Logging Antiques and a Shack my Family Built

Eighteen years ago, my family built a small building on our property in the Columbia River Gorge. We salvaged flooring from a nearby house and used wood from a fir tree on our property to construct the the one room, 180 square foot building. At first, we intended to use the building as a sauna, however its single layer wood walls held heat like a pair of wet cotton gloves. For the better part of the next two decades, the building housed my grandmother on her frequent visits, numerous middle school sleep overs, teenage debauchery, and most recently, my mom's shit.

Upon returning home for the holidays in mid December, I undertook the project of clearing out the building and setting it up with some antiques and furniture. Inspired by Skamania County's logging heritage and the rugged nature of the building I decorated the the walls with old logging equipment and camping gear as an ode to the logging camps that once occupied the surrounding woods.

Paul Bunyan?

I love augers.

This basalt column acts as a step and a reminder of the building's close proximity the area's iconic basalt formations.

These old gas cans were used on Jeeps during the second World War and since have been adapted to all sorts of applications including carrying water and fuel throughout the world. The raw steel shows through wear in the red paint, resembling the worn teeth of the eight foot saw blades.

My mom bought the Coleman Lantern at the Catlin Gabel Rummage Sale a few years back. The Yellow newspaper can visible in the lower left dates back to the 50s.

These tripods were originally used for surveying equipment and large format photography. My mom and I plan on converting them to lamps. I like the 50's aluminum helmet on the raw fir.

Despite my affinity for vintage clothing and Americana antiques, my furniture taste lends itself to modern Scandinavian design. The juxtaposition between the old logging axes and raw wood of the building and the Scandinavian couch works for me.

As my college career quickly winds to a close, the immense prospect of spending less and less time in the place where I grew up hangs in my mind like lingering email that I need to respond to. This building will serve as a reminder of my rural roots on the few days a year that I will be able make the three-thousand mile trip back to the Northwest.

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My Happy Place (Picasa).

The Huntington Brothers

Two years and two months to the day separate my brother (Tim) and me. As children, Tim and I spent most of our time together, running through the woods, building forts, snowboarding, harassing the neighbor girls, and pursuing countless bouts of obsession like Legos or Airsoft. Since leaving for Maine more than three years ago, I have seen Tim less and less. Last summer I was busy interning at Ralph Lauren and LL Bean Signature, while Tim was 3,000 miles away cultivating a small farm on a piece of family property. Despite our seemingly divergent interests, I am interested in concept design while Tim is interested in food politics and food systems, our ties have only strengthened as time rolls on.

Tim and I have spent the last two weeks playing in the woods, throwing rocks, soiling our clothes and getting dirt behind our ears and under our fingernails in the same way we did some fifteen years ago. Recently, we replaced our wrist rockets and homemade bows and arrows of old with a Colt 38 Frontier Single Action Sixshooter and Winchester Model 67a bolt action .22.

Self Portrait: Filson Mackinaw Cruiser, my Grandfather's Eagle Scout shirt from the 40's, Rolex Submariner on nylon band, and Colt 38 Frontier Single Action Sixshooter.

After some deliberation, multiple hoots and frequent spins of the revolver's cylinder, we headed out in search of a train to hold up, a bank to rob, or a posse of Pinkertons to play cat and mouse with. Despite our commitment to engaging in criminal acts, we eventually settled the steel sights of our trusty tools on some unsuspecting clay pigeons conveniently arranged in our backyard. Our half-hour gun fight left far more cartridges shot than targets hit and without a doubt, many New York financiers would have taken three to one odds on the clay pigeon in a duel. We swore, we shot, we complained about ear plugs, we kicked piles of dirt and we shot some more; I guess boys will always be boys.

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The Huntington Brothers (Picasa).

A Campfire at Sunset

The sun sank behind the fir trees on a nearby ridge as my younger brother and I searched the hilltop for scraps of dry wood. After weeks of rain, dry wood was as rare as a liberal at West Point. Armed with a Leatherman, a magnesium fire starter stick, and a handful of receipts from the glove compartment of my dad's truck we set out to warm our cold fingers and hear the snapping of a small campfire.

A cold east wind flew through the gorge, bending Douglas Fir trees and complicating our attempts of starting a fire.

The last wisps of light drifted west as I scraped fragments of magnesium off the starter stick onto the receipt. I gingerly set up a small Tee-Pee around the dime-sized pile of magnesium and struck the ignition stick. For an instant, the flames lept up around the cedar kindling like second graders around an 18-year-old teacher's assistant. Despite my feverish attempts to blow over the miniature log house, the flames only darkened the frayed edges of the cedar, dying out completely within a minute. Unfazed, I pulled a rumpled oil change receipt from October, 2007 out of my pocket and started chipping away at the fire starter.

A small flame quickly warmed my hands and illuminated my shadow on a nearby bush. After thirty minutes of breathing wood smoke, dirtying my knees and periodic, frantic searches for pieces of dry firewood, the shy flames finally lingered. Quickly, the dinner plate sized blaze developed into a self respecting campfire.

Tim's well loved, size 14 Danners warming by the fire.

For the next hour and a half, Tim and I stoked the fire and chatted brotherly things. We watched wither and warp, and hiss and pop.

Some will talk over a beer, others over a caffeinated beverage, for me I will take a fire any day. I love the smell of smoke, the labor of splitting wood, the occasional teary eyes from changing wind and the lingering flavor of fire for weeks on your jacket or sweater.

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A Campfire at Sunset (Picasa).

At the Edge of the Columbia River Gorge

As a child, I spent a lot of time 45 minutes due east of Portland in the Columbia River Gorge. Protected by the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, the land has strict and drastic growth limitations. State Highway 14 connects the sprawl of Southwest Washington to the tall forests, basalt cliffs, and waterfalls of the Gorge (as its called by both x-pat Portland yuppies and local loggers).

After ten miles of dense spec homes and sewage treatment plants, the suburban sprawl evaporates, exposing the Steigerwald Lake National Wildlife Refuge and its flood plains speckled by the occasional tree.

My parents now both live in the Columbia River Gorge and I frequently drive through this game reserve on my way to and from Portland. Despite making the trip thousands of times in my 21 years, the beauty of the contrast between the gross urban sprawl of the Portland area and natural beauty of the Northwest always forced me to look up from my phone or magazine and take in my setting.

While driving home after a few errands in Portland on a despicable December day, the wind, rain and clouds flowing out of the Gorge inspired me to stop. I parked my car on the side of the road, turned off the Dire Straits, grabbed my camera and headed towards the fields. I hopped the barbed wire and strolled aimlessly through the fields. The minutes melted together as my mind started racing, keeping pace with the whistling of the wind through the grass and the pendulum like bending of the leafless branches on the occasional tree.

Drawn to the creaking of limbs, I followed the sounds, eventually settling on this lone tree. Bending and shaking from the winds rushing west from the desert east of the Cascades, I stood watching the clouds fly towards the big city like bubbles towards a bath's drain, or to those of the Luddite persuasion, toilet paper towards the sewers.

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The Edge of the Gorge (Picasa).