Gothic

Growing up with  parents  who went backpacking on their honeymoon soured my relationship with hiking as a kid.  I bitched when my dad dragged me on hikes around the Columbia River Gorge and was jealous when my friends went to Mexico for spring break while we went backpacking through the Grand Canyon.   "I just don't see the point of walking for the sake of walking," I often spouted on our weekly jaunts.  Huffing and puffing up hills, I fantasized about chairlifts, four wheelers and other painless ways of making my way to the top of mountains.

My early attempts to distance myself from dehydrated meals and Thermarest sleeping pads proved to be futile.  As my teenage insecurities subsided and my attention span lengthened, I founded comfort in cruising along trails through the woods.

After spending a few nights in eastern Oregon, Idaho and Utah,  Tim and I headed towards the mountains and valleys of the Gunnison National Forest.

Slate River Valley, outside of Crested Butte CO.

Outhouses along the Gunnison River.

Avalanche chute.

My Henry lever action .22L.

Ridge top.

Reflection at 11,00o feet.

Stream crossing.

Snowfields above treeline.

Four skips.

Starch.

Remember Sinkers or Floaters from Most Extreme Elimination Challenge?

For a week, we used the Syncro as a base camp, driving around the seemingly endless single track roads.  By night we  slept around campfires and cooked on propane stoves.  By day we hiked around the numerous mountains and tried to catch fish in the countless streams and rivers.  Change happens fast when you focus on it.

Here are some more links:

Gothic (Picasa).

Pale Moon Light

I rolled over and opened my eyes.  The evening thunderclouds had cleared, exposing a full moon that  illuminated the eastern Oregon landscape.     Shoving my head out of my mummy bag, I leaned up and looked around.  The interior of the Syncro lit up like I was parked under a city street lamp.

Canon 5d Mark II, 50mm f1.4, .06 seconds.

Checking my Luminox  watch, it was just 11:17 PM.   After a day of hiking and driving my brother and I had called it a night soon after sunset.  Peeking out of the window, I spotted Tim sleeping under a nearby juniper tree, sans tent.  Cracking the window, I grabbed my camera steadied it against the window frame.

After a few minutes of walking around the high desert landscape snapping pictures, the comfort of my LL Bean sleeping bag seemed rather appealing.  Gingerly hopping across the sage-covered ground, I jumped back into the Syncro to enjoy a few more hours of sleep before a hike up a nearby mountain the next morning.

Here are some more links, Pale Moon Light (Picasa), Copper Kettle (Bob Dylan).

26 East

After months of anticipation and preparation, I checked the roof racks on the Syncro one last time, said good-bye to my mom and left the Gorge heading east.  With my brother Tim sitting shotgun, we pumped "The Weight" as an homage to Easy Rider and cruised down highway 26 at a steady 63 mph.  I rolled down the manual crank window, put on my sunglasses and enjoyed the dry air.

Taking turns behind the wheel, we took the in the scenery and headed towards Colorado by way of Oregon, Idaho and Utah.  Sticking to the back roads,  we moved slowly, camping by night on BLM land and cooking our meals at rest stops and state parks.

Open Country.

300 win mag near the John Day River in Eastern Oregon.

Brush fires in Southern Idaho. Bruneau Dunes.

Modern navigation.

A barn in Central Oregon.

John Day River Valley.

Dinner by Tim, mug by Snow Peak.

Does any one know what kind of snake this is?

Sunset on I-84.

Gas can, dry bags and 14 gallons of water.

Tim on a morning hike.

After four days ,  1100 miles, and 57 gallons of gas, we finally crossed over into Colorado from southern Utah.  For the next few weeks, we are cruising around CO, backpacking, fishing and enjoying the mountains.

Here are some more links,

26 East (Picasa),

John Day (Picasa),

Utah (Picasa).

Fishing at Sunset

As the sun set, we packed our poles into the Syncro and followed the windy road up the White Salmon River.  After ten minutes, Steve pointed to a large pull-off and motioned to stop.

"Crap, looks like we won't be alone," he said in reference to the two pickups parked along the metal guardrail as I rolled to a stop and pulled the parking break.

Grabbing out waders and rods, we quickly made our way down the rough trail towards the sound of rapids and the cool breeze of snow-melt river.   Staking out our positions along the water in a clear but inaudible negotiation, we readied our gear and cast into the current.

Familiar with our surroundings and excited to a freenzy by chatter from the other fishermen that Steelheads were already this far up the river, Steve and my mom cast repeatedly into the rapids, hoping to the catch the season's first fish.  I, on the other hand, watched for the occasional dive of a nearby Osprey and listened to the gurgle of the water rushing around a rock.   Distracted by my surroundings, I was content to simply be back in the water.

Despite the differences in our attentions and number of lines casted, we all fared the same.  Not so much as a nibble.  As the last rays of light faded, we marched up the hill back towards the road, each one of us smiling for our own reason.

Here are some more links,

August 10th (Picasa).