January 24, 2012

California’s Route 1 starts, or stops depending on which way you drive it, in a sleepy area of northern Mendocino county known for its “trees.”  (I’ll give you a hint; some are big and red and the others small and green.)  An unassuming sign for Fort Bragg designates the turnoff from 1o1 onto one of the country’s most celebrated highways.  Shortly after sunrise,  Spencer and I pulled onto the 1 after spending a few days in Arcata and headed south for San Francisco.

Cutting through Mendocino, Sonoma and Marin Counties, the 1 wraps around cliffs and through small towns.  Despite looking similar to the Oregon Coast,  the Norcal  is culturally very different from its neighbor to the north.  If the quazi-monster truck is the vehicle of choice in the southern Oregon,  the 80′s bio diesel drinking Mercedes wagon gets the honks and waves in this neck of the woods.

Point Arena.

Two tone.

“It was a run by fruiting…”

Drop off.

The Mendocino Coast.

Bumpers.

Someday..

An old growth eucalyptus tree.

Twinsies!!

Tide pool.

Vultures in Marin County.

As we worked our way down the coast a hundred miles a day,  the weather warmed up and the rain subsided.  Slowly the days lengthened.  Later in the year I will head north,  but now it’s time to head south.

Here are some more links:

The Start of the 1 (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.

December 27, 2011

The Syncro skidded to a stop on the golf ball sized rocks as I stomped on the clutch and break pedal. “Did you hear that?” I asked my cousin, Nikko.

“No,  what was it?”

I turned down Secret Garden, by the Boss, to a whisper.  “I thought I heard a hiss,  it could have been a varmint though.”

“Nope, didn’t hear anything,” Niko said poking his head out the rolled-down window and looking around.

Momentarily relieved, I let off the break and  the Syncro lurched forward down the one lane road, the kind of road that donkeys died making a hundred years ago and  where yahoos get their jollies in jeeps today.

This time, the hiss left little to my wishful imagination.  “There!  Shit.  Could you take a look?”

Without saying anything, Nikko opened the door and took off his seat belt.

Over the rumble of the liberally muffled engine, the hiss continued.

“There is a hole the size of my fucking thumb in the front tire,” Nikko said looking down in disbelief at the front passenger tire.

Confirming my fears, I pulled the emergency break, popped my seat belt, and scurried around the front of the van towards the hiss sound.  Just as Nikko had described,  a hole the size of my thumb exposed the cavernous interior of the BF Goodrich Mud Terrains.

In shock, we stood side by side and stared down at the hole.  The escaping air kicked up a cloud of dust.

“So that’s what the inside of the tire smells like.”

“Yup. Well, this is what a full sized spare is for.  Plus, its not an adventure until something goes wrong.”

“I guess so.  How familiar are you with that jack?” Nikko asked motioning to the red Hi-lift Jack attached to the tire swing on the back of the van.

Neither of us moved.

“Well to tell you truth,  I used it once to try to get the van out of lake full of mud in Nevada.  I ended up having to get towed.  Haven’t changed a tire with it but I’m no stranger to a changing, just not on a hill like this.”

“Gotcha.” Nikko kicked the tire. “This thing’s losing air fast.”

Breaking inertia, I headed towards the drivers seat. “Yah, I’m going to pull it up towards that straight away.  This wont be too bad,  maybe take 20 minutes,” I asserted.

Creeping down the hill towards a relatively flat section, I put it into second gear,  turned off the ignition and cranked the emergency break.

“I’m going to grab the jack.  Could you pull off the spare?  Here’s the tire iron,” I said reaching under the bench seat and grabbing the tire iron and Vanagon jack adapter.

Five minutes later, we had the necessary ingredients laid out a few feet from the van:  Full sized spare,  tire iron,  jack adapter and Hi-lift. “Okay,  let’s dance.”

With a few cranks of the jack,  the suspension started to ease.

“Just a little bit more,”  I said out of the corner of my mouth,  fully articulating the arm of the jack.

As soon as the front tire left the ground, the Syncro lurched forward an inch, spitting gravel as if in disapproval of the entire scenario.

“Fuck.  FUck. Fuuuuhhhhhhkk.”  I jumped back.

The van skidded another inch, forcing the Hi-Lift jack into an even more precarious angle.

“Shiit, that is not good. This is not good.”

The creeks and groans continued.

“We gotta get rocks under the tires!  Now!  Now!”  I screamed running around to the driver’s side and shoving any rocks I could crab within arm’s length under the tires.  The wedges worked and after a few seconds, the creaks stopped.

“What the fuck do we now?”

“If that  jack knocks out and hits one of us, well,  this goes from being a shitty situation to a desperate one.  Totally screwed.  We are a good five-hour hike back to Racetracks,  and that’s assuming that someone is there for the night.”

“Yah that would not be good. Who knows how long that thing will hold.  I mean, that looks pretty fuckin’ precarious,” I said pointing to the jack, some 20 degrees off a comfortable axis.

“I’m not putting my head anywhere near that shit.”

“Me neither.  Let’s be calm.  Man, I wish we had another jack.  We could jack up the back and we would be fine. Should we wait for another jeep to come around?”

“Its the middle of December, in Death Valley.  We have seen two jeeps today.  Who knows how long it would be?”

“If the jack gives out the whole weight of the car will drop onto the that suspension arm.   Bye bye disk break. Bye bye CV joint.  We are 40 miles from the nearest paved road and there is no way we are towing this shit out of here.”

“Damn,  we are in a tight spot.”

“No shit, George Clooney.”

“What if we put the cooler and ammo box under frame and try to knock the jack out with a rock?  If it knocks out, maybe they will catch it, and if doesn’t we’ll at least know it will hold some stress.”

“We don’t have too many other options.  But I’m not throwing the rock though.  Oh no,  this is your rodeo.  Wait a second,  take that food out of there.”  Ni;ko said, rifling through the cooler and removing some necessities.

“Good call.”

Avoiding touching any parts of the van, I pulled the Coleman cooler and pelican box out of the van with a shovel handle and wedged them under the frame.

“Alright.  I guess this is all we can do.”

Picking up a rock the size of a seat cushion from the side of the road,  I took a deep breath, bid farewell to my van and  threw it at the jack.

Instead of triggering the anticipated catastrophe,  the rock bounced off  with a a metallic ding, wedging itself at an opposing angle against the jack.

“Jesus Christ.”

Catching my breath I took a step back. “What the do we do now? Should I throw another?”

“Ughhh.  If it can hold that, then it will probably hold a few more cranks from the jack.”

“Shit,” I said,  adrenaline still pumping strong.  “Alright,  lets  jack it up.  Grab the spare and get ready to throw it on.”

Walking forward,  I cautiously pumped the handle of the jack,  forcing the van up one click.  The precarious angle held.

Like a pit crew,  Niko and I positioned the wheel on the lugs and spun the nuts with purpose.  Scrambling for the tire iron,  I tightened the nuts, shacking with energy.

Breathing deeply, we stood back. High fives were in order.

Here are some more links,

Twitter.

December 15, 2011

I go through phases. Some last longer than others, but all benders are intense.  As a rug rat I played  with Legos 24/7 and drooled over the latest offerings in the Lego catalog.  From there,  I graduated into archery.  I lost hundreds of arrows in the woods behind my house.  As a teenager,  all I wanted to do was snowboard.  At 16, I rode over 100 days on Mt. Hood.  Most recently, I have been on a van binge (most of you probably know this already).  I often slam on the breaks while cruising down the road and double back to take a second look at a van or camper parked on the shoulder.   When the waves are flat,  I default to exploring the area I am in for vans parked in their natural habitat.

My interest in them isn’t a material fetish.  They cost less than a new Honda and sure aren’t glamorous.  It’s more philosophical.  I am drawn to their embodiment of attainable adventure and self reliance.  They have  helped people travel to beautiful places for generations and served as base camps for countless activities. I gravitate towards this history and people continuing the same spirit today.

Visually, each van picks up dents, customizations and other anomalies on the road.  No two are a like.  They weren’t designed to be works of art, but have developed into them.  Call it industrial beauty.

A very rare BMW powered Vixen in Big Sur.  These things have Turbo Diesels and get 30 MPG’s.  Some things were only schemed up in the 80′s.

Down by the tracks is way more gnarly than down by the river. Bingen, Washington.

A VW T3 Syncro Dako in Hood River, Oregon.  Some day…

A limo-sized van in Santa Barbara, California.

There are more VW vans in Arcata, California than pot heads.  Well maybe not, but its a close one.

A short bus camper just south of Santa Cruz.

A purple color-changing paint job on a dually camper in Portland, Oregon.  Not for the weak of heart.

This isn’t uncharted territory.  People have been into their vans for considerably longer than I have been around.   All sorts of folks have spent time in vans and have photos of their experiences.  To share these photos and my shots, I have been working recently on a new photo project called #vanlife.  Check out the site and use the #vanlife tag on Instagram and Twitter. Bear with me,  I think something good will come of this binge.  It might even inspire someone to take a road trip.

Here are some more links,

#vanlife,

#vanlife (Picasa).