Naps...

Mo says:

I like naps. Naps in the mountains, naps in the desert, naps on the coast, naps in the forest. There are so many good places to nap. Caves, under logs, in the tall grass. I like to pretend I am a lion or a wolf, sleeping in the tall grass, waiting to stalk my next meal.  I blend in well in the desert.

Sometimes I nap in the sun. Then I get hot, and move in to the shade. Sometimes after a swim, I shiver while I’m napping. Then I dry off and warm up.  If I get lucky, Mom or Dad will cover me with a sleeping bag to help me warm up.  They always take good care of me.  I have the best pack in the world!

Becoming a Rock Climber

she says:

“I would try this route man, but it looks a little chossy. Besides after that last climb my forearms are totally pumped and my tips are shredded.”

With every new sport comes a new lingo and the case certainly holds true with rock climbing. Before Smith Rock I climbed a bit in some rock gyms and annually at the rock wall at summer camp. I always enjoyed myself however never found the right venue to pursue my interest in rock climbing further, until of course I met Jeffrey who was already a proficient climber (better yet, he had a ton of extra gear I could use.)

And so as I laced up the borrowed climbing shoes, strapped on the worn harness and tied in to the top rope that Jeff set up. I was nervous, but thrilled to be outdoors and climbing. With the first few hand holds and foot pockets what struck me was how the rock almost seemed designed for climbing. I remember being back in the rock gyms and thinking, “these plastic holds are completely unrealistic, no rock has hand holds like this.” Well I was mistaken; Smith Rock has holds like that.

Incredible, what a place! With each day I got a bit more comfortable on my feet, with each evening I tried to digest the techniques Jeffrey has taught me so I could put them into practice the next day. Like with any new skill, you have your good days and your bad days and what keeps you going is the satisfaction of successfully getting through the crux of a route, putting into practice a new technique, feeling the advantage of proper foot placement, reaching out a grabbing that killer hand hold to pull you through and the promise that with perseverance you can keep climbing more challenging and trying routes (and maybe even lead one day.)

Rock n Road trip...

He says:

What next? Showered, tanned, and rested, we head south from Hood River and into the desert. Our destination is a state park called Smith Rock. This park is a river gorge carved out of a welded tuff, or volcanic ash and debris flow that solidified into a massive, very resistant, rock formation. The cliff faces are pocked by small pebbles and cobbles, as well as potholes and finger pockets which makes for excellent rock climbing!


In fact, Smith Rock is one of the premier rock climbing areas in the country, and is often cited as the birthplace of sport climbing (bolt protected climbing, as opposed to traditional gear protected climbing). Anyway, Smith is our destination, rock climbing is our goal!

Elizabeth is new to rock climbing, and my goal is to gradually introduce new techniques and difficulties. I haven’t climbed in over three years, so a gradual approach is for me too!! I need to gently re-calibrate my fear reflexes... something that is required when your 100’ off the deck, clinging to tiny edges, and your last pro is 15’ below you...

So, we settle into a new rhythm. Camping in the desert, the sun rises above the Ochocco Mountains, and warms your face. Coffee, a good book and yoga. Drive 7 miles to the park, packs already loaded with climbing gear (which I packed and brought with us in June... it stayed in the car while we were in AK), and we hike into the gorge.

The sun is heating the walls, Red Wall and Morning Glory Wall are glowing, Zion Wall and the Dihedrals are bright too. The air is still cool, so we head for a sunny wall. We pick a climb, drop our packs, and start to gear up. Moby scratches the earth and picks a spot to nap. I lead, Elizabeth follows. We chat about the new and different techniques required for the climb. Moby moves into the sun. We climb the route again, this time paying particular attention to form. We are lost in our little world. Mo is in the sun now. We pull the rope and move to a new climb, with different features, and we repeat the drill. New challenges, more physical this time, lactic acid builds in our forearms and fatigue is setting in. Mo is in the shade.



At the end of the day, we hike up and out of the gorge, tired but not wiped out. We sit in the grass on the rim of the gorge, the sun is setting behind the tallest spires, and the wind has picked up. We talk about the day’s effort, and what we’d like to try tomorrow. Water jug is full, our faces washed. Flip flops on, lawn chairs deployed, stove heating dinner, a good book in our laps...

Decompression Wilderness Retreat

He says:

PDX... and just in time. A volcano in the aleutian islands erupted just as we left anchorage, grounding all alaska air travel. We just barely escaped indefinite airport-waiting hell, the kind you see on tv when there is a blizzard during the holidays. You seldom take the time to appreciate how much it would suck to be trapped for days in an airport, no hotel spaces left, no way to get to your destination, just hours upon hours of waiting in the manufactured strip-mall environment of the modern airport. It has almost a theme park feeling, where everything looks as though it is convenient and comfortable, the way the Disney eiffel tower looks like the eiffel tower. But it isn’t.

The chairs are designed to be comfortable for an hour, no more. The food is designed to be eaten one time in a day, not three. It all looks normal and thoughtful and modern, but it is really an amusement park facimilie of what an actual comfortable environment could be. No matter...we escaped.

We load the car, and drive west to Mt. Hood. Elizabeth sleeps while I stop and run a few errands: NW forest pass, Oregon gazzeteer (forest road maps), National Forest ranger office for info/updates, groceries, and gas. By noon we are parked at the timberline lodge, with our gear spread all over the parking lot. Sorting, organizing, and packing our backpacks for a week-long hike around Mt. Hood.

By 2:00 we are walking. Mo’s pack is filled with about 8 days of food, and I am carrying one large can of meaty goodness to spice things up for him. He’s never carried such a heavy pack, and he doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Alaska has been good to him, and he is stronger and healthier than I can ever remember.

Elizabeth and I have packed food and gear for 8 days out. Our planned route is about 50 miles, with a lot of climbing and descending. The Timberline Trail circumnavigates the mountain, crossing rushing creeks, ridges, and alpine meadows between 3,000’ and 6,000’

above sea level. The trail has become less popular in recent years, mostly because a huge section of the trail was washed out in 2006, and has yet to be repaired. But we are looking forward to bushwhacking our own solution to the problem.

First day out: Clouds and fog, cool temps. We made camp in a high alpine meadow amongst a cluster of trees. Starting easy, and we relax and sip tea and study the map and try to plan out what the days ahead will bring.
The morning breaks sunny and warm. In fact, clouds never re-appear the entire time we are on the trip. Sunny, dry and warm... just what Oregon summers are supposed to be.

“What’s a ‘good’ pace for this trail”
“There’s no such thing as a good pace, just the pace your walking”

We wonder about pace, only because we have so much food, and so much ground to cover. No other reason. We have all the time we need, and we don’t want to finish too quickly. We plan to make this trip last.Stream crossings can be challenging, and we worry about Mo and the very fast moving water. Needless worry. Mo has four legs, and crosses the fasting moving streams with ease. We are amazed to watch him pace the banks looking for the best spot to cross. He even eyes the opposite bank to evaluate how he will get out of the stream beds. Amazing.

We do our best to hop from rocks to logs to the far bank. Some of the more complicated crossings (5 braided streams, with dense bushwhacking through scrub alder between each) take as long as 45 minutes. A total distance of 200 yards in just under an hour. Pace? Fugitaboutit! Now we begin the long, steep climb up and out of the stream gorge. Hot, dusty... why didn’t I splash my face with water when we were at the creek??

We camp in old growth forest, near a small meltwater stream. Mo is happy to have his pack off, and he immediately finds a spot to nap.

The mountain is a huge, living landscape. It is so easy to forget that the earth is constantly changing under our feet. Water, wind and their accomplice, gravity, are always working to undo the works of our optimistic visions. The trail, it seems, is not exempt. The impossibly steep sided canyon that we are traversing has been hit with a series of major landslides in the last year. The trail is gone, and so is everything else, right down to bedrock!! We decide to press on, and the progress is slow and very sketchy. Loose rock, gravel, wet sand and ancient volcanic ash. 

Adrenaline flows at a steady rate, making us hyper aware of the vast wide open space to our lower left. Back on solid trail, we sigh and giggle, mostly as a post-adrenal blow-off... thankfully back to the mundane business of walking!

“How far do we want to go today?”“Let’s walk until we don’t feel like walking anymore”

“Why don’t we stop at the next beautiful campsite?”
“Sounds like perfection to me!”

I’ve never really felt free in the hills, the mountains have always held objectives for me, with timelines and goals. This trip is different. Right now, I am exactly where I want to be. I don’t need to be ‘anywhere’ by tonight, tomorrow night, or monday morning. Our schedule is dictated by how much food we have left, and our desire to walk. So simple. And the thing is, I’ve read about this kind of simple freedom, we all have. Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, Stand By Me....yeah, all about kids, I know. But still, the lesson can get lost if you let that simple fact overshadow the real meaning of those stories. Innocence can be lost, but only when you stop looking for it is it truly gone. On this trip, we are experiencing our newly found innocence, and it is liberating.

Tonight we camp in a stand of trees near a flooded meadow, ringed by snow that shines so bright we have to keep our sunglasses on until dusk. Mo romps in the frigid meltwater, spooking two mule deer that ventured up the ridge, probably hoping to get a drink from Mo’s new swimming hole. The mountain is reddish-pink with alpenglow, the breeze is light and sounds fantastic. I love the sound of wind blowing through stands of alpine fir and spruce. Sounds and feels like music.

Up before the sun, I brew coffee and stand in the meadow with Mo. He took so long to warm up last night, shivering in the tent, that he now avoids the cold pool. 

We watch the red sunrise, an eerie cast. Later that morning, we encounter a group of day-hikers that informs us of a forest fire on the east side of the mountain. The dry heat of the day and the wind have aggravated the situation, and the east side trailheads are now closed. We press on for the rest of the day, but we each know that we need to come up with a plan B. We camp on a high ridge overlooking the desert on the east side, this will be the turn-around point of our trip.

We put together a return trip that takes us down to nearly 2,800’, and back up to a great little spot called Burnt Lake. We camp and swim and swim some more, washing off the trail dust and grime. The temps reached into the high 90’s, and we climbed over 3,000’ today... so there was a lot of grime. We feel renewed. A cool swimming hole was worth every foot of climbing. We sleep hard.

We are up early, and we pack up camp and finish off our breakfast. We have little food left, so it is fitting that we hope to make the Timberline Lodge this afternoon. We encounter an increasing stream of day-hikers. We stop and chat with any and all, and talk about the weather, the fire, politics. There are little kids, tots, on the trail...we are close.

At the lodge we drink water, slowly unpack into the car, and enjoy sitting in our folding chairs (with backs).
“What’s next?”
“I don’t really know yet. East to the desert? West to the ocean? North the the high cascades volcanoes? South to the Willamette Valley?”
“We can’t make a decision in this state...”
“How about Hood River, OR, then. It’s only 40 miles from here, I’m sure we can find a shower there, it’ll be windy there and we can watch the kite-surfers, and Mo can swim in the Columbia River. We can just relax for a few days until we make up our minds.”
“Sounds like perfection.”

Loose Cannons and Great Escapes

she says:

I could probably write a short novel about the happenings of the last week, but to catch everyone up and the keep it as brief as I can I will attempt to limit it to a blog entry.

The truth is that this blog has been slightly mis-representative (out of necessity...but we’re in the clear now). It would seem that our decision to step out of the comfort of the corporate world and into the contractual one meant that we would also have to accept a large amount of uncertainty (much larger than we could have imagined.) Uncertainty in if we would be paid, when we would be paid, uncertainty in the needs and wants of our manger’s [REDACTED COMMENTS**].  Uncertainty in if our manager’s wife [REDACTED COMMENT**].  And the uncertainty that in offering to help make dessert [REDACTED COMMENT**] a horrid afternoon full of [REDACTED COMMENT**]

In all honesty the manager’s wife [REDACTED COMMENT**].  Never before have I gotten so angry that my blood has boiled, my stomach turned and I have become so livid that I have trembled.  I hope to never reach such an aggravated state again.

Before the last fiasco in the lodge (which was the last horrid afternoon with said manager’s wife) Jeffrey and I had decided (via pro-con list) that since we were no longer being paid and since the free room and board of Icy Bay Lodge was no longer worth it... it was time to move on.  And so we decided that we would leave Icy Bay at the conclusion of Denise’s (Jeff’s mama’s) visit to pursue our dreams in the untamed west of the continental 48.

Denise’s visit was fantastic for Jeffrey and I (though I fear due to the lack of nice weather Denise may not harbor that warm and fuzzy feeling that many get after visiting Alaska.) For me it was absolutely wonderful to have some company at the lodge that I could talk with candidly about the situation at hand, chat about random happenings back east, as well as share is some much loved berry picking and paddling.

There were many adventures during Denise’s stay, though few of them were the thought out adventures that Jeffrey and I had planned. There was bird watching, bear spotting (a mama bear and her 3 cubs,) kayaking, berry picking and a skiff tour of Icy Bay to observe the rare Kittlitz’s Murrelet and get a closer look at the to three receding glaciers that feed Icy Bay.

However probably the most unplanned and adventurous was the impromptu escape from Icy Bay. Since the weather was stubbornly determined not to let Denise see even a hint of blue sky and even more crushing, the gray ceiling of clouds was not cordial enough to lift and expose the quite humbling views of the coastal mountains across the Bay, it was decided that we should make our get away via an Ex-Korean warship turned research vessel.  The boat was carrying the Bird Crew from Icy Bay to Juneau and was willing to drop us in Yakutat a few days earlier than anticipated, however it would ensure that we would not miss our flights out and more importantly ensure that we would be far away from the [REDACTED COMMENT**].

The Voyage to Yakutat was certainly an adventure, from concerns about Moby’s bladder after being on board for almost 20 hours without any relief, to that queasy quincal of potential seasickness as the rather round bottomed boat made the 8 hour cruise along the lost coast of Alaska. There were no whale spottings (which apparently is unusual) but the voyage allowed us to share stories about the bizarre happenings at Icy Bay Lodge and discuss future plans and adventures (as this was a turning point not only for Jeff and I but also for the Bird Crew.) It was a great way to decompress from the insanity that was such common place at the lodge.

So after spending a few days walking around Yakutat picking Salmon Berries, seeking out the anti-climatic tourist attraction and enjoying the occasional glass of vino, it was time to leave the summer-less Alaskan coast and make our way to the Pacific Northwest.  We hugged Denise good bye in Anchorage (glad that she came to share in some laughs, but embarrassed at Alaska’s poor hospitality in the form of unrelenting dreary weather) and we were off the Portland, OR.

** NOTES REGARDING REDACTED COMMENTS: We have redacted portions of this entry at the demand of the lodge's corporate attorneys - portions which further explained our negative experiences at the lodge and with its owners. The statements have been redacted solely on the advice of counsel, to avoid unnecessary legal issues, and not because they were not true.

The Animal Kingdom

Mo says:

There are a lot of strange creatures here.  Over there in the grass is a huge brown dog, he seems to be eating a bush.  Weird.

He is tall, and he ran off after deciding that he had eaten enough.  Then he wandered up the stream and into the woods.  I guess he didn't want to sniff butts and play in the sand like other dogs.

When we went kayaking, we saw some dogs on

 the ice.  They were gray and spotted, and they didn't have very big ears.  They didn't really bark much, but whenever we got close to them they would go swimming.  So I never really got a chance to sniff them, either.  I like to lie on the ice and go swimming, too.  I think we would have had lots in common!

We all went for a walk on the beach.  After a long time, we all curled up on the beach for a nap.  While mom and dad slept, I smelled something funny.  I couldn't figure out what it was, but I just couldn't sleep.  It was stinky, and it seemed to get stronger and stronger.  Finally, they woke up and we started walking again.  As soon as we started walking, we spotted a big bear in the grass who was creeping up behind us (I know it was a bear now because dad loaded the gun and we moved away from him pretty fast.  He says they are not dogs!).  I think he was trying to surprise us!!  Oh well, we spotted him before he could.

So many different kinds of dogs here!  What a neat place...

Love from the Lower 48

She says:

This week started off with some gifts from some loved ones residing in the lower 48. I received a hand written letter from my Aunt Pat informing me of how my mother was recouping after surgery as well as catching me up on all family to-do (really there is nothing better than a hand written note).

I also got a new pair of L.L. Bean slippers from my mother (these are the most beloved piece of footwear I’ve ever had. They ARE my security blanket. I would not dare venture anywhere without them, so you can imagine my dismay when they somehow missed getting packed for Ak. Obviously my mother needed to send a pair stat, they console me the way a mug of hot cocoa would console one on a cold winters day or a cup of noodle soup soothes the soul when one is feeling under the weather.)

And last but certainly not least, I received an absolutely fantastic baking cookbook from my dear friend Megan. The book is from a bakery in Brooklyn called “Sweet Melissa Patisserie” the bakery brags to make to best version of your favorite dessert. After talking with Megan about the dilemmas I was facing at the lodge, she thought this book might be the answer. I can’t say that there is really any cure fit for what is ailing the lodge and the disparities between Jeffrey and my cooking and the taste buds of the management, but that is neither here nor there, but its as you will soon find out, behind us. The book is fantastic, I throughly enjoyed the detailed cooking instructions given, simplicity of the ingredients and the fantastic antidotes about Melissa’s childhood and what a large influence baking had on her life.

All the gifts were heart warming and gave me pangs of nostalgia for home. I love being here in Alaska, but sometimes I do miss the familiar faces of those that I love back home. However, fortunately for me Jeff’s mama is coming for a visit. It will be good to see her. I hope to share some of the beauty and adventure that this place holds (and fingers crossed the weather will cooperate.) In addition, it will be wonderful to have a fresh set of eyes observing these odd circumstances at the lodge, and to tell us if we are sane coping with the insane or on the brink of loosing our marbles.

The Icy Tour-part two

And after the fourth day in the tent, waiting out an Alaksan coastal gale, you begin dreaming of bailing out. We listen to the marine weather forecast, and it goes from grim to grimmer. We have a four hour window before the predicted weather gets truly awful... and we have roughly 6 miles of open water packed with ice between us and the lodge. Whitecaps and winds at ten knots, scheduled to build to 30. Who wants to go for a paddle?

We break camp in a downpour, packing wet everything into our boats. It is very chilly, so Moby gets a sleeping pad to insulate him from the cold water on the other side of the kayak hull. Plus, he gets a new customized rain slicker made from a garbage bag. He hates it, but he seems to understand why he needs it.

The first few miles are good, the ice is thick, but it keeps the seas from building. The wind is on our port quarter, so we are getting a nice little boost in speed. At the edge of the ice flow, we see our next problem.

“Wow... it’s really rough ‘out there’, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, and I thought the ice was going to be the problem”

Four foot seas, short and steep, are building rapidly, whitecaps are breaking around us, and the wind is loud and getting louder. Shouting distance is about 10 feet, and we work hard to stay close enough to communicate, but not so close that we pile up on each other when a big on breaks. Our focus is on Gull Island, about two miles away, now easily visible through the wind and rain.

We paddle hard, Moby cries occasionally as he shivers in the front of my boat. We’re all cold and wet, but he has to just sit there. I think he gets how serious we are, and he does his best not to move or shift weight. More than once, a steep pile of foamy seawater slaps us both in the face. Good times. Moby is plotting revenge, I’m sure of it.

We pull up in the lee of Gull Island. After just 50 yards of paddling against the wind, and we are suddenly thankful that the wind is at our back. We all climb out of the boats, stretch, and look back at the patch of boiling bay we just crossed. Another two mile crossing to the eastern shore and we are home. We don’t linger on the island. Back in the boats, back into the square seas of a shallow bay during a building gale.

Finally in the lee of the forest. Smooth water and barely a breath of wind. The lodge stands against the darkening skies, our cabin just behind and tucked into the woods. There waits a warm shower for the humans, a dry towel and bed for Mo, and the gossamer threads that form the web of comfort that will become the dream-like beginnings of our next adventure...