Four Corners

We followed US 89 out of the east end of Flagstaff as the lengthening afternoon shadows and dropping temperatures signaled the eminence of the high desert sunset.

"How far do you think we should make it tonight?" I asked Tim as he peered at the Gazeter of Arizona.

"Ehhh it all depends..."

"Just pick a place, and we'll head there.  All this," I motioned out the windshield towards the expanse of sage and sandstone, "is government land.  God's country.  We can camp where-ever-the-fuck-we-want."

"I know, but we're getting close to Navajo Nation.  I feel weird for camping in their land."

"Are you serious?  This shit is abandoned.  There's a gazilion dirt roads leading off into the middle of nowhere."

"I still feel strange about it.  If I were them,  I wouldn't want a bunch of gringos camping on my land," Tim said, as if addressing the possibility of Sasquatch.

"Alright, alright.  Let's head towards a monument then. I want to be within striking distance of Four Corners tomorrow.  I can't do any more of this interstate highway shit," I said, alluding to the hours spent tracking east out of LA on the 40.

Nodding in agreement, Tim flipped to the page, searching for suitable monument or national park.  " Navajo National Monument is....less than 100 miles from here.  Lets head there."

"The Dude Abides."

Rolling down the window,  the warm desert air masked the smell of sweat and dirt has amassed in the Syncro over the last nine months.  With a destination picked, my angst  settled and I stuck my hand out of the open window.  Flowing like a sine wave, I hummed the melody of a familiar Warren Zevon song.  The miles ticked by.

Juniper.

Mexican Hat.

Campfire.

My brother Tim has a photo blog called Cairn Culture.  Take a look.

Last light.

Yours truly looking over the edge. Timer.

Canyons.

Shadow.

The Clan of the Van.

Views.

Switchbacks.

Burning the last rares of daylight,  we pulled off the empty two lane highway and headed towards the Monument.  Judging by the suns position, hovering a few degrees over the horizon to the west,  we hand less than an hour before the first stars would dot the unpolluted sky.

"I wonder what's at the Navajo National Monument,"  I mused, half to my brother, half to my sleepy self.

"We'll see first thing in the morning."

Pulling off on a packed dirt road with scraps of spring grass growing in the middle, we headed half a mile towards a canyon.  Periodic slabs of sandstone broke broke the ground,  sending the Syncro on a trail that resembled a centerfold of an off road magazine.  Arriving on one such sandstone bulge,  I rolled to a stop.

"This looks about as good a place as any."

"Sure does."

Pulling the parking break, I slipped into second gear and released the clutch.  Popping my seat belt, I opened the door and jumped down to the still warm sand stone.  Stiff from the hours of driving,  I spread my arms and arched my back.

"Home is where you park it!" I laughed.

Here are some more links,

Four Corners (Facebook).

Life is Better When You Surf

"It has a really shitty learning curve," I said to Tim as he sat in the sand with his arms crossed on his knees, still dripping from an outside set.  Setting my board down in the sand,  I unzipped the chest zip and pulled the flap over my head.

"You get rocked for awhile.  It goes with the territory.  When I started surfing,  I rode one of Dan's thrusters.  I got slammed by 40 degree hurricane swell for a year or two before I finally figured out what was going on. It was so fucking cold."

"I just don't feel like I'm going anywhere when I paddle.  I can't get any speed."

"Yea, that feeling sucks.  It's all about making small adjustments, moving forward and backwards until you get balanced."

"I was trying that." Tim pushed his toes down into the granular and then flicked them up. "Let's go hike up one of those," Tim nodded towards a nearby hill."

"Comme onnn Tim.  It just takes time...practice.  It's like learning to snowboard or skate.  You just have to do it."  I flipped my 6'3 hull over and inspected the finbox.  Pulling the board up towards my mouth, I sucked at a recently repaired crack along the front of the finbox.  No water or air escaped despite my attempts to give my beloved board a hickey.

"I'm going back out."

"Wait, I'll go, just let me chill for a second. Let me catch my breath."

"Alright."  Laying back down on the sand, I propped my head on a round rock.   A few driftwood structures dotted the empty beach at Andrew Molera State Park.  We were the only surfers at the beach on an unremarkable Wednesday.  The waves were small but protected from the howling north wind by the point.  I closed my eyes and listened to waves break.

Bananas.

Sunset in Big Sur.

Blam's set up.

Hand painted.

Campsite.

Classic sticks.

Girl Scout cookies stacked 7 high and guarded by loyal pooch.

"If you want the ultimate, you've to got be willing to pay the ultimate price.."

Spring green.

Chaco tacos.

This dude is DTVL.  Down to #VanLife.

An especially loud crash made me sit up, "When you get it,  you're going to rip.  It's such a wild sensation."

"Yea, it looks fun," Tim grinned. "Everyone that's riding waves looks so pumped."

"It just takes patience.  That's one of the reasons I like it so much.  I'm not good at waiting for anything,  but with surfing,  you have to wait for the waves to be good and  the wind to be right.  Then, when you paddle out you have to take the right waves.  A good surfer is wise.  That's not the case with snowboarding or skating. Surfing makes you more wise."

For a minute we sat and watched a few waves roll through.

"You ready?"

"Alright,  I'm ready."

Here are some more links,

Life is Better When (Facebook).

#vanlife (Instagram). 

Sometimes A Great Notion

One chapter of Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion bled into another  as we hummed north out of Los Angeles.  The Syncro revved up towards the redline in first gear, obscuring the narrator's voice.  Fresh off the plane from a three month stint in New Zealand,  Tim was adjusting to the pace of traffic in the San Fernando Valley from the passenger seat. Periodic grunts and his constant gaze at the seemingly endless lines of suburban landscape conveyed his feelings.

"Pretty different from New Zealand huh?"

"I haven't seen this many people in three months," Tim explained. "The cars here are totally different too. Pretty much everything that's 4wd has a snorkel on it.  They use 4wd drive down there.  Not like that."  Tim motioned to Cadillac Escalade weaving through traffic.

"They are different animal," I agreed nodding towards the vanishing Escalade.  "Want to listen to some tunes or stay with the book?"

"Leave it here.  I'm getting into it."

Kesey's novel about the brotherly corrals of a logging family in Coastal Oregon continued as we left LA's smog behind us.  A few days earlier, I had dropped off Tucker in Northern California and bee-lined it down to pick up Tim at LAX.  For three months, Tim backpacked, sailed and sea kayaked on New Zealand's South Island. Save for a few two line emails and ten minute Skype call, I hadn't heard from him since I headed south towards Baja in January.

Two years and two months separate us in age. Growing up, we spent all of our time together.  If one of us was into something,  the other soon would be too.  Our relationship was less of brothers, with a clear hierarchy and boundaries, and more an impervious friendship.

For a few days, we wondered LA catching up.  For a short while,  our conversations focused on his experiences in New Zealand,  but they soon gave way to familiar conversations and idiosyncrasies of two very close people.  After a night or two and few hours spent bumper to bumper in LA's signature traffic,  we decided to head north and explore the southern Sierras.

A year ago, sitting in my Manhattan office building, the importance of maintaining and contributing to this relationship with my brother was slowly giving way to a storm of professional aspirations, grown up responsibilities and the desire to build a new life.  Following in parallel with Leland Stampard's (a character in Sometimes a Great Notion) return to the Northwest,  I too left New York, and headed back towards my routes in the Northwest last August.  Unlike Leland's desire for revenge on his older brother,  a burning wanderlust and desire to spend more time with people important to me drove me home.

For 27 hours, Sometimes A Great Notion provided the backdrop for our travels.

Painted.

Yours to keep.

Cairn Culture.

Wet roads.

Sage.

Hammocks.

Dark and Stormy.

Toppings and Salsa.

For longest time, I called Tim my little brother.  He's 6'8. Now he's just my brother.

Green hills.

"We never fought like this did we?  I mean we argued some when we were little, but nothing this deep-seated," I said turning down the stereo, after the climax fight between the two brothers in the book.

"Yea, never like this," Tim said as he grabbed the binoculars and peered out the window towards the distant hills.

"I think the last time we got in a fight was, maybe 7 years ago when you threw that stool at me."

"Yup." Tim adjusted the focus. "I don't think we ever will."

"Me too."

Here are some more links,

Sometimes A Great Notion (Facebook),

Sometimes a Great Notion (Amazon).

25 Thousand Miles

The windshield wipers slashed futily at the northwest's signature rain as the Syncro hummed along at 63 mph up I-5 in southern Oregon.  Due to the limited top speed and my frequent breaks to take photos and refuel,  I had traveled just over 400 miles in 11 hours.    Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion on tape kept me occupied and I was in no rush to make it back to familiar sites.  Kicking off my shoes,  I turned up the heat and prepared myself for another chapter of Kesey's novel.

Dusk faded into night as tales from a logging community somewhere to my west continued on.  I peered down from my blank gaze north. The gas gauge hovered just over 1/8th full, or 7/8ths empty.  Already?  Taking the next exit, I headed towards an Arco.  Filling the tank with premium and grabbing a cup of shitty coffee,  I leaned against the side of the Syncro and read emails on my iPhone.  The nozzle clunked, satisfied with 17 gallons. Locking the gas cap,  I hopped back into the van and reset the trip meter on the odometer.

Accessing the vital signs, oil pressure, coolant temperature..., before hitting the road again, I paused at the total mileage on the odometer.  Subtracting the existing mileage from what was on it when I picked her up nine months ago left me with just over 25,000 miles.  The Chrysler sedan waiting patiently behind me flashed its lights, reminding me that I was taking my sweet ass time.

Pulling back on to I-5, I opted for the best of Dire Straits over an audio book and reminisced over the last 25k miles.

I've filled up the Syncro over a hundred times since July. This was one of most harmful for the her heart.

I could live here.

Cold times surfing on the Oregon Coast.

Capturing the last bit of summer at Elk Lake in central Oregon.

Surfing at County Line near Malibu.

For the first time since moving to Maine in 2006, I saw the seasons change in the Pacific Northwest.

Weeks spent in Northern California.

Last fall, I worked on The Impossible Project for Urban Outfitters.  Check out this post for more info.

Exploring the Gunnison National Forrest.

US 50 cuts through one of the least populated parts of the lower 48.  Dan and I spent a few days exploring the surrounding area in September.

This van started me on my quest to document vans and other vehicles I come across on the road.

An unforgettable backpacking trip on the Lost Coast.

Working on the Burning House book in LA.

In Nevada, I ran into Nate Damn as he was closing in on the final stretch of his walk across America.

I saw and rode some beautiful waves in Santa Cruz.

Basin and Range regions often look similar.  Beautiful.

A baja buggy in Baja Mexico.

Summer run steelhead in the Columbia River Gorge.

A mentor of mine once told me that if you take the most fun, responsible option at every opportunity, you'll live a fulfilling life.  I was back from New York on a long weekend and we had just split a bottle of wine. Although I didn't think much of it at the time, I now look back to that as one of the moments that started me on the path I am now on.

The more I make decisions with this mantra, the easier it gets.  The first 12,000 miles were more hard fought than the last 13,000.   Momentum builds quickly.

Thank you for being a part of my travels.

Here are some more links,

25k Miles (Facebook).