Crossing the Columbia

We were leaving Cathalamet, our only stop on the Washington side of the Columbia. We had come in fighting a bothersome head wind and camped on a small island just opposite the protected harbor. We took it slow that morning as some of us had hit the liquor a little more than necessary the previous evening at The Old Pasttime. The night and morning were calm so we packed up looking forward to a calm day on the water.

About 10 seconds before shoving off I noticed golden leaves gently falling to the ground. Looking up at the harbor flag it was blowing for the first time all day. I nodded to Greg and we chuckled softly as we pushed the boats into the water. As I paddled out into the main channel the bow of the boat got pushed hard by a strong upriver wind. I was forced to dig hard to keep the bow of the boat from swinging upriver in the wind. I got myself headed downstream and proceeded to make very little headway it what had suddenly become a nasty headwind.

We were shooting for the Oregon bank to maneuver behind some islands seeking shelter not just from the notorious Columbia headwinds but also from the shipping lanes. Ocean Freighters are bigger than barges, impossible to stop, and nearly silent. Just days before I had been ambushed by one coming up behind me. Luckily I was on the outside of the channel or our expedition may have suddenly been one boat short. Didn’t hear the damn thing until it was right on me.

Unfortunately for us the islands we were seeking were on the other side of the channel which on the Columbia means a several mile crossing. Greg and Suzanne were fine in their boat but I was solo in the old Indian River canoe. Steering a 17 foot canoe solo into a headwind is quite tricky. Not only is your weight distribution off without someone in the bow but in this situation more than any other you miss the power and steering contributions from the bow-man. I was in for a fight. We had a 1.5 mile hop to the first island which would also bring us to the shipping channel, where it crosses from the Oregon to the Washington bank.

As a result this first crossing was relatively safe. Since the wind had just started the waves hadn’t gotten the opportunity to really accumulate so most of this crossing was flat. It was just a matter of power and the exhausting ordeal of only paddling on the left side to keep the line I needed to cross without spinning. We made it to the first island and at this point I was bearing down on exhaustion but still had another 1.5 miles to the next island, the waves were beginning to build, and this time we’d be crossing the shipping lane. This is something like crossing the street but for a better idea of the pace of things imagine you are a turtle crossing the highway. It is advisable to look both ways but once on the street you gotta just put your head down and barrel across in your fastest, most desperate plod. Occasional glances up to allay the fears that suddenly a Mack truck is gonna be barreling down on your hopeless ass. The sweat pours and you pump your stumpy little legs with all the speed and power you got and still the heavenly grasses on the other side of the road never seem to get even an inch closer until your absolutely positive that truck is gonna come barreling around that corner at any second and then BAM! Your nose hits the grass and your momentum carries you tumbling down into the ditch where you sit dazed and exhausted flat on your back wondering how you’re gonna flip yourself over but at the same time not giving a shit about it cause you’re ALIVE!

(Just to give you an idea of the thing)

I took about a 45 degree angle to the next island, looked both ways, and sprinted for it battling against waves and winds, doing my best to ignore my virtual lack of progress. About halfway across the water became turbulent. We couldn’t tell with the wind and the waves what was causing this added turbulence but most likely had something to do with multiple river currents meeting. This added with the headwinds caused some mighty chop to the river.

As we entered the turbulence, the waters went from 1 foot waves to 3 foot chop. All thoughts of shipping lanes and freighters disappeared as we concentrated on maintaining control of our boats. For me, to get spun here, could mean disaster. I would lose all ability to control my canoe and simply be at the mercy of the winds and the water. I dug in. The weariness in my arms disappeared and stroke after stroke I coaxed the canoe farther, deeper into the choppy waters. Waves were cresting all around as I was tossed about like a cork. I kept my eyes forward and allowed the canoe to find it’s balance as I focused on pushing it forward. When suddenly directly ahead of me rising out of the water in brilliant defiance a salmon leapt above the waves and hovered, momentarily suspended, above a cresting wave before plummeting back into the dark, green of the Columbia.

I shouted out to Greg and Suzanne but of course it was too late and then I just sat, momentarily stunned into a dangerous submission, relaxed hands gently holding a still paddle, eyes searching the waters hoping for another glimpse. When I awoke from my reverie seconds later to crashing waves and the roar of water, the wind was nearly in full control of the canoe. The beauty glimpsed moments before forgotten, I fought hard to correct my angle and urge the canoe across the waters to the next island.

As we reached the island we ducked back into a slough that split the island in two and just like that we left the chaos of high winds and crashing waves and entered the peaceful lull of still waters. Unfortunately the backside of the island offered little protection as we left the slough, so we modified our plans and headed back upriver to the head of the island. There we found good protection and one of the best campsites of the trip. We settled in, forced to be content with not much more than a two mile day. Looking out on the horizon we could still see Cathalamet on the hillside just upriver.

A Walk Down the Plain Path

I have known for years that I did not want to define my life through work. I watched my dad do this and all he got out of it was misery. I have watched many others do the same and I refuse to walk down this road. We are in a position to define our lives as we please. Not many people in the world can do this, have this opportunity, but here, in this country we do. We have upward, downward, and lateral mobility. More options and opportunities than ever before. No longer are we limited to what our father and his father did before him. We can determine our own future, our own lives.


In days of less mobility I believe people were more resigned to the fate that was handed them and instead of focusing on what they wanted to do with their life they focused on what they had in their lives. The family and friends that surrounded them, the pleasant little surprises each day brings. The little surprises that are mostly missed today by people who have forgotten the present. Instead they are focused on the elusive future bearing promises of promotions, a bigger house, and a new car. We are no longer slaves to work but are instead enslaved to the pursuit of the future and all the riches we’re sure it will hold.

I have yet to meet the man or woman that has ever become happy with the realization of these riches. The house, the car, the promotions attained only lead to more restlessness and bigger dreams, a more spectacular future desired that will surely bring happiness. And to those that don’t attain the riches dreamed of? Bitterness.

I have watched too many of my friends and family walk blindly down this road and I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid. I will walk down the plain path. It may not be glitzy and bestudded with jewels but there’s a clear running stream down this path and I shall drink my fill and nap by the babbling waters when I grow tired. And when I come to the end of the path I will be naked and exposed bearing nothing but fond memories of times passed.

An Unknown Future

“I had learned not to worry; to make my choice and allow things to happen. For the most part they turned out to be good and when they weren’t – like the night from hell in a hostel – then they were character building. There weren’t any wrong or right paths to choose, just different ones, and where they led was governed by the attitude adopted towards them.” From Round Ireland with a Fridge, by Tony Hawks.


Better than I ever could have said it, this is a succinct summary of my outlook on life and my philosophy of taking what comes. I do my best to live day by day, forming little in the way of clear cut definite plans and instead simply choosing from the options which arise, as they come up. Even the best laid plans are made to be broken. Often they are a crutch, limiting one’s options and forcing one down a narrow path chosen in ignorance of future possibilities.

I don’t do well with crutches.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t have doubts. That I don’t often wonder what it is that I’m doing with this life. But I have never been satisfied with great, overarching life plans comprised of steps and regular achievements that ought to be charted on a graph. I believe that life should be spent in the present. As Vonnegut said, “We were put on this earth to fart around and don’t let anyone tell you differently.” We weren’t meant to fulfill world shattering dreams. We were meant to live day by day, looking not to the future but settling in and focusing on life in the present.

I know of one sure way to achieve this...somewhere... on a river, floating ever onward into the unknown future.

Security Guard - Knightwatch Security

When I arrived in Juneau, Ak I found a place to live and a job within 3 days.  The job was with Knightwatch Security.  I was the guard at the hospital 3 nights a week working 10 hour shifts.  The primary responsibilities were pretty routine.  Essentially just make hourly rounds, ensure the doors stayed locked, and there was no one inside that shouldn't be.  My job also covered ensuring the safety of the doctors and nurses and the patients.  This generally came into play when drunks or mental health patients were brought it.  In Juneau there are 12 hour and 72 hour holds.  12 hour holds are for people who are too drunk to take care of themselves so they get brought into the ER to make sure they're gonna survive the night and when deemed safe to do so are passed on to the Juneau Recovery Hospital down the hill. 

Generally, this meant sitting and bullshitting with a drunk for a few hours.  Right there, sitting in uncomfortable chairs, kicked back bullshitting with old drunks and cranks I learned how to be a drinking man.  For quite some time actually I didn't drink as a result of this job.  Scared me away from the stuff.  One night I got stopped during my rounds by the lab tech who asked me if I'd heard what the BAC of our last 12 hour hold was.  Over 4.0 he told.  The guy is technically dead he told me.  Medically speaking one can't survive a BAC that high. I sat with this man for a couple hours.  Talked to him.  Listened to his stories.  Told him a few of mine.  He didn't sway.  His words did not slur.  Near to sober he seemed.  Near to dead he was, instead. 

Sometimes, the drunks would want to fight.  Most times within a couple minutes I'd have the violent men crying in their hands, feeling terrible for what they had done.  Then we'd talk about fishing for a few hours.  We'd shake hands and an EMT would take them down to JRH.  Once in a long while I'd have to restrain them.  The women were the worst.  A drunk woman that wanted to fight was gonna fight.  And they fought mean.  A man just tries to punch you.  A woman punches, kicks, spits, bites, claws, and head butts all at the same time.  It's like trying to restrain the Tasmanian Devil. 

 One night I had to watch a 72 hour hold who had tried to commit suicide.  The guy was probably 6 foot 3 and 250 or 260.  He was surly.  Paced a lot within his room and would begin to become angry but I always managed to talk him back down.  We danced this tenuous dance for hours.  His anger slowly climbing before I was able to bring it back into check.  Time and time again.  Eventually he was moved up to the mental health ward and I went back to reading Dostoevsky.  The next night I came in to learn he had taken another patient hostage up in the ward.  SWAT was called and it took the entire 12 man swat team plus several uniform officers to physically bring the guy down. 

Sometimes the cops would bring someone in and then both the officer and I would stay with the patient.  Most of the cops were cool but there was one older guy in his 60's that was a dick.  He was the guy that gives cops a bad name.  Used to just sit in a chair and push the guys.  Just push them verbally, a little here a little there.  Put them down.  Call them losers.  Give them shit.  Push them.  Push them until they couldn't take it anymore and they'd rise up and this old cop would get to restrain them with a little victory smile spreading across his face. I hated that guy.  Hated him for what he stood for and for what he was.  Hated him for what he did to the world.  For a man like that when he has the ability to give to the world, he takes from it instead. 

Harnessed and Burdened

It's been quite a curiousity for me to regain my driver's license this time around after being without it for a year and a half.  I lost it previously for a few months after my first seizure and then once again following an unfortunate run in with the law.  Those brief flirtations with being bicycle bound were over quick enough to not really notice much of an impact on my life style and during this past 1.5 years I seemed to have just accepted it and moved on.  I've always been relatively good at accepting misfortune and inconvenience and moving past it.  No reason to dwell on personal misfortune.  I've always believed life to be much more enjoyable if misfortune can be laughed at and energy focused on the humorous and enjoyable side of life.  The worse the struggle becomes the more opportunity for laughter.  In this case, I had the impression from my neurologist that he would be unwilling to allow me to drive again but in this I was wrong.  As a result, I had accepted my fate as a biker in stride and moved on with life. 

It wasn't until the doc had granted me with the ability to drive that I learned how much I had missed it.  The ability to walk out the door, climb into my truck, the Annie G, and drive off to points unknown is the pinnacle of freedom.  The complete lack of ties to anything.  The ability to simply set forth on my own, having no need to beg another to provide the wheels and the license.  For 1.5 years I was imprisoned within the range of my bicycle.  The first time I climbed back behind the wheel of Annie G, patted her dashboard, and pulled out into traffic to head out of town for a hike and a night at the cabin brought an elation which I do not have the words to express.  It was as if for 1.5 years I had been bound by yoke, harnessed, and burdened and in a moment that yoke was lifted and I was set free. 

It has been said before, and I will say it again...Freedom, my friends, is bliss.

Hiking shoes

So far this season I have been quite active on the hiking trails.  It has quickly become apparent, however, that I did not begin the season with adequate footwear nor the funds to purchase new hiking boots.  So, instead I have been progressing through my current shoe supply searching for something adequate to get me through in the short term.  Results have been less than successful.

  The first and most logical option were the hiking boots that were given to me at the end of last summer.  Been wearing them all winter so they oughta be broken in and any issues should have been discovered already.  Right?  Not a chance.  A 15 mile Stiles Creek Cabin hike plus 5 miles on the road to get back to the truck resulted in both feet red, raw, and covered in blisters.  I did have a pretty sweet limp to show for it though.  These have since been retired from hiking duties.

Option #2 also hand me downs from the same guy that gave me the boots.  Wore these on the 15 mile Granite Tors hike and sure enough also gave me blisters, not quite as many as the boots but definite, painful blisters.  A pattern emerges.  Second option is retired.  I"m beginning to run out of options.

Option #3 has been with me for years but had never seen a trail until the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs hike last week.  After 8.7 miles of trail the soles of each shoe detached from the toe but not a single blister.  Could have a winner but first shoe goo, lots of shoe goo.  One draw back to these was too soft of a sole so definitely started to notice a little foot soreness by the end but nothing near so bad as the experience with either of the previous options. 

;

Option #4 are Teva's and there are some noteable drawbacks.  Everything from rose bushes getting caught between soles of feet and soles of sandal and ripping out before you can notice anything but sudden pain; to your feet getting wet and then sliding around on the sandal's sole.  Luckily feet are tough.  And there's very little material to cause blisters.  My feet made it through this 13 mile hike on the Chena Dome trail in the best condition yet this spring.  Unfortunately my left knee was causing me quite a bit of pain and I'm not sure what to blame that on.

  So after four hikes and four different pairs of shoes it looks like Teva's win until more appropriate footwear is attainable.  I did guide day hikes at UAF Outdoor Adventuers in Teva's but I was carrying very little weight on my back.  Recently I've been working on getting into better shape and thus carrying a weekend pack on each hike.  Causes a little more wear and tear on the old feet. 

I think that if it weren't for adversity life would be pretty boring.  If everything was smooth, nothing would be noteable and life itself would be monotonous.  Instead shit goes wrong every single day and we get to laugh at our own misfortune and enjoy the memory of slogging through the occasional swamp of misery life provides. 

Personally I can't wait to experience what kind of destruction my next hike provides for my feet.  Maybe they'll be unscathed and if so, the sheer bliss of painlessness will be a euphoria unequaled. 

The Frightening Smile

The following was written when I was in 8th grade.  Found it while going through some old papers. 

When the day was dark and the night was light a grueling fight was put up at night.  A murder was committed in the light night sky but the murderer got off with a frightening smile.  It was all that could be done, bringing him to trial.  But it wasn't enough, for the frightening smile.  He put the jury to horror and the people to their homes.  They locked their doors and turned off the lights all because of the killer with the frightening smile.  he walked out of the courtroom after being let off and stared down the reporters with that frightening smile.  They stepped back and shook their heads letting him pass.  No questions were asked.  It was the frightening smile.  He walked to his home across the city of Bath scattering the people with his smirk and his laugh.  He smirked and he laughed all the way to his home as none did challenge him, they just ran from his path.  He reached his home as the day was ending.  He found his home and he found a man.  The man stood at his door and looked him the eye.  The smirk did nothing and the laugh failed with a cry.  The man was angry and the man had pride.  The killer ran with all the people's fear inside.  He ran with their fear and he ran with no heart.  He ran and he ran but there was little he could do for the man behind him ran with determination and pride.  He was caught.  He was stabbed and he died with fear for the smile that had aided him was the fuel for his demise.