More real snow

This snow has been unbelievable. A few more images from it . . .

Real snow

We've lived in Oregon for 12 years now, and though we've gotten the occasional snow, it usually comes just once or twice a year, cripples the city for a day or two, and then melts away. 

But right now, we're in the midst of a good old snow storm that would maybe rival a mild Midwest bout: close to a foot of snow capped by a half-inch of ice, 20-degree temperatures, and freezing rain. Throw in a ton of Oregon drivers who have no idea what to do when the roads are anything but dry, some towering Douglas Firs groaning under the weight of the past week's icy party favors and shedding massive branches at will, and a power outage, and you've got the storm of the decade for the Portland metro region. 

And we're right in the middle of it. 

It's festive, it's fun — had a fire going all day today — but it's good to know that it's not here to stay . . . forever.

P.S. It's snowing like crazy right now. 

Only in Portland . . .

Would you run into a bagpiper, playing Christmas carols, dressed in a Santa suit — and riding a unicycle.

And he was actually quite good. 

Madeline and I headed downtown today after recycling some old Christmas lights at Far West Fibers and before recycling an old toilet at Environmentally Conscious Recycling — more Portland flair for you — and ran into this guy blowing his pipes just outside Pioneer Square. It definitely added to all the festivity and hustle going on downtown today, what with the Salvation Army band filling the air, the Portland cops trotting about on their horses, and the huge but unlit Christmas tree filling the square. 

We grabbed a coffee and a paper and paused on a bench in the square to take it all in for a bit. It's really a must when the weather is relatively pleasant, work's been put on hold for a day, and you're spending time with someone who appreciates every little joy there is to be had. 

The latest vino . . .

The 2007 Merlot/Cab blends, complete with arty labels.

After nearly a year of fairly close attention and prolonged aging, we finally bottled the 07 Merlot blends: a 50-50 cab/Merlot, and a 90-10 of the same breakdown. It's tasting quite nice at this point, but the hope is it rounds out a bit in the bottle before we crack them. 

We currently have our 08 going as well. Though it's supposed to be a stellar year for pinot noir — the founder of Willamette Valley Vineyards told me it was the best vintage he's seen in his 25 years in the business — what we got this year was about three gallons of Merlot and three gallons of Cabernet that Stewart snagged from McMenamins. He also nabbed a bunch of chardonnay grapes, which we pressed back in October, so we've got those fermenting away. We shall see how it all matures . . .

Halloween 2008 . . .

Amy's pumpkin takes the cake this year. 

Ozone is on its way

In just a few days we'll be releasing OZONE, a comprehensive climbing guidebook for the Ozone crag in the Columbia River Gorge.  It's also a fund-raising endeavor for a friend of ours, Kevin Rauch, who was diagnosed with ALS in 2007. Check out the web site www.ozoneguide.blogspot.com for more information, photos, and everything else OZONE.

Yee-Frickin'-Haw!

Nothing like a little Clackamas County Fair action — acrobatic motorcycles, crash-up derby and all — to fill up a Sunday afternoon...

Frenches Dome

Climbing at Frenches Dome. (picture from 2006)

So, why not one more quick post before my ladies return home from an extra two weeks in Michigan:

Today, despite impending clouds, intermittent raindrops, and wan motivation from an already busy weekend for both of us, my friend Erik and I headed out to Frenches Dome near Mt. Hood for three laps up a 5.8 route known as Alpha Centauri. This has always been a favorite climbing spot of mine, simply because it's unique, it's beautiful, it has an amazing top-out view of Mt. Hood, and the long, easy routes give you a real sense of climbing accomplishment.

It was crowded as all get-up today, and this was the first time I'd been to Frenches since the Access Fund and the Forest Service beefed up the belay platforms, which is a nice touch even if I still disagree with the stupid NW Forest Pass fees. (My argument? Why not cut $50 million, or even $100 million — hell, why not $1 billion — from the $739 billion federal defense budget, and use it for recreation improvements on our public lands. That's where I'd love see my tax money go . . .)

Digressions aside, it was a great day to be out, and climbing the same route at Frenches Dome three times in a row beats any day mowing the grass or milling around about town . . .

Back to Mount St. Helens

Mt Hood from the summit rim of Mount St. Helens.

A few years ago, back before real responsibility seemed to set in, I spent many a spring and summer weekend in the glorious mountains of the Pacific Northwest. Amy and I would backpack all over the place, and when we weren't out there together, I'd be out with other friends climbing various peaks up and down the spine of the Cascades: from Shasta in the south to Rainier and Mt. Stuart in the north. It was grand. 

But times changed. Our family grew, as did our other domestic responsibilities, and before I knew it, it had been three years since I'd stood atop a familiar mountain. That's not to say that we haven't gotten out. Quite the contrary. Our little one was car camping with us at three months, traveling to Canada at six months, hiking with us soon thereafter, and backpacking on Mt. Hood by the time she was just over a year old.  But my climbing gears had shifted way down. That's just how it has been for a while now.

But with some free time to myself this summer, I decided to head for the hills again and work my way up to the top of Mount St. Helens this past week. 

I was planning on doing the Swift Creek route up from the Marble Mountain snow park, as massive amounts of snow had kept the shorter, more direct route from the Climber's Bivouac closed well beyond the normal timeframe. When I got to the permit station in Cougar, Washington, however, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that the Bivouac was open and that the trail, save for the first two miles, was clear and free of snow.

So I started out from the Bivouac at 10:20 Wednesday morning, with low clouds clinging overhead and several feet of hard-packed snow cemented on the trail. Quite a few cars filled the lot, and I passed a fair amount of people along the route. 

Breaking out of the clouds on Monitor Ridge. 

At just about 5,000 feet, I walked out of the clouds and into a clear blue sky filled with views of the crater rim, Mt. Adams to the east, and Hood and Jefferson to the south. The route was essentially free of snow, so climbing up was relatively simple, just picking my way up along the boulders of Monitor Ridge. I took a break just above the main monitoring station and watched as wispy clouds raced across the sky above the crater rim up high. 

Getting ready for the final push.

The final thousand feet or so were a steady slog, and three hours and 54 minutes after I'd left my car, I reached the summit and gazed out over the beautiful expanse that spreads out from the top of St. Helens: the new dome in the crater, steaming and crumbling constantly, Spirit Lake a deep blue amidst the ashen gray surroundings, Mt. Rainier a splotchy white and black mass of mountain far to the north.

St. Helens from the top: steaming dome, Spirit Lake, and Mount Rainier. 

The view south to Jefferson was crystal clear, and the fresh mountain air cooled the lungs with each breath. It had been far too long since I'd felt such clarity.

On the crater rim. 

An hour later, I slipped on my rain pants, high-stepped down the ashen upper flanks of the mountain, and patched together a series of smooth glissades on the lingering snowfields, which cut down my descent and eased the strain on my knees. Just before I strolled back into the trees, I took one last glimpse up at the mountain, thankful for a safe trip and grateful for the chance to fill a void that has long needed some attention. What a day.

Beacon Rock

                                Photo by Peter Marbach, from the site www.gorgecommission.org                                  

Although I have walked to the top of Beacon Rock, an 850-foot monolith in the Columbia River Gorge, and though it rises prominently as you cruise past it, I must say that it's been awhile since I've really paid the massive beast much mind.

But today, I climbed a roughly six pitch, 5.7 route known as the Southeast Corner route with my friend Erik Becker and an old-school, real Beacon climber by the name of Jim Opdyke. 

My hands, in fact, still sting as I type this; it's from all the climbing today  without having seasoned them up first earlier this year. So, briefly: it was an incredible experience that gave me an entirely new appreciation and perspective of Beacon Rock, for the joy of climbing and being outside, and for good people who do good things. 

Michigan Lakes

Just home from a 10-day stint on two of the most beautiful lakes in all of Michigan: Crystal Lake and the namesake beauty itself, Lake Michigan. Having grown up in Ohio, I certainly enjoyed my summers on Lake Erie, but it wasn't until I traveled north in middle school, to Torch Lake and Lake Michigan near Traverse City, that I really realized how amazing a Midwestern lake could be. The best ones are as blue as the ocean out deep, turquoise and crystal clear as the South Pacific near the shoreline. 

This first shot is of the beach in Frankfort, Michigan, just as the sun was setting on the Fourth of July before a fantastic fireworks display that has easily become one of the best I've ever seen: no cheesy pseudo-patriotic music, no vast distance between crowd and action. The fireworks in Frankfort blast from the pier just a hundred yards from a white sandy beach packed with 5,000 people. And this year, the grand finale upped the ante and simply floored anybody who was paying any kind of attention.

The second shot is of gorgeous Crystal Lake from a coveted vista from my mother-in-law's cottage. The view easily leaves deck splinters in your jaw . . .

Oregon's beautiful coast

I can't say exactly where this is — we're trying to keep this one somewhat secret for as long as possible — but it's probably the most wildly beautiful spot on all the Oregon coast. And that's saying a lot . . .

23:46

I set out on my first real 5k to break 24 minutes, and even though the second mile of the annual Lake Run's 5k worked me over pretty good, I hit my goal with 14 seconds to spare. I'd like to say that some year I'll tackle the 12k part of the race, which goes all the way around Oswego Lake, but who knows.  One step at a time . . .

Perhaps the Funniest Book I've Ever Read

It's not easy to write humor. 

Sure, a lot of writers think their writing is funny, but usually it's not. True, written-word humor takes just the right touch. 

Dan Kennedy seems to have that touch. I've never laughed so hard while reading a book. Granted, it could be the subject matter — the modern-day music industry via a somewhat cynical, albeit temporary insider.  It could be his matter-of-fact facetiousness. I don't necessarily know. Whatever it is, it's funny. 

But in Rock On, Kennedy also has a way of giving that humor meaning, like when he talks about Iggy Pop trashing the VIP section of a concert — proof that real rock still exists somewhere — or how it's OK to be an irony-free band like Kiss. 

Kennedy also struck a nerve with me by capturing the true draw of music: the over-and-over listening, the visions that music paints, the way going to a show can make you feel like a high school kid on a Friday night, not wanting to miss a thing. 

That, and it's funny, funny too. 

In Vino Veritas IV

It's bottled!

Last week, Stewart, Steve, and I bottled our 2007 Pinot Gris. We had a few samples along the way, and everyone's excited about it. It's tasting light and crisp, with hints of pear and melon and maybe even a little tropical fruit.

 

Stewart borrowed an old-school corker from work, and we bottled about four and a half gallons of wine in some clear bottles he'd scored as well. We didn't add any more sulfite for fear of what too much would do. Plus, with just eight bottles each, it probably won't last long enough that we'd need to be concerned with preserving it for an extended period anyway. 

Now we wait about three weeks or so. In the meantime, we'll come up with a name — Stewart suggested Bee Sting Gris since Steve got stung back when we picked the grapes — and do a little labeling. Then it's time for a crab dinner and release party. Should be a vintage to remember. . .

The View from Kauai

Just a few shots from a wonderful escape to Kauai, not only for a dear friend's wedding, but also for a rejuvenation of the soul. What a place...

The Napali Coast along the first two miles of the Kalalau Trail. 

Tunnels Beach on the north shore of Kauai.

A spinner dolphin during a cruise up the Napali Coast that included flying fish, green sea turtles, and loads of breaching humpback whales.

The Super Bowl at Silver Falls

Cabin number 6 at Silver Falls State Park

To me, there's always something refreshing, renewing and invigorating about even the smallest getaways that's simply good for the soul. It's especially so when getting outside and experiencing something nice and new.

After a few weeks of too much rain, too much time at home and too much of the same old same old, we booked a small cabin at Silver Falls State Park near Silverton to just get away. We've headed there before to tread the Trail of Ten Waterfalls, but it's been years. Too many, as it turns out.

Despite some sun breaks on Sunday and visions of kicking the soccer ball around with Madeline at Silver Falls, the park itself was essentially buried under at least a foot of snow. The roads were plowed of course, and our cabin was warm and lit, waiting for us, when we pulled up. But the trailheads were snowed under, the viewpoint turnouts buried, and snowballs much more at home than any soccer ball.

But the snow made it festive — and new for Madeline — and just outside our cabin, Silver Creek shushed by under massive Douglas Firs and hemlocks. The cabin was small but charming, with a front porch for cooking, a front living room and a back bedroom with bunk beds and a double bed. Throw in a microwave, a fridge, some speakers for the iPod, a little wine, and the Super Bowl on the radio, and we were set. 

Even though I'm not a huge football fan anymore — once a diehard Browns fan, I swore off the NFL when they moved the Browns out of Cleveland back in '95 or '96— I still appreciate a good game and the spectacle that is the Super Bowl. Mind you, it's not enough to keep me in town; past Super Bowl Sundays have found me climbing Mt. McLouglin or camping on the Oregon Coast. 

But we'd listened to the first half of Sunday's game on the way down to the park, and I checked the score again on the car radio with about four minutes to go. The circumstances of the contest were too much to resist, so we all — including our black lab, Oliver — huddled in the car to catch the last and most tense minutes of the game. When it was over, I had the satisfaction of knowing how the game had gone without any of the letdown and emptiness that almost always accompanies Super Bowl games and the commercials and the halftime shows and on and on. Plus, I was able to step back out into the snow, gaze up into a momentarily star-filled sky, and let the sounds of the great outdoors fill my ears. 

We did manage a few short snowy hikes to Upper North Falls and North Falls on Monday morning. The snow and rain mix didn't exactly thrill Madeline, and I think Oliver was bummed that he wasn't allowed on the trails, but we had gotten out and away, experienced something new, and refreshed ourselves just enough. Until next time . . .

Some late-night visitors outside the cabin. 

Live with Jason Isbell

Ah, live music. How sweet it can be.

Other than bluegrass or folk bands playing at kid-friendly outdoor venues, I have not been out to see some real live music in far too long. No excuse. At least no good ones.

But this past week, I joined my friends Erik and Ed at the Mission Theater to take in a pure and simple night of rock and roll with Jason Isbell, a former member of one of my favorite bands, the Drive-By Truckers. He's out on tour promoting a gem of a solo album, Sirens of the Ditch.

 

 www.jasonisbell.com     

The scene was surprisingly mellow, considering that the show was free and that past DBT shows I've been to in Portland have been relative mob scenes. We had no problem getting in, finding a table even, and watching and hearing pretty much every detail of the show.

A singer/songwriter named Jeremy Fisher opened the show with a pretty mellow set of acoustic tunes backed up by a pretty keyboard player. I know some of his stuff from various late-night radio shows, so it was good to put a face with a voice.

The second act was a southern singer by the name of Will Hoge, whose full band included bass, drums, keys, a lead guitar, and his own rhythm guitar. The music was intense and driven, heavy, southern-flavored rock with plenty of slide guitar and crashing drums. But Hoge's voice, with its powerful rasp and soulful current, was clearly the light. Think  Joe Cocker and Lenny Kravitz, Gregg Allman and Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes. It was hard not to be entranced when he sang quiet numbers like the spot-on anti-war paean "Bible vs. Gun" or "When I Can Afford to Lose"; hard not to be overwhelmed by the guitars and heartbreak of songs like "Silver or Gold."  I'm a new fan.

And then Isbell came on with his band, the 400 Unit, which includes bass, drums, guitars, and subtle keyboards. He opened with the first track off his new album, "Brand New Kind of Actress," and filled his set with a good mix of cuts from said album as well as some of his best material from his DBT days, including "Decoration Day," "Never Gonna Change," and one of my all-time favorites, "Outfit." Isbell's also got an incredible indictment of the war called "Dress Blues," about a high school friend of his who was killed in Iraq two days before he was to ship home for the birth of his first child. I wish more of these songs about the war would get some airplay, but at least they're out there, somewhere.

So it was a fantastic night of the kind of music that really resonates with me: honest and real; lyrical and literary; subtle at times, loud and forceful at others. It was the kind of night that inspires any musician to pick up his guitar, get behind his drums, or grab a pen and start making music that matters. 

Here's to more nights like these.

Justice?

Not really. 

But the cops did manage to recover some of the goods that were stolen from me a few weeks ago while working in an office in the Pearl District. 

I actually got a call from the officer at 2 a.m. Tuesday morning. (He works the night shift and thought the number I'd provided was a business line. But still, 2 a.m.?) Anyway, he'd pulled over a car in northeast Portland with four familiar thieves in it, and among all the other stolen loot were my briefcase and business cards. No laptop, of course, nor the library book that I'm being charged $30 for, but so it goes. And apparently there's nothing that links any of the guys directly to my stuff or when it was stolen, so there's likely little more to come of it.

Amy asked me tonight if I might still harbor some vengeful feelings. Of course I do. I must admit though, there's also a part of me that knows that the guy who stole from me probably has a life a lot darker than any I've ever known. That doesn't tip the scales in any way, but it does make me stop and think . . .