Dog Days of Summer

In the mornings, the first hint of autumn creeps through open windows. Dusk comes earlier each evening. Even the bold trade in their t-shirts for long sleeves during the brisk nights. As if attempting to stake its claim on the day, summer warms the lazy afternoons. These days are few, but important.

Like the bottom of a cold beer, I treasure the last few weeks of summer. I enjoy the last breaths of summer and search for the first hints of fall. Torn between bidding farewell to the warm comfort of summer and the excitement of change, I cherish both in the dog days of summer.

The first apples of the autumn.

Lazy drives with meandering destinations.

Hikes above tree line on Mt. Hood.

Rides on dirt roads in a 1952 Willys Jeep.

My dad and brother watching a glider circle the 11,000-foot peak.

The last blueberries of the season.

Wind torn trees on a ridge on Mt. Hood.

The first bites of a ripe pear.

Lazy Sundays in fields.

Recently, I enjoyed one such Sunday in early September near Mt. Hood in the Columbia River Gorge. I hope you enjoy yours.

Here are some more links,

East of Mt Hood (Picasa).

Home in the Sticks

"Seriously, the biggest pain was getting to fucking Newark. I took two trains, a light rail and had to deal with dudes with M-16s at security," I explained while pulling a blackberry vine out of the thigh of my chinos. "The plane ride was no problem."

"Gotta love New Jersey... The trail starts in a little bit," Tim (my little brother) said between yawns as he pushed the chest high bushes aside. Ever vigilant for the sharp barbs of a blackberry vine he distractedly asked, "What time is it?"

"7:13 AM"

"Damn." Tim sighed, attempting to act annoyed at his early arousal but telegraphing his affection and excitement to share the attention of empty-nested parents.

Craving the starry nights, fresh fruit, company of my family and the feel of the outdoors, I left my office in Manhattan some twelve hours earlier and set off for the northwest for the first time in 10 months.

Waking up with a jolt as the plane made its initial approach to the Portland International Airport, I jammed my face against the window. Looking for familiar fixtures, I quickly made out the hills where I went to high school and the highways where I drove to and from Mt. Hood. With a smile, I grabbed my Alder Springs backpack from under the seat in front of me and eagerly charged by the friendly Continental staff.

The following morning, I woke early. Energized by the morning's light and the excitement of my nostalgic surroundings, I scrambled up the stairs to bother my brother in the method known only to older siblings.

"Rise and Shine it's butt whipping time!" I bellowed as I barged through the door, grabbing his Pendleton blanket and ripping it off in one motion.

"The light's beautiful. Lets go for a walk," I half suggested, half mandated.

Tim found this elk skull while in a field near Mt. Helens. The flowers maybe fake, but the story isn't.

My dad and brother on the Columbia River.

Many of the things I resented as a middle schooler slowly have grown in importance and affection in my memory. As a kid I avoided spending time at our family's second home in the Columbia River Gorge, opting to stay some 40 miles to the west in Portland. Now, as a full fledged young-urban-professional, I yearn for the seclusion and inherent beauty like a trustafarian for a chance to give George Dubayah and Mr. Rumsfeld a piece of their enlightened mind.

"Damn it feels good to be home on the range," I grinned.

"Home on the range? We are not in Montana. This is Washington, we are home in the sticks."

"The Sticks?"

"Yea, it's a Chinook saying for the woods."

"Home in the sticks," I acknowledged.

Here are some more links,
Home in the Sticks (Picasa).

Ingredients

Granola starts with ingredients. Good, wholesome and often hippie-laden ingredients. A few weeks ago, Edge and I spent an afternoon chasing down dried fruit, stone ground oats, various nuts, and choice cuts of bacon. Bacon neutralizes the strong smell of patchouli oil and healthiness often synonymous with small batch granola. Here are the ingredients we used.

Strawberries.

Sesame Seeds.

Sliced Almonds.

Pumpkin Seeds.

Cherries.

Bacon 1.

Bacon 2.

Bacon 3.

Coconut.

Walnuts.

Oats.

Blueberries.

Sunflower Seeds.

The finished result.

These photos were taken with a Polaroid Image Pro.

Here are some more links,
Granola: Ingredients (Picasa).

Back to the Beach

The beaches were empty, save for the few early morning joggers and type-A Manhattanites staking their claim to a section of prime beachfront. Distracted by the excitement of seeing the open ocean for the first time in months, I walked fifty feet beyond the end of the road. Feeling the familiar yet unnerving feeling of sand bouncing around the inside of my shoes, I stopped. One by one I took each shoe off and threw them in my backpack and stepped into the tepid water.

With the deliberation of a kindergartner picking a scratch and sniff sticker earned from thirty days of punctual attendance, I looked right and left down the shoreline. Squeezing and releasing sand between my toes, I picked a direction and started walking towards a distant turn in the shoreline.

As if attempting to signal distant airliners making their way westward with a mirror, I took off my shirt, exposing the ill effects of a summer's worth of work spent inside. Despite the imminence of a serious sunburn, I marched on enjoying the lapping of the knee-high waves and occasional seagull flying by.

Shreddin'.

Rock tumbler.

A stairway to heaven.

Meandering down the beach, I stopped frequently to dive into the sporadic waves and do handstands in the morning's heat.

A few happy seagulls and even more happy crabs.

As the beach picked up with the arrival of various Defender 90s and other topless, "Out East" cars, I headed towards the bluffs. Chasing the breeze's acceleration and change of direction through the tall grass, I grinned to myself, "It's been too long."

Here are some more links,
Running on Empty (Picasa),
The Ocean (ART).