Mendocino

"Teeny Bopper, my teenage lover I caught your waves last night It sent my mind to wonderin'. You're such a groove, Please don't move.

Please stay in my love house by the river."

"What's this song?  Who is this?" Phil asked.

"Sir Douglas Quintet, the song's called Mendocino."

"Isn't that the name of the place we are heading?"

"Sure is.  It's beautiful.  You're going to love it."

I had heard the song two years earlier on an summer's evening on a New York City rooftop.  Like Phil, I asked a similar question to my friend Lee.  Despite being from the West Coast,  I had never heard of the remote county in the Northwest portion of California and assumed it was some place on the central coast.   Not until hitting the road and traveling up and down the California Coast on the PCH did I find the special part of the state described in that 70's song.

After spending two days in Humboldt, we headed down the 101 towards the start of the PCH and the Mendocino Coast.  The bluffs and steep hillsides resemble Big Sur, but without the convertible rental cars. Four hours from San Francisco,  the area is sleepy and seldom traveled, save for a few notable holiday weekends.  Travelers between San Francisco and Oregon opt to take the 101 or I-5,  leaving the PCH with local access to small coastal towns. Periodic vacancy signs announced the level of bustle.

Camping in turn-offs along the PCH, we worked our way down the coast.

Big Trees.

Fences.

Driftwood.

Phil snapping flicks.

Sunset off the PCH.

#vanlife.

Welcome.

Easy Rider.

"Please stay here with me in Mendocino, Mendocino, Mendocino Where life's such a groove, You blow your mind in the morning We used to walk through the park, Make love along the way in Mendocino Mendocino, Mendocino, Mendocino"

Someday...

Here are some links,

Mendocino (Facebook),

Mendocino (Sir Douglas Quintet).

49cc

"If there ever was a place to take the scoot out for a spin, this would be it,"  I said to Phil as we crested the hill on a forgotten road leading from the 101 to the coast in Northern California. Obscured by a thin layer of fog on the shoreline, the ocean stretched out into the distance.

"Sure is,"  Phil responded.  "This place is gorgeous,  I've never seen anything like it."

"I told you man,  this place will blow your mind."

"Fuck,  you weren't lying."

"I try not to... Want to pull out the scooter? It only gets better from here."

"Hell Yea."

Pulling off onto the small shoulder,  I left the Syncro in second and coasted to a stop.  Hopping out of the driver's seat I circled back to the sliding door and wrestled my recently acquired Yamaha Jog from its resting place between the bench seat and a cabinet.  Weighing just 85 pounds, I had the Scooter on the ground in no time.  Stomping on the kick-starter, the jog's 49cc engine sprang to life, releasing a cloud of blueish smoke.

"See you at the bottom of the hill," I said handing Phil the helmet.

"How far is that?"

"Fifteen maybe, twenty miles."

"See you there."

Here are some more links, South with Phil (Facebook).

Just off the Jet

"I gotta see what vanlife is all about." "Yes you do man,  you'll love it."  

Our plans came together last minute.  With three days notice, Phil bought a round trip ticket from Newark to Portland.  Escaping from the confines of a late spring in New York, the idea was to show him what the Northwest had to offer in a vanlife crash course.  I picked up Phil a little after noon on a Tuesday, and we headed east into the Columbia River Gorge.

An ode to Lewis and Clark on the Columbia River.

Whatcha liken?

Glass off.

Shred sticks of yesteryear.

Blaze is a Ford Ranger.

Cascade Lakes.

Burned out snag.

Bench seats.

Frigid.

Beaver.

Burned out.

After three days of relitively pleasant weather for early spring,  the weather turned south.  Rainstorms that felt more like November than June marched in one after another.  The temperature dropped.

"Do you want to fly out of San Francisco?  I need to head that way anyway, and it would be easy to drop you off at SFO."

"I'd be into that.  Cali calls."

"Plus we can get out of this rain.  It will be nice down there."

"Sounds good to me."

Just like that our plans changed.  Instead of hanging around Oregon for another four days,  we headed south over the Cascades towards Cave Junction and the 101 in Northern California.

Here are some more links,

South With Phil (Facebook),

Award Tour.

River Otters

The sound of overflowing whitewater cut through the densely wooded forest  long before the single track trail led down to the stream.  Walking in our wetsuits,  we moved quickly,  hoping to avoid unnecessary conversations with hikers about our clothing choices and plans to scramble up a high flow stream.

Sliding down the steep banks, we rested on the narrow shore.  Staring at the clear flowing water in anticipation, I pulled the hood flap over my head and secured the zipper of my 4/3 wetsuit on my chest.  Tim and Spencer followed suit,  tightening their hoods around their faces.  Stepping into my knees,  the cold water rushed through a slit in my left bootie.

"Ohhh yahh, it's cold,"  I said moving further towards the base of a small waterfall.  "You guys ready?"

Reluctantly,  Spencer and Tim followed suit,  wading into surging stream.

"Bro..this is frio," Spencer said in exaggerated, Socal surfing fashion. "What do you think the temp is?"

"Ughh maybe mid 40's,  It's always warmer than you actually think it is."

"It's pretty fucking cold," Tim added.

Taking the plunge,  I dove forward in the chest deep water.  The cold attacked my sinuses and forced me to surface and gasp.

 "Shit.  Maybe it's low forties."

Keeping our heads above water,  we moved upstream towards the first set of rapids.  Taking turns,  we tried to climb the small waterfalls.  Taking others failures and success as examples we slowly made our way up the stream.

Taking a break from shooting with film,  I took these on my 5d Mark II and an underwater housing.

Wet feet.

As kids, Tim and I hiked the trails by this stream and watched its changing flows.

Cairn Culture.

My brother and I accessing the next obstacle.

Spencer making his way across a shallow section.

"There's no way we are getting up that," I said, pointing towards a 12 foot raging waterfall.

"Not happening," Tim agreed.

Looking up the narrow canyon towards a log jam,  my mind immediately raced, imagining a catastrophic failure of the make shift damn.  A wall of water the height of a refrigerator would charge down the canyon.  Accelerated by the occasional log,  I imagined bouncing down the canyon like a pinball before being deposited on the bank.  That wouldn't end well.  Looking up and down the walls, I eyed an escape route from the hypothetical flood.  There were none.  Sheer cliffs covered in moss,  extended some 20 feet up towards the canope of the various evergreens.  The only way out of the canyon was back the way we came.

"You guys ready to head back?"

"Yah I'm over it," Tim said in a tone that could have been explained by a similar conclusion about the surging pile of logs at the mouth of the canyon.

"Lets go."

Here are some more links,

River Otter (Facebook).