had a great studio with John Bass which included a trip to the California River Delta and the opportunity to see my Cali folk.
We went on a successful family trip to Costa Rica with my family while the Olympics were here in Vancouver.
I trained my butt off all winter for rowing and raced the Windy cup with my team (see post to follow).
Colin got a job as assistant manager at Starbucks… I know what you are thinking, ask him about it some time.
Colin also got into school and will be attending the University of Illinois, Campaign-Urbana next year. I’m sorry to everyone who hoped we would move to their cities. We hoped we would to, but you gotta go to the school that’s right and U of I is finally that school for Colin. If you are an academic and there is a conference for you at U of I you can stay with us, one of the plus sides of a city you’ve never heard of is that we can afford a two bedroom.
School got out for me in early May. I futzed for a few days, figured I wouldn’t find a job for just two months, but then a lead came through and I did. So now I’m working full time+, rowing 3 days a week and coxing/coaching for the learn to row program 2 days a week. I’m going to be bet by the end of next month and in need of our trip to Yosemite/San Diego and our drive out to the Midwest.
with any luck this won’t be the last post from me for the next 6 months.
My year will be packed and I anticipate a little rough. I have a busy semester and I’m starting my thesis. In September Colin will go off to school somewhere and I’ll do the design portion of my thesis here alone. It seems at the outset a little bleak, but I think there will be more in there than I can see in my crystal ball.
The resolutions are few, but important.
So really, that’s it. It encapsulates a lot, but I think that will keep the bow pointed in the right directions
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