Summer 2008

Awesome Photo by Melzie

“When a man comes ashore after an ocean voyage he is like a child, sometimes seeking a women’s shoulder on which to rest his head, and at other times ordering one glass of wine after another in some tavern until he finds happiness, provided that happiness has been poured in that bottle beforehand.” Jose Saramago

It is raining as usual over dark Portland. The Willamette is polluted with mud and farm runoff, its riverbanks flooded. Students are seated, pensively waiting their dreaded math class. The instructor has just returned from a long voyage and vacation and is in no mood to see the rain drizzle down the windowpanes. All students with a view are looking at the rain wondering when it will be time to finish this degree and go back to work. “Good morning students.” Let us begin or end this endless story.

After a fit of drinking 32 oz Mojitos for 5 dollars each in Playa del Carmen, Mexico I found myself watching a Quentin Tarantino movie on the beach with the ocean as a back drop. It was here that I decided to start this year’s summer blog at the ending. “Everybody stay cool this is a robbery.” But it is only now in writing this that I can’t think of what appropriate end I should start at. It is so hard to compare real life to a 2-hour movie. I go back to work again on January 5, 2009, after a 4-month break. This year’s report will be comparatively ambiguous because I don’t really want to talk about many of the details. Since my college career ended I have tried to write a report of my year’s travels and publish it near January. The report is much more for me to read later and to act as a form of journaling than for others to read. I facetiously call it my summer report referencing a different 2-hour movie, “The Endless Summer” that I have never seen.

But we the editors have decided that our author has taken too many liberties and started at a strange end, the end of a calendar year. Why not start at the real end, the end of a life. This year he read the first half of the autobiography of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Now that is a smart man; he publishes the first half of the story while he is still alive, all that remains is to keep writing in the second half until he passes away and then others can publish the complete set of the autobiography posthumously. If our author starts at this end though who really might remain to publish his reports. Perhaps he should start at a different end, the day that plastic becomes too expensive for him to buy a replacement kayak for his newly cracked “old timer”, or perhaps at a new beginning, a wedding ceremony. Maybe the day when the Columbia and the Willamette still run together but no humans remain to see it. Portland’s last bridge, the Steel Bridge, still stands but no humans use it to cross the muddy waters. A large statue of a Greek god stands in the middle of Willamette. Maybe Sara Palin had spoken wisely when she stated, “I can see Russia from my house.” Perhaps we have been outlandish by really starting at the end. For all people know that everyone dies, but we don’t really understand this. That of course is why we continue to write; for the small chance that we can live a little past our deaths. In any case we have already decided that we have taken too many liberties and started at a bad end, a bad end to the year 2008. Perhaps Honey Bunny did kill every last one of you mother fuckers. No, let us stay put: it is the morning of January 5, 2009, and our author sits pensively waiting for his first class after a 4 month sabbatical-vacation break.

“And son I’m just sorry there is no legacy for you now,
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow” John Cougar Melloncamp

“What is the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull?” “Lipstick.”

Be nice to me or I’ll return to my plow. I must be the first to admit that the threat I give my students is empty because both of the family farms have gone under now. I never meant to be a teacher, I never meant for this yellow brick road. There is too much this year that I don’t want to talk about so please allow me the liberty to allow my editors to speak for me in third person. My favorite author Jose Saramago writes all of his books in third person omnipotent and I think it is a tried method to detach somewhat from the real world. He will often make biting jokes at his own expense from the third person. Strangely enough the best book ever written, “Blindness”, was turned into a movie this year and it hardly saw any playtime. The American Blind Association guaranteed its demise by boycotting it, I doubt the president of the association has ever read the book and I doubt he understands Jose’s unparalleled ability to be sarcastic.


Photo of Zachary dropping Big Kahuna by Brett

So let us actually start at the real day that if first felt like summer 2008. Luke Spencer had decided to revive the old Canyon Creek Race and make it earlier this year to utilize the good water flows. He had certainly picked the right day. You know that first day every year when you feel like shorts on and you can’t think about anything but going to the river; that was the day Luke picked for the race. People were everywhere and the river was quickly on the rise from the melting snow. The weekend before Amy Shipman and I had decided to hit a rainy day on the Kalama River. We chose a short run so that we could walk back up to the car for the shuttle and we would only have to take one car. For some reason, we decided to leave the boats in the brush and walk up the road together. When we got to Amy’s car we found she had locked the keys in the car. We flagged down a local to call Triple A. By the time we reached the take out, the boats were gone. Damn jibbers had struck again. So I had no creek boat to run the Canyon Creek race in. I was back in the hated Java kayak that had tried to kill me so many times. It was a good day and everything was safe, but I swear it, I will never paddle a Java again. The party that night was awesome to say the least. The next day I skipped the East Fork Lewis race and the high water snow melt, packed my truck with garbage from the party, and heading back to Portland excited to catch up with my girlfriend.

The author would like us to backtrack a long time to when he was about 14 and either working on a 4 wheeler or playing catch with the dog on the farm. The weather was sunny and the spring that fed the family water supply was getting empty as it did near the end of every summer. The father called a meeting between the two eldest sons in a bit more of an urgent mood than typical. This required a walk up the hill for a view of the entire Willamette Valley from the top of the grass seed farm. Dad was going back to school for counseling, step grandpa was kicking the family off the farm, and a new world was starting. The family spring seemed to instantaneously dry up awaiting the rains of the fall.

“I soon learned that telling stories parallel to the ones you are writing – without revealing their essence – is a valuable part of the conception and the writing.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez


Photo of Mike Ross back in the day on Green Wall by Amy Shipman

My history with the Illinois River is a long one. I had heard stories of its rapids since I was a young rafter on its sister river, the Rogue. I was intrigued. I was 21 and I picked up my girlfriend at the time, at her husband’s house (long story), and we met up with some Portland boaters at the put in. It was the perfect trip. It was another “first perfect weather of spring days” that we should start calling Luke Spencer days. The next year I took my first trip to Canada. I met Mike Ross, talked him into buying a cataraft, and after a practice run on the Wind River we headed to the Illinois River for a spring break trip with my brother Josh. That weekend the river would flash flood on us, force us to run the largest rapid, (Green Wall) at flood level, kill two people, and scare the living shit out of our parents when they saw it all on the television. We now are very careful about flows and weather reports, but the Internet has helped a lot with river safety. This year rumors floated around about a new hole at Green Wall. We were very nervous and cautious. To weep away some of the nervousness we partied at a karaoke bar in Grants Pass the night before we launched. I really didn’t know the locals had that much energy in them or the ability to sing Bennie and the Jets with so much flamboyance. Michael Glass was talked into a bit of a jagger-infused drunk-stupor, ‘Michael Glass he’s so fast…’ We had another excellent trip and Michael scared the crap out of us by running up against the bottom wall and pinning. He was able to push himself free and we finally found his boat later at the bottom of all the rapids in the gorge. A few weeks later we returned to try the run again at an extremely low flow of 600 cfs for the Memorial Day weekend. Again good times -. We were able to convince Michael Glass that he had actually been the one singing Bennie and the Jets at the bar on the previous trip; Josh had his first reattempt at the Green Wall after the hell flood trip years ago; a bunch of people had their virgin Illinois River experience; and Cindi Ross rowed the river for the first time. If you know Michael Glass, Alex Dey, and Brian Sonnichsen you will be able to picture the amount of jackassed-ness that this trip aspired to. Next August all three will join us again for a trip down the Grand Canyon, I can only imagine.

“… and because my planned trip had aroused some satiric remarks among my friends, I named it (my camper) Rocinante, which you will remember was the name of Don Quixote's horse.” John Steinbeck talking about the naming of his truck in Travels with Charley

It is amazing how rising gas prices have changed the boater community. It is hard to own the perfect car for boating. We want a car that gets good gas mileage but won’t get a flat on a back road in Canada. We want a car that carries lots of people and yet also carries lots of gear. It seems that rising travel costs are affecting us quickly. We are losing a lot of our American desire for individuality. We are stuffing ourselves into cars full of passengers and taking less foreign trips. We can no longer be Hunter S. Thompson in his old dusty gas guzzling pickup when he drove by my sister Carrie years ago in Idaho on a much earlier Salmon River trip with his dusty hat and large glasses. We can no longer be Hemingway traveling back and forth between Ketchum and Mojitoes in Cuba. We can no longer easily take up a trip across America with Steinbeck in Rocinante just to see what we haven’t seen before with our poodle riding shotgun.

I talked Nateesh into rafting the Breitenbush River at high flows with some kayaking friends. It really was a bad idea and much too hard to drag the non-kayaking girlfriend down. We ended up giving up above a badly placed midstream log and dragging the raft out of the canyon. I ended up puking on the front tire of the truck on the complete verge of heat exhaustion.

Packed in a few excellent trips with the students this year. Hit the Kalama, high water on the Clackamas, Breitenbush, Deschutes, and the White Salmon. Nateesh’s brother Josh and his girlfriend joined us on the White Salmon and the overheated Deschutes. Watching Josh’s face after dropping Husum Falls on the White Salmon for the second time in a weekend is worth a million dollars.

Spent a few days on my favorite river in the Cowlitz drainage, the Tilton. I say this only because it is the only river in the area that hasn’t scared the hell out of me. The best part of both runs was watching the paddle raft. Mike Ross guided a 4-man boat on the first trip; Carrie and Nateesh R-2’ed the red raft on the second trip.


The Owyhee River Canyon


The Original Cougar Liquor


Brett on the Owyhee River


Salami Stall on the Road Home, Owyhee 2008 Photo by Brett

Can’t forget our days playing hooky and running the Owyhee River in the 90-degree weather. Would have probably been Brett and Kimberly’s last river trip together before getting married if we hadn’t called them and talked them into a Middle Fork of the Salmon trip a little while later. Some highlights included a dead alternator, hack sac with a piece of salami, and “Shane I’m smoking the weed” heard echoing off the canyon walls. While we were on the Owyhee my brother Josh was saving a group of boneheads from certain death at Niagara on the Santiam River. That was one of two rescues for Josh this year. It certainly was a year full of high water, good snow pack, and tragedy. The Oregonian decided to post a warning to boaters, hikers, and outdoorsmen/women to be careful of the high water and the story featured a photo of Nateesh and I in the red raft. “Be careful, we are having a meltdown.”

“Inside us there is something that has no name, that something is what we are.” Jose Saramago

And for the week between spring and summer term Carrie pulled a cancellation trip on the Middle fork of the Salmon. It was hell on wheel to put the trip together at the last minute and Carrie was busy with her last term of school. Somehow it came together and we found ourselves at the put in of one of the best multi-day trips in the world at a moderately high flow of 5 feet with a wonderful crew and excellent weather. Nateesh, Becki, Brian, John Fulmer and I paddled the red raft. Mike, Cindi, and William Ross joined us. Babcock sang jug, jug, jug all the way down the river. Brett, Melissa, Anthony, Chris Cosgriff, and Brian Sonnichsen kayaked while Carrie rowed her cataraft and Kimberly acted the part of the chatty passenger. The river was high enough that we usually made camp just a little bit after lunch and had extra time to hang and just have a generally good group experience. Night one found us walking upstream a half mile to a hot springs. Night two found us ferrying across the river to a different hot spring. Night 3 found us putting 15 people in the red raft and paddle rafting down to Lune Creek hot springs. A different group worried about our safety in the 15-person raft, and hollered at us. We convinced them that we where poaching the river and heading all the way to the take out that night, “We are going all the way.” Had a great soak and a bit of a drunk walk the 2 miles back upstream to camp.


Photo by Brett


Cosgrif Photo by Brett


The happy Ross family Photo by Brett


Michael J. Babcock Photo by Brett


Bexxi and a different Brian juggle Photo by Brett


The Photographer

“To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.”
Henry Reed writes in Naming of Parts

We the editors find it necessary to tell this part of the story. It probably won’t be clear until later in the blog why the author decided to tell this tale in third person. Midway through the MF trip Shane and Nateesh sat in the shade of some large oak trees on a flat that was once inhabited by the Sheep Eater Indians. You can still see indentations from the large pits that the original inhabitants had dug out to build their long houses over. The couple had mistakenly illegally placed their tent too close to the pits. It is the next morning when they will remember that the river rangers had asked them not to camp close to the pits. The icy-cold Middle Fork of the Salmon floats by lazily, swollen from the warm weather. Similar to Henry Reed’s poem they decide to pick a tree for each of the members of the trip and describe what qualities of the tree make it a good choice. The thick trunk, the weathered leaves, the many branches, the bent trunk, the broken branch, the distance to the river, the isolation, the strengths. The author just wishes he could remember the details and description of each tree, but let it be said it was a special moment. Which in your case you have not got. But the trees are still holding their silent ritual over the long-house pits. Maybe we should allow a well-placed quote from the couple’s counselor here, “We can’t worry about the past, all that we can work on is the now. Breath.” The water in the river passed the couple quickly trying to find the fastest possible route to mix itself into the Pacific Ocean.


Nateesh and I post naming of parts. Photo by Brett

I do remember our dreams that night. I think that is probably the main reason the river rangers asked us to not camp so close, protecting us from bad dreams. There is a famous river legend that if you steal something ancient from the river corridor you will have bad luck until you return it. There should be a similar legend about camping too close to something ancient. That night Nateesh dreamed that an ancient Native American was outside our tent and she talked to him for a while and then he asked us to move. I dreamt that I was in my brother’s Tahoe with Mike, Brett, Nateesh, and some random friends. While we were talking we accidentally drove it into the river. So rather than worrying about it, we just hopped out, set up camp, and started partying. Then a Eugene Air twin prop plane flew across the sky (somehow I know that we are close to Eugene OR) when suddenly we hear that the engine dies. The plane slowly is blown upstream of us by the wind and crashes. We all hop in the Tahoe to go save them, but we forgot that it is still stuck in the river. So now we are floating in the Tahoe towards some huge glacier lake that doesn’t exist near Eugene. We finally manage to get to shore and dig out ropes and boats from the truck to save the airplane crew and passengers. Almost immediately they float by. They have ridiculous looking airplane life jackets on and almost all of them are smiling and laughing. One man is hurt and bandaged and is riding with his wife down the river on a raft they have fashioned out of luggage. Even he and his wife seemed happy. They refused our help and planned to just float into town and take an airport shuttle back to the airport and try again.

The last night of the trip will go down in our hazy memories as a classic. Fulmer decided to use the water soaker as an alcohol dispenser. Dipped it in the jug, purged the air, stuck it in Chris Cosgriff’s mouth, and fired him off his chair. That was it, Fulmer, Brian, and Chris had a drinking mission for the night. The water soaker has been banned from future trips. At some point they pulled Melissa into the fun. She was hanging upside down from an oar tripod doing shots when the whole thing collapsed. Thank god Chris has more reflexes in any inebriated state than all of the Greek gods. Melzie’s head missed the rock and her upper shoulder would be mysteriously bruised the next day. The ride home featured a buzzed Babcock telling old war stories from Somalia.



The Dangerous Tripod in action Photo by Brett

I had promised Nateesh lots of wild life. We had seen nothing. So when we woke our hung over friends up early the last day we only expected to run some huge rapids as the Middle Fork descended into the North Fork. To our surprise, herds of mountain sheep and elk covered the hills while we ran and worried about the last rapids. We couldn’t keep our eyes on the river and watch the animals at the same time.

How do we learn to communicate? How do we find it so easy to forget? See our young author now sitting in the bed of a tandem axel truck lying on top of a pile of beans. The crop was good, the field is full of beans, and the bean pickers are ahead of schedule. It is time to pull out a six pack, lay back, and watch the stars while waiting for the next truck driver to head to the cannery. A few young girls enjoying their summer of leisure have joined the night bean picking crew on the bed of beans. A glassy bead of water rolls off the can of beer and burrows its brow into the coolness of the full truck. The boys try hard to make small talk with the girls, but a life of secluded farm life doesn’t always create a plethora of conversation pieces. The water from the can decided to make its slow path to the bottom of the truck slinking down one green bean after the next.

Then it was back to work for a few weeks, before preparing for the now annual Fourth of July Rogue trip. Allison Elliott had scored this year’s permit and had planned a pure adult group. Colin had also scored a permit and planned to meet us on the first night for 70’s vs. 80’s party. But this year’s put in message from the rangers was pensive. A semi-experienced boater on a guided trip had lost control of her boat and drowned in one of the biggest rapids, Blossom Bar. Her body and boat were still underwater, stuck in the rapid. She would be one of four people to drown on the Rogue this year. Two drowned at Blossom Bar, one trying to swim for his raft without a life jacket, and one passing after a heart attack while pushing his stuck raft from a rock. Nateesh was worried, but I convinced her that we wouldn’t see anything. We watched Babcock style Rainey Falls. Nateesh was intrigued and convinced me to run the drop with her. We missed the line, Nateesh bruised the shit out of herself, and somehow we stayed upright. No pictures were taken, but check out Josh bagging it in his cowboy hat below. Trip highlights include a bullfight at 70’s vs. 80’s night; Nateesh flashing a different group; drinking jagger-bombs with that group; reaching camp to find our group already plastered from shots from the jibber; Jesse and I sobering up to cook dinner; and all the feel of an adult Rogue River trip.



“In the end we discover the only condition for living is to die.” Jose Saramago

We the editors don’t even want to tell this part of the story. The group sits pensively floating towards Blossom Bar Rapids. Let us hope that nothing is seen and all shall be forgotten. The night’s light dew sat glistening in the shaded parts of the canyon. A small turtle was spotted sunning itself on a rock near the edge of the river. Whether these details are important to the reader is hard to say. No one talked. Shane and Nateesh ran the rapid first, saw nothing, and eddied out below. While Shane watched for other boaters, Nateesh scanned the eddy and found her body on the shore. Details for the reader are certainly unnecessary here. She had flipped her 2 person inflatable kayak, helped her friend get to shore, and got pushed into the undercut. The night before the Sheriff had dislodged her body from the rock, but lost it in the failing light. Thankfully the river rangers were right behind us and we sent them into the eddy to cover her body and call the Sheriff. Tears fell from Shane and Nateesh’s eyes, slowly mixing in with the Rogue River to try to find the quickest way to the Pacific Ocean. Let us quit this and find happier stories to consume us with.

It was finally time for Brett and Kimberly to get hitched. The Bachelor Party consisted of a poker party, too much liquor, a drunk Shane, and a visit from Nateesh in a hot cop outfit. Not willing to consider that enough of a going out party, I talked Brett, two friends, and two East Coast boaters to go give the Super Slides of the Cispus River a try. It is supposed to be class 4 with a class 5 feel, perfect for our group. We found the take out and put in easily but we were already behind schedule. Snow was still packed in all of the shady areas. The first ½ mile took way too long with lots of downed wood and I hiked out with one of the East Coast boaters. The rest of the crew continued. Then disaster struck, a huge lightening and rainstorm ruined the sunny day. The river spiked immediately, finding our group at the hardest part of the run. They where swept over the slides. Two people would spend the night on a rock; the other two would sleep in the woods separated in the darkness. I had to drive to town and give Kimberly the news that her fiancé was spending the night on the river, not fun. The next day we found Brett, somehow everyone was safe. The first question I asked Brett was, “Still want to get married?” His immediate response was, “Yes!” A somewhat successful bachelor party I suppose. As we drove back to town to call emergency services to come help us get the other two boaters off the rock, we found Kimberly driving up to find Brett. It was an emotional reunion.

The wedding was held on Sauvie Island in perfect weather. It was the perfect wedding, with a tractor, a giant oak tree, fun dancing, and the works. Congratulations to the happy couple and I’m glad you had so much fun in India and Thailand. I’ll never look at ping-pong the same way again.

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked.” John Steinbeck

Took Grandma on a two-night trip down the Deschutes. She and Steinbeck should have hung-out. “Tecate!!!” is all I got to say about that.

Once again it was time for the Lower Main Salmon trip. This trip has changed over the years from an excuse to party in the warm weather to an excuse to try and keep up with all the kids. The kids on this year’s trip outnumbered the adults. Some highlights included a natural sand hot tub at the first camp (the kids were super-psyched); watching a commercial inflatable kayaker get his butt kicked in a huge hole; making a fun water slide out of an upside down raft; watching the kids jump off a 20 foot cliff with bees hot on their trail; Riley’s (6yrs old) naked lady dance; and spending the last night partying with a commercial group that we camped with. All you kayakers, may your children soon grow old enough to join us on the Lower Main Salmon! Once again this run has become the best yearly tradition. Then it was back to work to finish up summer term and begin my four-month vacation. I skipped teaching fall term this year and was hoping to make the most of it.


Lisa and Ryan


The Slide


Little Zach


Dinner


The hot tub


Full Boat




Colin Jumping




End of the trip

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Shelley

The reason we write is for the immortality of the written word. In the beginning was the word and most likely at the end of humanity the word will still be here. Isn’t Gabriel Garcia Marquez the smartest writer ever? Write your life story in two publications. Write the first half and publish it, then publish the second half after death. In a desert in Egypt the statue of a Spynx slowly deteriorates. The Mayans created their own word and their own paper. The real question, did they discover paper or did they create paper? When the Conquistadors and Catholics took over, almost all of the few books were destroyed in the name of God. Don’t we also have children to remain immortal? Just to find another representation of us in the future. But what if they don’t resemble us, or worse yet, what if they are our complete opposites? Do we really have a face in the future?

Visited my college buddy in Columbus Ohio. Poor guy married the wrong girl and now has to follow her and his daughter around the country so that he can be the good dad. His ex needs to work on communication even more than I do. We did manage to sneak out to the bars every night and take a weekend trip to run the New River with a commercial group at the lowest possible flows.

“It seems that everything's gone wrong
Since Canada came along…
They are not even a real country anyway…
Blame Canada…
With all their hockey hullabaloo” South Park

Alex Dey, my sister Carrie, Melissa, and Jesse Mitchell joined me for 7 days of Canada 2008. Melissa and I left early for a late season Lower Wind dragging Lori Duffens along for her first time, and she did great! That night we caught up with a Portland crew in Hood River at the Karaoke bar for a few scorpion bowls. Johnny Ott mouthed the words to “Blame in on the rain” while Neil Preston stood in the corner and sang the song. It was quite the parody, especially with Johnny giving the local girls his show. On the second day we took the back roads to the Cowlitz drainage and met up with Melissa’s parents. You know how we always sarcastically say that we don’t want to be like our parents and somehow we always end up being like them to our perfect dismay? Well Melissa’s parents are the couple that we should try to be like. It was quite unexpected and fun. That night we made it to a party in Seattle, Melissa was exhausted, so her friend took me out to a night of heavy drinking and Karaoke watching with the punk crew in Seattle. Good times. Day 3 we ran the Skykomish and then hit Bellingham to party with Melissa’s college buddies over some live music. Day 4 saw us running the Nooksack for some pretty mellow fun. Then over the border, meet Carrie, Alex, and Jesse and start blaming Canada for everything that went wrong. The recent snow over the last few years has made Canada the perfect September get away. Day 5 found us running the Chilliwack canyon at the best flows I’ve seen in years. Really got the crew excited about the trip. Then it was off to Big Silver Creek. The section we ran was too mellow, but we had fun. The best part of Big Silver is piling in the truck and 4-by-4ing up to the hot springs. Our camp sucked, but the hot springs was awesome. Day 7 we hit a short run on Cogburn Creek and headed to the classic Nahatlatch. At the first town we got to Carrie had a flat. No problems, a tire station was in view. A quick text to Katie Wagner had Katie, Seth, and two Colorado Cougars heading our way. Day 8 we hit up both runs on the Nahatlatch and partied till bedtime. No need to worry about bears when cougars are in the campground. Day 9 was the highlight. We hit the Stein River at the perfect flow. Two years earlier it was too low, last year it was too high, and this year it was just right. Unfortunately one of the Colorado boaters got pinned and scared us all. But other than a bit of confidence killing, all worked out fine. Day 10 we left the new crew, hit up the Birkenhead, sat in the newly reopened hot springs near Premberton, and then had dinner in Whistler. That was it, back home from Canada.


Carrie on the Nahatlatch


We have spotted a cougar (Check out those pants)


Works better with 3 more and an engine Photo by Melzie


The truck on the road to the hot springs Photo by Melzie

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
T.S. Eliot

Let us party then you and I. Let us plan then for the Grand Canyon. We mixed a fake Thanksgiving party (because we would be on the canyon for Thanksgiving) with a planning party for the canyon trip. Highlights included motorbikes, turkeys over a fire, horseback riding, salmon in the creek, mud wrestling, Tina Fey doing Sara Palin on Saturday night life, Nateesh getting lost on the drive out only to find her boyfriend drunk, bonfire, and that just touches the surface.

“the creature in the sky
got sucked in a hole
now there's a hole in the sky
and the ground's not cold
and if the ground's not cold
everything is gonna burn
we'll all take turns
i'll get mine, too
this monkey's gone to heaven”
Pixies

We the editors of this blog apologize for the following self-lamentations. But everything fell apart. Why do humans find it so hard to say what they mean? Why when they talk of marriage, kids, and houses don’t they explain to their partner how they want to include them in these talks. Why when someone changes their life do they find it so hard to say that it was changed for someone else? Why all this talk about Pittsburgh, when all we meant to say was, “Hey honey, could you please pass the biscuit?” Why when we speak of “I love you,” don’t we say what we really mean; “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Why is it so easy for someone with hypomania and bad relationship examples to become so secluded and closed down? Why is Lithium so bad if it seems to fix most of the problems and yet leaves you empty inside? Why when your partner is feeling so down don’t you explain how you really feel? But I did none of these things, and I knew it. Instead I left for a two-week vacation with my Mother for Mexico and I wanted to come back immediately and fix everything, but I couldn’t. When I returned home I still could have fixed things, but I couldn’t figure out how. Mexico was two weeks of sitting on the beach, trying to be cheap, and making the most of it, but my heart wasn’t there. When I returned I packed for our Grand Canyon Trip, put all the food for 25 days in coolers and boxes, and became single because I just couldn’t explain what I wanted the relationship to be.

Don’t worry about me; I have other things to do. I have a book to write. It might make me famous, but if I wait too long, it might just make me seem old.

We, the editors of this blog, must quickly interject that these feelings expressed by the author don’t need to be recorded here in full detail. If you know me I wouldn’t normally do this sort of thing. Mexico wasn’t completely bad. I just wasn’t in the mood. Let us go then you and I, let us roll our pant legs, let us measure our days with teaspoons, and let us look for the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson once again. I, Shane’s attorney, have decided to take over the telling of this paragraph. As your attorney I would advise you to stay away from all those topless European girls; I would recommend that you keep those eyes looking straight at your toes. I would recommend that you watch for baby sea turtles, just born, launching into the ocean. “As your attorney, stick to drinking tequila, stay away from the water.” I highly recommend you ignore the jeering from the fake cops, “Hey gringo, need any Bob Marley?” Stick to hanging with your sister and your mom, go snorkeling, watch the sea turtle, and get the hell away from that 32 oz Mojito!

Hit a quick Rogue River trip. We will call it the wild life trip. A family of otters hung with me one morning. A herd of deer slept with us one night. And Jesus John tried to catch the fattest black beer I have ever scene with a fishing pole.

As mentioned before I should have been working on the relationship. But perhaps it had already shut down. Instead I helped plan the now famous Sonnichsen party. This year’s theme: “Big Lebowski, the Night of the Living Dude.” Some costumes worth mentioning: Sara Palin with the crossed out women’s rights shirt, Babcock the bear (sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you), Audrey, Brett and Kimberly as Nihilists with a ferret (marmot) in tow, and Tip as a bathroom wall (with some porn for bathroom reading). As we say, sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes the bar eats you.

I sometimes think that my life should end like Hemingway in Ketchum Idaho, like my grandpa drunk in a pickup truck heading towards a hairpin corner trying to escape the effects of WWII shell shock, with a shotgun in my hand and a extended cigarette in the other like Hunter. I just need to publish a book, fight in a war, and learn how to smoke from extended cigarettes. I can already drink with the boys; I just need to find some real absinthe from the wormwood tree.

Books have been written about the Grand Canyon. But that won’t be the theme of this year’s blog; this year will be more of a picture book with a few details. The last time we ran the canyon we decided to make a book. This year was supposed to be the end of the book, but it won’t be. This year’s trip was a daze and partially unwanted because of my newly single state.

Let us start with the drive, lots and lots of gear. We didn’t know what to expect for a November trip. Turns out we should have brought more sunglasses and sunscreen. The first stop was Boise for the day after Halloween. We headed back to the bar that Carrie got kicked out of at 19 on a previous trip. Hit our usual debauchery and a few pool games. As we were heading home Carrie got us sidetracked into a local Goth-bar fully decorated for Halloween. This quickly extended our night to 3 A.M. Mike did his usual antics which this time amounted to borrowing a WWII helmet and dancing with a hula hoop till the bar maid got pissed off, “Careful or I’ll knife you.” Little brother Zach practiced his newly returned antics and danced behind the cage fence beside the pretend body parts. Shane acted his usual role and tried to have a girlfriend of the zombies bite his finger through the chicken wire fence. And Carrie reminisced about Goth-night in Boise the year that Gotherilla and the seven dwarves became legend. She hit on the local Goth singer, “Hey Goth-boy, you don’t always have to be so sullen and withdrawn, do you need a hug?” The CD he gave her said, “Hey beautiful,” included his phone number and the best lyrics of the last track of the CD are listed below. We diligently translated them on the drive to Page.

“I stood naked in my own room watching the clock go by and then I finally let myself break down and cry, then I pulled it together headed for that door. I went out searching for you cause you’re my 3 AM whore. …. I wish I could be a pilsbury doughboy or woman, cause I could never see myself with no 3 AM whore, … I could go home and sleep, but I want to thank you for making my life complete” Lullabipolar, the band from Boise

After spending well over $1200 at the Page alcohol store we launched for a 25-day trip on Election Day 2008. Let us give a brief list of highlights: shorts weather at the put in, food stolen by ring tailed cats and ravens, a camera stolen by the cats and later recovered (we still think Tip was just drunk and misplaced it), 8 layover days, lots and lots of hiking, not knowing who the president was, drunk dialing Nate Garr on the sat phone, watching Dave river board the big rapids and earn the nickname ‘The Flounder’, getting drunk on Sake with Jesse and making the biggest kitchen mess in the history of rafting, getting Tip, Becki, Brian, and Cindi drunk the night before they walked out of the canyon, watching little William run all of the rapids, watching Mimi turn into a mountain sheep, roping our way up into Silver Grotto in dry suits, watching Josh slide out of Silver Grotto, firing Melzie as our hiking guide and then voting her into the newly opened position, collecting firewood with Zach, listening to how tired Josh was and how tired he was of the daily routine, hazing Cory Nagel on his first overnight trip, keeping Tip from Tipping in his chair (how many Tips would Tip tip if tip could tip Tips), reading Edward Abbey out loud next to the fire, reading a book of river stories next to the fire, passing out before dinner, bringing the Canadians camped downstream much needed tobacco, running out of tobacco with a couple days still left in our trip, watching a raven steal one of the last pack of smokes, watching Mike and Jarod paddle across the river to save the smokes, a night of absinthe, keeping all the boats upright on lava (barely), watching William run lava with Jesus as his passenger, drunk dialing Nateesh with the sat phone, Jarod falling in the river, portaging a cataraft back upstream a half mile to visit the Mackatanema Canyon, finding the pipe in the canyon, looking for that sat phone, singing 3 AM Whore, Bennie and the Jets and two shots of Jose Cuervo all the way home, and finally listening to Josh and Carrie plan their next trip to the canyon almost immediately upon return.

Most of the following photos are by Melzie.


The Photographer, Melzie



Carrie searching for the sat phone




The Flounder






William and Jesus in the midst of Lava

Carrie dreamed that space aliens were outside her tent asking if she wanted to come with them. She responded that she would rather sleep in and they should head to Roscoe to find some willing occupants. My dreams were mostly nightmares. As you might have heard rumors this trip had drama. So many people for 25 days, it was bound to happen. I won’t be talking about it here, but we will all work a lot on the dynamics of future trips.

Maybe everything can work out. I’m sorry that this year’s blog has turned so introspective. I suppose that is really the purpose of blogs, but I try to view this as the start of a novel and good reading for all. That should mean more about the commonality of things, more stories for everyone; but it didn’t happen this year. I have changed. I am changing. I’m a work in progress. Can I say more? The whole thing sounds like a new year’s resolution. That’s probably because I’m currently at the Oregon coast celebrating Amy Shipman’s 40th birthday and the start of 2009. It is time to end this story and start a new summer blog for 2009. How else can I become Hemingway, but honestly I should try a lot harder to try to be Me.

Thank god for this year’s snow storm. I was really getting in deep and the snow saved me. A week of pulling people out of the snow with my truck, visiting friends stuck in the snow, shuffling people to work, and digging out the five-person sled for some great rides. It was good for me. As the counselor said, “I can’t change the past.” I can only say I’m sorry.


Snow Storm 2008 Photo by Brett

It was the first Christmas at home since the divorce. It was good. The parent’s were angels. We even took a new kayaking friend Alexe with us on the family tour. Managed to hit one of the old sledding hills with the toboggan then hit a drunk hot tub at dads and called it a good day. Next year I’m still threatening to fly to Asia somewhere so that the whole day just disappears. Leave on the afternoon of the 24th and land on the 26th. Maybe I’ll return on New Years and have that day happen twice.

“By the same token, it seemed impossible that anyone from our time would ever believe again that you could fly over cities and mountains on a carpet, or that a slave from Cartagena de Indias would live for two hundred years, in a bottle as a punishment, unless the author of the story could make his readers believe it.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez

As always the question is how to end this year’s report. I miss the days when gypsies visited my hometown of Sublimity. Once my brother Josh and I walked through the fairgrounds after the party was over and found a magic glass bottle and a torn carpet. As my brother shook the bottle a former married man floated out. He had been living in the bottle for two hundred years to the day. His wife had placed him there as punishment for visiting his neighbor’s house too many times while he was out to sea. Just as I was writing this I took a break to get one of Tips barbequed oysters fresh from Tillamook Bay. Opening the oyster with spoon I pricked myself and a small bead of blood has landed on my keyboard and with it I have lost my train of thought. Just as I was about to take a sip of beer and continue writing, the blood gathered its things, walked out the back door, took the path to the ocean, and made its way to drown itself in the Pacific Ocean; tired of the broken records of life. After freeing the cheating husband, we wasted our wish making the carpet fly. We spent the entire day taking turns going over the Willamette Valley, flying past my uncles in their combines, and buzzing unsuspecting people in suits leaving work and heading to suburbia: making Sublimity into a little suburbia of its own. I miss the days when genies and flying carpets visited my life and not just my dreams. I miss the grass seed farms before the Suits and banana plant factories took them over. I think I will end this year with a quote from T.S. Eliot about when J. Alfred Prufrock failed to propose to the love of his life. “Hey honey, could you please pass me the biscuits.”

To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
T.S. Eliot


Photo by Brett