Cascadia Freedom Movement

This post is to be read while playing "Ho Hey" by The Lumineers. Thanks.

With Tristan moving to Oregon, we decided to accompany him into the core of Cascadia for the long weekend. Even when a friend is leaving to do awesome things around the world, it's weird to suddenly not have him around. The "Just to finish..." and "I know, right?" rumblings will be missed!

After slipping and sliding on the garlicky oily pizzas at Cheeseboard, we hit the road to the tune of the piano band. There is much preaching to the choir from within the choral pit about gender and race. At eleven at night, Erik has the excellent idea of pulling off the road towards Lake Shasta. We're giddy from being in the car for hours, and the prospect of plunging into greenery for days is in our faces. Everything is awash in moonlight, we share a Guinness or two, run around with the fluffy skunks. We even take boyband pictures in silhouette against the lake.

This was taken in the middle of the night. I need to learn to use my camera for more kuul shots.

Once we set up camp in Juanita Lake, the misty waters beckon and we're just drinking tea by the cooling lake, extending exposures to get the lake in deep reflection. Temperatures dip and dip, and I have one of those nights where I seem to spend half of it burrowing and the other half marveling at how cold my face is. It might be time to replace the sleeping bag I've been hauling around since 4th grade.

I can't seem to get Zombie by The Cranberries out of my head. Zombieeee, zombieee.

I love the culinary magic that happens when you go camping. Suddenly you're okay with eating slabs of bread with slathers of jam, eggs with kimchi, cookies with beer, all off of the muddy hood of a car. Paleo dieting aside, everyone licks the same knife and we suddenly all have herpes. This was somehow the least prepared we were for any trip. What cooking? What lights?

Needless to say, Crater Lake was gorgeous, even with most of the paths closed off for snow. The gay park ranger latched onto us and gave us great advice on what to do in the park, while I admired the lesbian ranger dolls. We slew each other over and over with snowballs, headshots being especially satisfying. No opportunity to jump into the lake, though I don't know that any of us were disappointed, it being icy cold even clothed and dry. Snowshoes to do the cliff-side hike would have been sweet though.

With no competitors within a hundred mile radius, it was surprising that the Diamond Lake Resort actually put an effort into their grub. A solid three star joint that cranked out quantity over quality, we ended up eating here twice, the latter because I somehow dropped my phone at the Toketee campgrounds, something I wouldn't discover until returning to SF. As we meandered our way through salads, calamari, and burgers, children played in the wet sunlight, surrounded by clouds of midge flies that tried to enter every facial orifice. I kept imagining Jason Vorhees lumbering out of the lake, and that would be our signal to ask for the bill, hop in our car, and avoid being in the bloody splash zone of the children.

Baked goods entered the picture here and it all dims, flickers.

I don't know how we would have gotten pictures of the Umpqua hot springs, but that stands out to me as one of the minor peaks of this trip. While the explorer of the Astral Plane dealt with what it meant to have a corporeal form, the rest of us stumbled into the darkness, no light in hand. We crash into bushes, rocks, until eventual rescue by two beardos on the way to the springs as well. Five pools, each cooler than the rest as you go down to the river, some lit by candles, others by moonlight. The one with the roof was colonized by stoner kids with bushels o' raversticks. It's such a disorienting feeling when the other people in the pool share how they have five children. We each do the quick arithmetic since everyone is about the same age, and all you can hear is the hot water rushing from pool to pool.

The next morning, we impulsively decide to head to the Oregon coastal dunes for our final night, and along the way, we stop for whatever scenic action arises. Watson Falls turned out to be an excellent choice, and we hike up the mile to where the falls crash into the bottom, sending sheets of horizontal rain out to saturate us. I attempt a shot or two, but even I can tell that the camera is about to self-destruct.

Of course, we had to stop the car for the elk. Even though none o' the elk stuck to the unofficial viewing station, we found our own ways of making fuzzy contact.

I can't tell who the lead singer or the bassist would be, but there's probably some drumming involved. I'd probably buy their first album before they sold out the big record companies.

"I was listening to Cascadia Freedom Movement before they became really popular," would be what I'd say.

*waves lighter app*

Tea time to close up the night. We wandered back to the dunes, bathed in cheddar-cheese lights and tracing the misty highway to the sea. Only the lines that I walked on were lit, and brightly so. I ran into the cloying foam, wet to the knee, drying in the grainy dark with the rain starting to come down. On my back to the slope between the snowy plovers, the drops hitting and I'm hearing echoes.

On our way back, the sky pulsed a pink and green as it became a carnivorous all-consuming world-succulent, ready to digest things with its mind. The trees on both sides of the highway, minions all, waved spines and pine needles, just waiting for the ululations to stop. Mirrors taking on their own fear-element, but we had Chris guiding and anchoring. The rain continued to come down as we sat by the blue and green witchfire, everything misting.

I'd never gone to bed so comfortable, and lucid dreaming came easily. I woke up in a pile of sand, snuggled again.

Life Advice: Hide your ears and wear a little lipstick.

Holy smokes, Batman, who knew that a bag of fifty fresh oysters, wine, and plenty of sunshine would make for a good Sunday? Tomales Bay Oysters can now be knocked off my bucketlist, even if we didn't have the patience to pop the mollusks onto a grill to try BBQing them. Kumamotos, om nom nom. It did make me hunger for the big clams I had in DC though.

And that night, we finally made it to BrewLab! I'm surprised that pillagin' hipster hordes haven't descended en masse on this event since it has so many hashtagged things going for it. When we showed up to this quiet little house, a friendly lass handed us a mason jar (encouraged donation was $10-20, but it's an All-You-Can-Taste-Drink-Gorge, so...), and then we were in the basement/backyard where two different stations were serving seventeen homebrews. Breakfast in Bed (Oatmeal Maple Stout) stood out for smelling exactly like something you'd want to reduce in a saucepan and then drizzle over pancakes. There was also some flowery beer that tasted like summer or something that a talking rabbit would drink in Redwall Abbey.

There were more chest-length beards than you could shake a maraca/caxixi at, and when the sun finally set, the Kwanzaa lights twinkled on. It was one of those sickly sweet summer days that you just want to stick in a box to look at and remember later.

Kimchi time happened again. This time the means of production were not as robust, but we still pumped out thirteen jars of delicious spicy vegetable matter. I was honored with the task of washing all the little verminous critters before we salted and spiced and puree'd away. Another two days and I'll have bubbly tanginess to throw into anything I happen to be cooking.

And speaking of foodiness, I just published my first article on Spoonwiz on Cantonese consumption!

In more exciting news, I finally can stop trolling Craigslist for housing ads! No more insecure sex workers, techies looking for pot, or bros looking for live-in hos!

In June, I'm moving into an awesome co-op right behind the Grand Lake Theatre. It's right by Lake Merritt, a farmer's market, and Great Western Power Company. For the price of a parking space in San Francisco, I'll have a massive room and a separate study of my own to read/write. This doesn't even include common spaces where I plan to spend most of my time: the garden (so excited about herbs!), dining room, humongous living room, and the sunny reading nook.

I would have never found the place without Talia sending it to me and now she's even supplying me with bed, couch, dresser, and the massive desk I picked up off the street and cleaned hobo poop off of so many years ago. The Universe does indeed provide, but it helps to surround yourself with excellent friends.

Out of all the interviews I've done, this was the only one where I walked out and immediately got my hopes up, already planning out all the awesomeness that was going to occur if I got an offer. Somehow the house folk liked me enough too, so it all worked out in the end!

It's an excellent sign that this past Saturday during the farewell/welcome kegger, a friend brought up how chicken and waffles would be delicious, and bam, suddenly my future housemate was whipping up pumpkin waffles on a hot griddle. Excited to get to know all seven of the scrappy crew that'll co-habit the Randch, and hopefully there will be much climbing/brewing/camping!

And as part of the return to the East Bay, it was a great weekend to hit up the ol' Strawberry Canyon firetrail. I love the side trail after the connector that takes you to the tippy tip of the golden fields to where it looks like you could just dive into the sprawl of the East Bay towards San Francisco.

The shortcut to the trailhead still exists and it's certainly more well-defined. I remember the first time I charged into the underbrush, I was a skinny skinny freshman in college, and I certainly had no idea where the path went, but the idea of getting lost in the dark and wandering in the trees wasn't such a bad one. I definitely slipped and rolled down a hill into decomposing leaves, but emerging dirty and sweaty into the lamplight was pretty effin' triumphant. This time around, in broad daylight, it was just a nice escape into trees and foilage, and it was nice to know that somewhere in muscle memory, I still remember all the little winding roads here.

We'll wrap up with a teddy bear who clearly doesn't understand he's the other woman and that although three points of contact are the most stable, third wheels aren't always welcome, even in TeddyBearlandia.

The Universe provides stuff.

After avoiding a campsite scuffle with two large Hispanic men and their bikini'd ladyfolk, we staked claim to site #15 in Willow Placer along the Merced River. An hour or two of sitting in the warm trunk later, the Deschutes Red Chair was still downright tasty. I built myself some cairns to mark the occasion before we set off on an easy 7-mile hike up to the North Fork of the Merced from Ralroad Flats.

And of course, after many attempts to go hiking while wildflowers are abloomin', we finally stumble upon natural bounty when we least expected it. We're about five miles in when we realize that there's entirely too much color in the foilage, so oh fuck, we're surrounded by purple and yellow wildflowers. No idea what the freaky alien flower above is, except I'm pretty sure it eats babies with those wild tentacles.

In addition to poison oak encroaching from every side, rattlesnacks made a few cameo appearances. This one watched us for a few minutes before slouching off into the shade. I kept thinking about the ranger's warning of some girl needing fourteen antivenom injections, but no two-holed bites this time around. After the sun set in the valley, we had an easy evening of eating roast chicken in the dark, carving up mangos, and nerding out on language talk while staring into the campfire. Not a shabby way to spend a Saturday!

We pack up camp at 7 am on Sunday morning to eat hummus by the roadside while waiting for our whitewater raft guides to show up. It's funny that the rafter/kayak crew are essentially the same people who are also climbers, as in all the names for the rapids could have easily been boulder routes (Balls to the Wall, Son of Ned, etc.). Just an entirely different life, where you're rafting for six months of the year, snowmobiling for four, and then climbing in Utah between seasons.

For warmth, I was given the most attractive green and white Christmas cardigan to wear over my wet suit. I now wish I had taken a picture of this monstrosity.

I loved that we started off the 17-miles with an immediate Class IV challenge called Cranberry Hole. We had just practiced going forward and backward, left and right, and then we were in the middle of a massive sluice of water. A decent confidence booster, and then the rest of it just passed by in a surreal jumble. It definitely all went by smoothly thanks to the excellent river guides. A highlight was our attempt to surf Gauge Hole. Four of us opted to try it, and as soon as the boat slipped into the watery chaos, all I can remember is hanging almost vertically from a toe hook before thinking, "fuck it," and falling into an underwater churn downriver. The two best rapids came at the end, with Split Rock blocking up the middle of the river and then Corner Pocket sucking up the current into a boat-eating maw.

Wetsuits are amazing by the way, and I don't know why I never had one for windsurfing.

I took a break from feeding my face to get in this picture. All-you-can-eat sushi is fast becoming a post-camping tradition, and I don't think people mind this deviation from the In-n-Out sprees. After reenacting the suburban childhoods in Modesto none of us ever had, we stumbled out of the parking lot into Kobe Sushi Buffet, where everyone speaks Mandarin and the 回転寿司 boats seemed to stall out every few minutes. We essentially said yes to everything that was offered, and I believe we ordered every special roll on the menu at least once. Keep the sashimi combos coming, because I can and will eat my weight in salmon.

We'd been trying to kill Chris all weekend. After his food poisoning, we ordered a mountain of wats and injera at Addis, dragged him on a hike, rafted a river, and then this sushi travesty. Two more challenges and it will be time to prepare for the Boss Fight.

Basically how we all felt headed back into a Monday

"Oh, my sweet summer child," Old Nan said.

It was one of those early nuggets of summer that San Franciscans know to tuck away before June actually rolls around and starts off the chilly times. Winter is coming to eat small minority children in August, and we're going to rub our hands together in a fog bank just thinking back to when it was just a little too warm for comfort and the air is still. We were awash in beercraft, and I can recall a BeerAdvocate explosion: Bear Republic stout, Back in Black, Brew Free, Dogfish Head's 90 minute.

When Erik produced a string of dragonfly kites, it was just the cherry atop, and we began our Instagram festival. Backlighting and shirtlessness being the markers of epic Like gathering, I am looking forward to reaping the Klout harvest.

I don't know why I'm bothering to bump up my tanning since Burning Man will just mean I emerge from the desert looking ethnic FOR REAL.

Why is it that we're never on the Western edge of Dolores, just down from the Gay Beach? It's curvaceous, has excellent views, though I guess the manflesh is somewhat lacking. I have yet to come up with a satisfactory alliteration for the hill corner that seems to have hula hoopers and families.

I remember buying a big pink frosted heart cookie and then we all threw ourselves upon it. For all that we pretend to be Big Kids, I'm okay with how happy we all look running down the side of a grassy hill with a kite, trying so hard just to keep the whole contraption off the ground.

 I remain amused when a six-foot drag queen struts across the middle of the Gayborhood.

With saffron and mango ice creams in hand, we took it upon ourselves to assess exactly how many of the Dolores Park commandments are never violated. Every Sunday, nobody smokes, dogs are kept on leashes, the park remains drug-free and clean, and certainly nary a drop of alcohol.

Goat curry and bhaigan bharta with Talia made for an excellent Tuesday, especially after the house I went to interview at set my spidey senses tinglin'. I just want a quiet space of my own, and having good people to keep the bustle n' beer level up would be a glossy plus. Is it too late in life to cobble together three or four friends and move into a giant house where we cook and brew and grow silly herbs?

Erik with some pizza flotsam.

Much like the chocolate toffee samples  that I always act surprised to receive in the Heart of the City market, I picked up a free massage at Dogpatch today. Are you supposed to make eye contact with a stranger who has his bare feet jammed under your arm while popping your shoulder? He talked to me about my bum shoulder vibrating on a tense frequency, and yet there were no chakras mentioned. I miss the fantastical yoga teachers I had at Berkeley, being asked to roll my hips into the rivers of eternity, or to hang my head like ripe succulent fruit. After being told over and over to relax and to let this man swing my arm through its degrees, I ran into some bros that I'd climbed with at Great Western Power Company, which made for some sweet clambering.

Can gay climber boys start high fiving after sends as well? Thanks.

And wrapped it all up at sunset with some Goat Hill, free tiramisu (thanks Yelp!), and epic tea time. I'll count it as celebration for bumbling through Hump Day of a strangely stressy week.