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| From my June birthday stay in White Salmon, WA |
Perhaps it's late to rhapsodize upon my summer in the soggy twilight of November 26th, but my Summer of 2020 ended November 1st this year. Summers ending in late autumn are not terribly uncommon in the Pacific Northwest. In the conventional sense of dry skies, sun, and outdoors activities, "summer" can easily extend through October, and in my case this year, November 1st. Just four weeks ago I was in a T-shirt on the Oregon coast, soaking in the crimson autumnal sun, charging up for the approaching winter battery drain. But now the cold, dark and grey skies have signaled that Summer 2020 had ended. And what a summer it was.
Since childhood my birthday, June 3rd, always heralded summer's arrival. In the Pacific Northwest, however, that's not necessarily true. June 3rd, 2020 was no exception. It was, as it usually is, still a battle of a tenacious, damp winter denying privilege to an arriving season of sunnier, drier skies. In this familiar battle, the summer challenger ultimately wins, and wins with a commanding mandate of warm, dry blue. Unfortunately, climate change has started to introduce a new 5th season, "Fire Season," which is beginning to dominate September. September used to be my favorite season here, actually. It was when the summer's heat relented just enough to permit a bounty of warm days, cool nights, and dry stretches that extended outdoor pleasantries well into early, if not late autumn. But now a most horrendous period of heat, smoke, and indoor refuge has begun to usurp the once placid September. This hellacious new interjection is well documented below as an additional, albeit most unwelcomed contributor to an already chaotic 2020. But first, where it all started: early June in White Salmon, Washington.
I turned forty years old this June 3rd, and the originally planned mega-celebration was suddenly, sadly, utterly canceled due to the pandemic. My original plans were grandiose, perhaps even a tad pompous. I had a massive, luxurious condominium reserved in Hood River, Oregon that was to serve as a revolving door for family and friends, and anyone in the good graces of the group. My cousin rented an identical unit next door as overflow. This was going to be a gathering of the masses. My condo, located right off the bubbly runway of downtown Hood River, had a view, a hot tub, and the promise of unbounded celebration -- a celebration I wanted to subsidize. The motives behind that desire are complex, but any deep reader of my blog (or anyone that knows me well) would understand them. I wanted to celebrate not just my life after forty years, but also those still around me after forty years. I felt such honor could be bestowed by covering the tab, something I felt indebted to do for those I value, and something I'd wanted to do for a long time: cover the tab. After all, they had done it for me for many years, especially when I was struggling. It was my turn. And this was something I was never able to do until recently. It was hard to understand how I had even reached a point to be able to do such a thing now. The chaotic path to where I'm at today couldn't have been more discursive. But maybe that's in line with what to expect in 2020. Where I'm at now makes as little sense as it makes sense. I've always been a chaotic pinball ricochetting about external forces, but ultimately I surrender to the gravitational path of my intuition. I just hope that path doesn't lead into the gutter. So far it hasn't.
At forty, I live largely alone, I have no romantic partner (which I dearly still pine for), I have no child (which I dearly still pine for), I'm not practicing science in any pragmatic way (which I dearly still pine for), and I'm not performing music (which I dearly still pine for). But I am at least trying to date (well, an asterisk* is needed here -- see below blog post on the subject), I'm writing plenty of music, I ride nearly one hundred blissful miles a week on my bike, and I'm evidently making a substantial living and investment cushion slinging mortgages of all things (I find this part somewhat embarrassing despite its "success"). This is the gravitational pinball slot where I find myself at age forty. But why not celebrate such an unusual outcome regardless of its unusual trajectories? The SARS-CoV-2 virus robbed that celebration from me -- yet another pinball bumper to bounce from, I suppose. If I'm honest with myself though, this isn't that dissimilar from all the other bounces I've had on my life playfield, so why not just embrace things? And so, on a whim, I ended up renting a small place with a dear humanoid friend of mine in White Salmon, Washington, just a bridge hop across the Columbia River from the original party plans in Hood River, Oregon.
I ended up having the best possible alternative celebration possible for my fortieth birthday. It couldn't have been more different than what was originally planned, but it was a wonderfully valued, albeit quiet celebration nonetheless. Maybe I don't need all the noise of a massive party; maybe I don't need so many "friends;" maybe I was about to go through a period of pruning friends anyway. Perhaps I should just embrace that I'm a rather lonely, desultory pinball ricochetting towards space like a malfunctioning county carnival ride -- no trajectory, no target, just chaotic, explosive kinetic. Perhaps I'll rocket my way all the way into a nothingness where no one travels, a place invisible from Earth. Sure, it's vacuous and unknown, but the view of Earth from there is amazing! I wouldn't know, nor care how to get back to Earth anyway. It's a one-way trip, or so I hope.
This is how the Summer 2020 started. It seemed appropriate, if not reflective of the world events during a generational pandemic, social unrest, political unrest, and even nature unrest with the wildfires. 2020 has indeed been a rogue, chaotic pinball bounce for most denizens of Planet Earth. I just happened to already be comfortable with such a ride. I was prepared because I've been on a similar ride for forty years.
Upon my return to Earth/Portland from my cosmic birthday celebration, I immediately burst into a mysterious, indefatigable itchy rash of small welts on my chin, torso, legs, and even between my fingers. This was no ordinary "itchy rash" -- this was a full-on medical mystery that plagued my sanity with sleepless nights and incessant, intense, intolerable itching. I was even convinced I suddenly had a bedbug invasion. I declared war. And so there I was, furniture upended, armed with a vacuum and a camera, looking for any signs of invisible insectoid aggressors. Askance witness to this behavior would have thought I had instead been at the mercy of methamphetamine-induced insanity. Alas, no insects were found, poison oak exposure was determined illogical, and no one else from my recent White Salmon gathering reported any similar symptoms. My dermatologist even did a biopsy, from which the result was "inconclusive". That's where the diagnosis would rest. But you know, it's 2020.
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| Mt. Adams from my monocular |
The next adventure was a solo camp at one of my favorite spots, Cooper Spur on the north side of Mt. Hood. I camp here nearly every year to perch myself upon a volcanic promontory overlooking the Hood River Valley below. It's like being in an airplane, maybe even a spaceship. Speaking of, while up there a small plane meandered up the Elliot Glacier Valley, dipping in and out of view, and zigging and zagging through a slice of sky above. It eventually passed directly overhead as I waved below with a wine bottle in hand, hoping to get a double-dip wing nod. I received nothing. But it was a curious encounter nonetheless, like watching a mechanical hummingbird dart from rocky flower to flower in search of volcanic nectar. I then awaited the main attraction: the Neowise comet! I hadn't seen a comet since Hale-Bopp in 1997. Neowise wasn't nearly as spectacular as Hale-Bopp, but it was a comet nonetheless. What a celestial treat! My viewpoint couldn't have been better nearly eight thousand feet above sea level with a near-panoramic view of the white-peppered starlit sky before me. Moreover, it was so quiet that I could hear my pulse pounding against my ears. An actual hummingbird would have sounded like a freight train. As fate would offer, I happened to find a monocular lying on the ground up there. Of all things to find in that time and place, it was a monocular. Coincidentally, I had regrettably left my binoculars at home, so this finding was most fortuitous. Neowise looked spectacular centered in my now magnified, monocular view. I also took liberty to say hello to the Andromeda Galaxy to my northeast, our "closest" intergalactic neighbor at only two and a half million light years away. Just the thought of looking that far back in time gave pause and humility. The seconds ticked away like eons.
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| Before the brush |
The descent from my volcanic space station the next morning was memorable because I decided to take a new ridge down rather than my familiar route (of course). This decision initially proved rewarding because I was remained completely alone, and it went along a ridge with fresh, stunning views. But then the "trail" quickly digressed into an ensnaring lattice of overgrown shrubs that swallowed my legs, and the path, whole -- so much so, I had to stand on tree stumps to orient myself enough to plot my next leap of faith. I forged through neck-high brush in hopes I'd eventually find my bearings. So long as I kept descending, however, I knew I'd eventually find my way. And I did, albeit worried I would re-triggered a mystery rash from the menacing mountain jungle that had just chewed and swallowed my lower half. No such rash returned.
Next on the agenda: the Swift Reservoir in Washington state. I know this place well, as my friends gather there once a year to swim, skirt about on personal watercraft, hike, and, well, drink alcoholic beverages from our campsite overlooking the lake. I like to add cycling to my agenda, of course, and being the mammalian lizard that I am, I'll take any opportunity to be in, on, and near a rock-water combination. I love the perfect mix of sun, water, and a warm rock from which to slither upon. Swift Reservoir offers plenty of such opportunities. The bike ride was nice too, one I've done before but never tire of doing. It's a long, slow climb out of the lake valley that eventually props one up on a mountainous, winding road with stark views of the exploded, pockmarked northern face of Mt. St. Helens.
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| The dock, Swift Reservoir, WA |
Above all, it was refreshing to be among a sustained social setting here, the first for me in this COVID year. Plus, this group is a funny one. It was great to laugh to the point of coughing fits, whether at the Russian Trump supporters cruising the campground with their "MAGA" flags (I'm being literal here), at each other in our group, or at ourselves. And Neowise was still shining a faint goodbye whisper at this point as well. From the view out on the dock, I had a moment of reflection upon 2020's offerings thus far: comets, viruses, riots, talks of an economic depression, political disarray, and for me, mysterious, itching welts and rashes. But it was still July. I couldn't help but wonder, or even worry, about what else was in store. Nonetheless, the calm of that moment provided a surrender to indifference. I didn't care. I was obsequious to the external forces at work; I was but a pawn among a grand fait accompli. So I simply lay on the dock with good people, good wine, and the faint smudge of a comet smearing the northwestern sky. We'll all be comet dust some day anyway.
August 1st is a notable date every year because that's one of my good friend's birthday. Every year he rents a house for a week in Manzanita, Oregon for anyone to drop by, stay, ride bikes (of course), and take in all that the Oregon Coast and Manzanita can offer. Obviously this year was different, but that didn't stop me and a friend from getting an ocean view hotel room for a few days. The weather was spectacular, as it usually is this time of year, and I had a nice time despite the occasional rude reminders of the pandemic. One major casualty this year, however, was not being able to go to the San Dune in Manzanita, one of Oregon's best pubs. I have many, many great memories there, most of which happen during this friend's annual birthday celebration. They always include large tables with familiar faces, live music, karaoke (and me singing Wonderwall, of course, and I'm sorry), anonymous rounds of sloppy shots mysteriously arriving (definitely not my usual, but I'll take 'em for the team), and a blurry walk home at 1:00 AM in an oblivion of laughter. There was no San Dune this year though, but there were plenty of coastal bike rides, great food and barbecues, and to no one's surprise, great wine (I may not need to qualify that anymore. You can just assume if I'm in a great place and not literally on my bike or sleeping, I'm probably drinking good wine). Perhaps the biggest surprise from this trip was re-discovering Wanda's Cafe in Nehalem just outside of Manzanita. I've been there multiple times before, but something was extra special this year. Maybe it was the forced outdoor seating with the warm, misty coastal sunshine, or it was my morning hunger from staying at a barren hotel this year, but the huevos rancheros and coffee were just incredible -- unforgettable, even. I'm not a foodie, but Wanda's was absolutely remarkable. We went back again before the trip was over. It was just as good the second time.
My next summer excursion was a very familiar one, one that goes back to 2004 during my first full summer in Portland: Buck Lake. It's isolated, small enough to swim across, blue enough to be the sky, and unknown enough to be magical. Unfortunately, the magic disappeared after being discovered and plastered on Portland Monthly's cover in 2012 in their ruinous "Best Hidden Swimming Holes" edition. Buck Lake quickly became a crowded public swimming pool and public toilet (literally). I was devastated and vowed never to return. But I lied. I decided to revisit it last year hoping that after eight years Buck Lake had somehow found its way back into a cult of obscurity. It is difficult to find, after all. That revisit confirmed my hopes, so I decided to return this year with a group of friends, friends I've known since grade school back in South Dakota -- one of them since first grade. We chose a Thursday to maximize the chance of a peaceful, relatively unencumbered experience, and we succeeded. I found my usual lizard self slithering in and out of the water from the warm shore rocks all day. I could mention the good wine, but...you know. It was there. You know.
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| Mt. Adams (well, in the background) |
Sometime later (and somehow yet again) I was winding myself through the Columbia River Gorge en route to the Gifford Pinchot National Forest near Mt. Adams. A good friend of mine -- one that inadvertently became my standing "Companion in COVID" at this point, joining me for many of the adventures mentioned here -- treated me by sharing her favored camp site. I rarely make it out towards Mt. Adams. It's rugged and isolated, a bit of a trek compared to Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens, and it's not en route to anywhere except Mt. Adams itself. Other than summiting the mountain itself in 2011, I hadn't explored the Mt. Adams area at all. So I accepted her invite eagerly. Camp was nestled along the banks where germinating snowmelt meets the White Salmon River, and it features a rare blend of luxurious car camping, a roaring creek, near complete seclusion, and amply paved fire roads for cycling exploration and sadistic hill-climbing pleasure. Speaking of, the bike riding was spectacular. There was hardly any traffic, the roads were in great condition, and the views were unique and generous. I just wished I had a cyclocross bike to explore the enticing matrix of unpaved roads crosshatching Mt. Adams's base. Back at the campsite, the nearby creek offered a refreshingly frigid, albeit silty after-ride "shower," and we were later chaperoned by a full moon through a canyon of towering tree shadows. Unfortunately, the trip ended earlier than planned, leaving much to still experience, but it was a wonderful part of my summer nonetheless. I'll be back.
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| The raft, Buck Lake, OR |
And then I was back at Buck Lake. Again. I had never camped in the same spot twice in the same season, let alone within a couple weeks. But the Swift Reservoir group (mentioned above) caught the Buck Lake bug after hearing of my recent success there, so they committed to a visit of their own. Knowing the boisterous dynamics of this group would be in stark contrast to the muted muffles of my South Dakota brethren two weeks earlier, I looked forward to revisiting despite the deja vu. Indeed, it was a very different experience despite the near identical set and setting from previously. This trip found me commandeering not one, but two different rafts that previous lake lizards had offered up to future adventurers. Despite the taxing workout of leg-propelling those wooden behemoths all the way across the lake, the rafts proved to be a crucial ingredient of this trip. The larger one became an aquatic space station from which our crew could dock for sun, wine, music, and provisions, all the while allowing for intermittent solo spacewalks into the liquid teal void around us. There were few hours this summer that provided such timeless happiness than those hours aboard Spacecraft Buck Lake. We drifted about like cosmic refuges from a distant, devastated Earth. Out there, there was no coronavirus, no protests, no politics, and no sign of the Year 2020.Such sentiment ended almost immediately as we returned to Earth and back to Portland. A wind storm of epic (that's not hyperbole) proportions ignited what became the most horrific wildfire event Western Oregon had ever experienced. So after my recent solemn mountain lake escape, 2020's unpredictable wrath was immediately back with an ashy, apocalyptic slap to the face (and lungs). The invisible aggressor this time, however, was non-viral; it was in the form of toxic aerosols where physical distancing is meaningless. The smoke and particulate matter doused the outdoors like a contaminated resin bomb. And unlike viral hitchhikers that ride on relatively "large" respiratory droplets, the particulates of fire emissions are so small that they can stay suspended long enough to traverse the globe, let alone effortlessly seep indoors despite fastidious hermetics. If COVID-19 wasn't enough of an excuse to don an N-95 mask, the fires certainly were. I wore that respirator indoors as I taped up every seam of my windows and doors. The N-95 is the only available solution that filters these micro-particles. Days upon days followed whereby the scene outside resembled more the surface of Mars than that of Earth, let alone the normally bountiful, lush Pacific Northwest. And where COVID-19 is forgiving, if not encouraging of outdoor activities, wildfire smoke eliminates all outdoors activity. In fact, even indoor activity was a challenge given how much particulate was still getting indoors somehow. According to a device I used to measure particulate matter, my efforts were at best able to knock down the EPA rated advisory levels from "Very Unhealthy," to "Unhealthy." Sometimes we must surrender despite our best efforts. I accepted I would have to live a suffocating, non-active "Unhealthy" life indoors for a week.
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| Encroaching wildfire smoke |
Such conditions persisted in seemingly unending, quotidian fashion until finally the weak knock of autumn arrived off of the Pacific Ocean. This weather system, however feeble, summoned just enough strength to nudge the smoke east, thereby allowing sunlight to reach the Earth's surface. This ingredient -- sunlight -- created surface heating, rising air circulation, pressures differences, and therefore: WIND! It was as though the normal hum of our Pacific Northwest weather appliance had suddenly had its electricity restored. Alas, the smoke was gone. For the next month or so I took liberty to enjoy what transitioned into a beautifully long, dry, crisp, and colorful autumn. There were bike rides -- many rides, actually, including my favored longer autumnal rides through Willamette Valley wine country. And I (finally!) purchased a beautiful new acoustic guitar, a 2020 Collings 001 model. Expect to hear that beauty on some upcoming recordings posted on this blog this winter.
Next on the Summer 2020 adventure list: back with the Buck Lake Crew (the "Space Camp" crew from Buck Lake visit #2 and the Swift Reservoir), but this time for a four day, three night sojourn at a rented house in Netarts, Oregon on the coast. This trip in particular turned out to be a highlight for its spontaneity, diverse activities, good laughs, scenic beauty, and for the simple pleasure of an experience that ended up better than expected. It was the perfect climactic end for such an unusual summer during a most unusual year. What stood out about it was that nothing stood out about it. We had no set plans and went along with whatever the day, whatever the weather, or whatever the circumstances presented. I ate some of the best food of my life at The Schooner, which included fresh oysters, the best clam chowder i've ever had (or ever will), with the best Bloody Marys I've ever had (or ever will); we lounged on the beach at sunset regaling in music and and good wine; we took the one rainy day to venture up to Gearhart for lunch on the docks, as well as stay inside our house for dudes' "Movie Night;" we explored the rocky blisters and oceanside tunnels in, well, Oceanside, Oregon; we howled at the moon next to the crackled warmth of a cloudless October night fire; and I, of course, pushed through a couple memorable bike rides, including the first "terrible weather" ride portending the coming wet season. Here, I endured wind, darkness, sideways rain, and well, any and all stereotypical Oregon Coast superlatives. My ride the following day to Pacific City, however, was the opposite. It was clear, calm, dry, and filled with scenic spectaculars and whimsical affirmations of a different time and year, and of a different place -- one not dissimilar from a drifting raft floating upon a liquid teal void. Here I was again. I felt like I had been there before recently in what seemed to be both ages ago and yesterday. Coincidentally, our house did have a telescope that I took full advantage of using. From this I spotted my future Moon crater residence once I disembark from this marooned Earth from which I'm floating.
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| The rocky blisters of Oceanside, Oregon |
If the above trip was the apotheosis of Summer 2020, I required a gentle outro to ease the transition into the arriving isolation of winter. That outro took place on a bike and in the Columbia River Gorge -- where summer 2020 began nearly five months prior, almost to the day. That precise timing wasn't planned; it just happened that way. I knew this ride would be the last breath of Summer 2020. It was on November 1st, remarkably. The weather was spectacular, if not miraculous, like a terminally ill, seemingly unconscious patient that suddenly conjures impossible energy for a bewildering, yet cohesive last sentence before their final surrender. November 1st, 2020 was that sentence from Summer 2020.
I parked in Mosier, Oregon, just five miles east from Hood River. The plan was to simply embrace the dying autumn (or "summer") along one of the most beautiful stretches of unencumbered trail and road America has to offer. The day delivered. I rode to Hood River from Mosier along the resurrected groove of what used to be the Historic Columbia River Gorge Highway. Coincidently, I took this trail for the first time at the beginning of summer on one of my birthday rides when I was staying in White Salmon. I realized this as I was riding it for the second time, but instead of the incipient June blossoms displaying their green promise of life, I was now riding among a vegetative cavern of weeping colored detritus. Death really can be beautiful. That's when the gravity of this past summer hit me. It felt like both a lifetime ago and a minute ago that I rode that trail for the first time with my best friends, trying to make sense of the rapidly evolving viral chaos strangling our hopes and stoking our fears. Here I was, a lifetime later -- or a minute later -- or an eon in the future -- on November 1st riding the same trail that is now littered with the year's decay at my wheels. But this time I was alone. This time I didn't feel strangled by a virus. This time there was no virus. All of that was in the past; I was riding in the future.
Life is a series of forward progressing loops, like a rollercoaster where each inversion in successive loops feels similar, but takes place in a different time and space as you move along the track. I've been here before; yet I haven't. Perhaps the best we can ever do is simply control our senses and enjoy the ride as we brace for the thrill and nausea of the next loop. Regardless, I knew where the bike trail was going to end on November 1st, 2020: my car -- my spaceship -- with its rack ready to guide my bicycle vessel back to Earth from our journey. My car was the end of the ride, the end of the day, and the end of my very strange, unforgettable summer.
Soon, the salvo of vaccines will signal the end of the COVID-19 trail. Then I'll brace for the next loop -- different, yet the same -- an age ago, a minute ago, an eon to come. And so on and so forth, until the last vertiginous loop somehow summons impossible energy for one last bewildering, cohesive (or not) sentence from me, whatever that may say. Regardless, I'm on this life trail and I know where it ends: a car -- my hearse -- with its coffin rack ready to take my body vessel back to its Earthly grave from my journey. I can only hope my last bewildering, cohesive sentence will be that I enjoyed the ride, out into the deepest corridors of space and back. You should see the view from there. It's heaven on Earth.
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| The last hour of Summer 2020 |
