January 19, 2012

“Dude. Did you see that sign?” I said, taking a sip of tepid coffee from my thermos.

“No. What was it?” Spencer looked back through the rear window of the Syncro.

“‘Sandboarding!  Rentals$20 for 24 hours. The sign is straight out of Back to the Future.”

“Fuck yah, lets check it out.”

Signaling my concurrence, I turned onto the shoulder just north of Florence, Oregon on the 101 and let the minivan behind us pass.

“I have always wanted to try this.  It looks totally ridiculous.”

Five minutes later,  Spencer and I were standing in one of the world’s only dedicated sandboarding shops getting the scoop about the history of the sport from the owner, operator and enthusiast.  Resembling a former WWF wrestler, and sporting a mustache and ponytail, he informed us that sandboarding has been around long before snowboarding and that it was in fact an inspiration for Jake Burton.  I kept my mouth shut and nodded.   After the “history” lesson and short video highlighting the sport’s potential in various sand dunes around the world, Spencer were on our way, boards in hand.

That afternoon, we hiked around the dunes of Honeyman State park exploring shoots and picking lines.  Although the conditions weren’t ideal,  (sandboarding favors dry sand and being the middle of January in Oregon, the sand was wet) we got the hang of things pretty quickly.  Sandboarding feels like riding a snowboard in powder.  All the steering is with your back foot, and bad things happen when you put weight on your front foot.

They ollie just like a snowboard.  Yours truly shredding a shoot.

Waxing up the board before a session.

Spencer summitting the hill.

The boards have similar construction to a skateboard, but with a layer of polyurethane on the bottom.  Home Depot project perhaps?

Sand scrub.

Cranking a turn,  hand on the wave.

Dodging a patch of grass, I carved my way down the narrow shoot.  Pointing the board directly at Spencer,  I picked up speed and turned to the right at the last minute spraying him with a few handfuls of sand.

“Duddde.  Seriously.”

“Haha you were asking for it.”

“I’m over it.  Lets head back to the car.”

Taking a moment,  I looked back up the hill at our handy work.  In the distance a yahoo’s four-wheeler screamed up a hill.  I kicked off the board.  “Alright.  I’ll be doing this again.”

“As will I.”

Here are some more links,

Sand Surfing (Facebook).

Twitter.

January 17, 2012

The southern Oregon ccoast feels like no other part of the Northwest.  From Portland,  it takes five hours to get there along I-5 south with a cut through the coast range near Eugene.  Take the 101 from Tillamook or Seaside, and you’re looking at seven hours of winding road reminiscent to the 1 in California.   Because of this remoteness, the area gets limited visitation in the summer and in the winter, well its all but a ghost town.   Think of it as Twin Peaks with a few bags of meth borrowed from Deadliest Catch, and without the cute girls.

After a few weeks of the Pacific Northwest’s signature rain and gloom,  I headed south along the coast on my way to California.  Like most Oregonians,  I grew up spending weekends during the summer playing on the rugged northern beaches of Short Sands and Canon Beach.  My knowledge of the coast goes from good to nonexistent around Lincoln City.  With my buddy, Spencer Phillips, sitting shotgun, we worked our way down the coast searching for waves and views in the heart of winter.

Blasting.

Lagoon.

Ripping a few hundred yards out.

Late night.

Foaming.

Locs only, bro.  These gulls hold it down.

Dodge Rampage.

Sometimes slide film has a mind of its own.

Fixings.

Deers,  beware.

Holding it down.

Sunrise with Portra 160 and an Olympus XA on January 7th.

Traveling is always best in places that you don’t know that well.  The parks were empty save for a few dog walkers and retirees in their RV’s.  If you ever get the opportunity, head to this part of the country.  Bring your surf board,  there are plenty of waves.

Here are some more links,

Southern Oregon (Facebook),

Foreverenroute,

Twitter.

January 3, 2012

A few cars parked on the shoulder made me take a second look as I rounded the bend on 101 heading north on the Oregon coast.  Seeing cliffs, ocean and foam though the sparse trees,  I deliberated.   If I head back to Portland now,  it will be dark by the time I get back.  No point in hurrying. Some few hundred feet past the pull out,  I turned around in a gap in traffic and headed back to investigate.

Turning off the ignition, I unplugged my iPhone from the stereo and kept Fire on the Mountain Cornell 77′ playing through the speaker phone.  An unseasonal south wind blew in warm air,  making January 1st feel like April and I left my sweater in the backseat.  “Blooop Blooop” my alarm sounded as I shoved  my phone in my breast pocket, and grabbed my camera.

Disregarding the family of four walking towards me on the trail,  I continued my air guitar solo and passed with a smile, hair still wet from a surf session at Short Sands.

“I wonder if they can guess which car is mine?” I chuckled to myself.

The sound of waves bashing against the cliffs beckoned.

Soon,  the trees and land stopped, abruptly,  a few hundred feet above the ocean.   From this vantage point, the swells’ dark shadows lined up towards the horizon. Hopping the fence,  I brushed some gravel off a ledge and sat. Fire on the Mountain wound down to some cheers from stoned college kids now in their 50s.  Being in no rush,  I pulled out the my phone and pushed repeat.

What if…

Pebble throwing,  idea jotting.

As far west as it gets.

Narrow.

An hour of daydreaming,  pebble throwing and wave watching passed.  Despite feeling like April,  January shadows reminded me of my hour and a half drive back to Portland.  Taking one last look,  I climbed back over the wire fence and walked back towards the pulloff.

Happy New Year.  Longer days are coming.

Here are some more links,

Scarlet/Fire on the Mountain (Cornell 77),

Out of Reception.

Facebook.

December 29, 2011

The river along US-26 boiled like two week old coffee down the drain.  Rounding the last corner before merging with 101,  a gust of wind shook the Syncro’s flat sides, forcing me to take a kiddy pool sized puddle head on.  With a crrrrshhh, we displaced half the puddles contents onto a Toyota Tacoma in the oncoming lane.   For the last few hours,  the rain had battled with the fastest setting of the windshield wipers.   Advantage rain.

Pulling off the highway a few miles south, the streets of Canon Beach were empty save for a few SUVs and local pickups.  Gusts on the flags at souvenir shops and water around the storm drains hinted at why.   Eager to catch a glimpse of the ocean,  I pulled off onto a side street.  Familiar with the saying, “We’ll get’em when he comes back in,” well the last scene of Point Break was filmed at this beach in similar conditions.

“That looks like…hell,” my mom said rolling down the windows to get a better view.

“Yah.  Wow,  that’s what a half mile of whitewater looks like.”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?”  Looking down the beach I spotted a lone person leaning at a twenty degree angle into the wind. “Yeah lets.”

Shortsands Beach.

Serious #vanlife envy.  These Mitsubishi Delica’s can’t be imported into the US, but our friends to the north, and the rest of the world, can get one for a few grand.  They are 4wd, come in turbo diesel and get between 25 and 30 MPG.

A duly named street.

Some fresh driftwood.

Wet.

Taking it all in.

It’s often said that, “the Pacific Northwest has two seasons,  August and 11 months of rain and fog.”  While I agree with this maxim,  it fails to capture the violence and intensity of the storms that charge down from the Aleutian Islands in the “Winter Months.”   Before bringing waves to Hawaii’s north shore,  these storms slam into the PNW as feral beasts, pulling trees from the ground, flooding rivers and closing harbors.  They breaking up the endless months of fog and mist,  with weather alerts and road closures.  Nowhere is their power more evident than on the northern Oregon Coast.  They make you feel small and vulnerable.

Here are some more links,

Facebook,

Twitter.