Leaving California Again

Cotton Candy skies - last California sunrise

Rolling over on the bouncy air mattress, I shut off the 2am alarm on my phone. However, I've already been awake for a while anticipating the alarm's arrival. Getting up, I stuff my sleeping bag into the stuff sack and shove it as well as a few other belongings into my backpack.

Chet and Karen, my friends that I traveled with through Central America have been kind enough to let me stay at their house before I leave for my next trip. They are also kind enough to wake up and drive me to the airport shuttle. Opening their bedroom door, they walk out like a pair of zombies as they adjust from being in REM to being awake. As they pull on their coats and boots, they silently grab one of my bags and carry it down the stairs to their car. This reminds me of the many early starts to catch buses from one city to the next in Central America.

Arriving at what we think is the bus stop, we hop out of the car and look around. Underneath a dark overpass with little lighting, it doesn't look like much of a bus stop. Karen wandering down the street a little ways shouts out, "I found the sign for the bus!" Chet smiles at me and says, "We have to remember she can always find the bus stop."

Unloading my bags from the car, I stand on the sidewalk with pretty much everything I think I'll need for the next year. Saying our goodbyes for a while, my two friends drive off into the night. Standing alone on the sidewalk, I look at my watch and see that there is another half an hour until the bus arrives. Waiting patiently, the only things that would pierce the silence as I stood there, is the occasional hum of tires on the freeway above me and a man walking and yelling into the night.

Peaceful easy feeling

A while later, loading onto the bus I shuffle into a seat and wait for the ticket agent. Watching her collect money, she eventually arrives at my seat and then asks if I'm a student. Debating whether to be honest or not, I decide being honest is better and tell her that I'm a recent student. Smiling she responds by giving me the student discount. I thank her in return and fall asleep for a couple hours.

Startled awake by the bus driver announcing our arrival to the airport, the bus driver stops at the loading zone. With the hiss of the hydraulic door opening, myself and the other passengers shuffle out of the bus like penguins as we are excited to get a little closer to our destination. I laugh to myself knowing that we are all rushing to only sit at the plane terminal and eventually sit for however long on a cramped plane. "Hurry up and wait," I tell myself.

Grabbing my bags, I walk across the street and find a bagging agent where I successfully get my overstuffed bag through without any additional fees. I also skate through the TSA checkpoint unscathed and aimlessly wander my way through the corridors until I find my terminal.

Taking a seat by the window, I strategically pull my bulkiest clothes out of my backpack knowing that it won't pass the airplane gate checkpoint otherwise. Pulling a flannel and a few jackets on, I look outfitted for a snowstorm. I look out of place at Gate 27 of the Oakland airport and definitely out of place in the sea of Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and socks with sandals. Analyzing my backpack after the removal of some bulky clothes, I feel satisfied with it contents and weight for the overhead storage.

A few minutes later, an airline representative announces over the intercom that they will be walking around looking for oversized bags and will charge extra for them. Silently I curse to myself knowing that my bag is border line. Keeping an eye on the representative, she meanders through the rows of seats but seems to have a homing missile on me. I look away and try to stay casual by blending in with the other men in Hawaiian shirts who look like they are already on vacation 3,000 miles away from their destination.

Failing, she approaches me with a handful of baggage tags in her hand.

"Have you flown with that bag as a carry on bag before? It looks way too big."

Looking around, I eye the other patron's carry on bags carefully seeing abnormally large bags among them. I look back up at her and respond slowly, "yeah... I've flown a lot with this as my carry on bag." Pausing for a moment I think and respond again, "I've used this bag as a carry on bag fourteen times as well as internationally and have never had a problem."

"Well, it looks way too big, if you can't make it smaller, I'm going to have to charge you."

Unbuckling the backpack, I pull out my down sleeping bag and stuff it into my little bag now making that bag too big to fit under the seat in front of me. Buckling my backpack back up, I look at her. Seemingly satisfied she walks off. With her eyes adverted, I open my backpacks and reorganize it to how it was previously.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt and shorts next to me laughs and says, "did you just put everything she had you take out back into the same bag? It's funny she singled you out because look at all of the other crap people are bringing." Laughing, I confirm what he just asked me.

With my boarding number being called, I shuffle onto the plane with the rest of the penguins and find my seat. I successfully put my bag into the over head compartment and take a seat. With the seemingly full plane, I notice there is one empty row next to me. Flagging down a flight attendant I ask if I can sit there. With the attendant's approval, I shuffle myself into the next row and hear several people around me groan with disapproval. One even makes eye contact with me and tells me how lucky I am. I nod in approval and stretch out across the row to fall asleep. I'm on island time now.

Afternoon strolls

Speed racers

California perfection

Frosty Mornings

In a deep sleep, I'm suddenly startled. Groggily, I blindly search for my iPhone on the nightstand to turn off the alarm. Looking out the window, the surrounding redwood trees are just silhouettes masking the rising sun. The apple trees having lost their leaves a while ago stand naked in the orchard across the way.

Rolling out of bed, I shuffle into my pants and throw on my down jacket to shake off the goosebumps. Cold but warming up, I make my way out the front door only to slip on the frosty deck. Nearly wiping out, I regain my balance and and carefully tip toe to my truck.

Frosty sunrise

Surf gear loaded, I excitedly hop in my truck to get the heater going only to realize that every window is frozen. Talking to myself, I unload the contents of my glovebox.

"Where's my ice scraper?"

Finding the little red plastic putty knife at the bottom of the glovebox, I begin scraping my truck windows. With each scrape my hands become more numb and begin to turn into crippled claws. Satisfied with the frost removal, I hop back in the truck, put it in gear, and I'm out the driveway.

A short time later down the road, I'm at the overlook for one of the local surf spots in Mendocino. Looking down from the cliff, old redwood sinker logs sit on the beach as a reminder of the logging era that's been long gone. Just beyond that, there are a few peeling waves coming through to the beach and nobody is out.

Framed

Indecisively I sit at the vista point for a few more minutes debating to brave the cold or not. Hearing a large diesel truck pull into the parking lot, I turn around to see it's my friend. Giving him a thumbs up through the windshield, he throws me a shaka back. Without a verbal cue, we head down to the beach knowing that we have a buddy to share a few waves with.

 Open air living

 Downtown Mendocino

 Standing among giants

Stars

A Break In The Rain And A Hike Through The Redwoods In The PNW

It's my first real winter in the Pacific Northwest for the past few years and it has taken some time to get used to. The days are shorter but they feel longer. More time is spent inside keeping warm by the fire dreaming about sunnier times than outside braving the bone chilling wind and rain. Looking out the window brings about a melancholy feeling as the world outside is saturated in dark grey. Due to the heavy winds it has been raining sideways forcing water beneath the redwood shingles and flashing directly into the house. We try our best to batten down the hatches but nature always wins.

Finally noticing a break in the rain, I grabbed my fleece and camera and bolted out the front door like a golden retriever that's excited about life. After being cooped up in the house for the past couple of days I was beginning to feel like a caged bird. Hopping in my truck, it roared to life as I headed up into the redwoods.

The golden hour in Mendocino

Swinging my legs and letting them dangle off the seat of my truck, I look down to make sure there isn't a puddle awaiting my feet. Satisfied I grab my camera and head out into the redwood forest. Walking along a deer trail, the overhanging sword ferns paint my jeans with water drops as I walk through them. Taking a deep breath the wet air is crisp with heavy notes of earthy smells.

 Dwarfed

A burnt out Redwood from within

Walking down the mountain side into the valley floor the air temperature suddenly drops. The damp air cuts through my clothes like a knife. I'm suddenly much colder now than I was in below zero Alaska. Chilled but continuing on, I savor these last moments outdoors before hunkering back down to prepare for the next set of storms that are arriving.

The creeks and rivers are flowing

 Rain pouring down the rain chain

The rain gauge shows 4.5 inches of rain in the past three days

Chasing Swell Down The California Coast

It’s currently 10PM on a Sunday as we drive along Highway One. Heading inland to reach the main freeway, we are shrouded by heavy fog as we twist and turn through the redwood forest. Navigating the road with expertise, my friend at the wheel is focused on making good time to Berkeley.

“Dude, we are going to score.”

Tall, with short, curly, dirty blonde hair, my high school friend Alex is well built from years of working in Alaska on fishing vessels. Contacting me the night before, he asked if I wanted to head South to chase a swell to Santa Barbara. Looking at the swell forecast for Northern California, the charts were dark red indicating that abnormally large waves were on the way. Looking at the individual buoys along the coast, some were reading thirty-seven feet at seventeen seconds. However, down the coast the waves were forecasted to be perfect and well groomed due to protection from the Channel Islands. How could I say no?

Reaching Alex’s sister’s house in Berkeley at midnight, we shuffle up the steps and unlock the front door. Walking into the upstairs unit, the burnt red cedar floors aged with footsteps creek as we walk on them. Making our way into the living room, the décor is fit for an Urban Outfitters catalog. The antique crème yellow gas stove boils water in the corner while a Van Morrison LP spins on a record player in the background. Too tired to explore my new surroundings I begin to doze listening to Van Morrison and the housemates talk about their PhDs in art history. It’s a hipster’s paradise.

With the IPhone alarm ringing in my ear at 4:30AM, I try to ignore it as long as possible. Shutting it off, I whisper over to Alex, “we are going to regret not getting up right now. “ Climbing out of our sleeping bags, we pack them up and shuffle down the cedar staircase in darkness. Not seeing the fixie at the front of the door, I trip over it on the way out.

Reaching Rincon in the early afternoon, we pull into the massive parking lot. Every space is taken in the parking lot and all of the street parking is nonexistent. After some shuffling we find a spot in the overflow parking lot.

Looking at Alex I say, “Seems like we aren’t the only ones looking forward to the swell arriving today. I think all of Santa Barbara and Ventura called in sick.”

“Just keep your head down and look mean when you're paddling for waves.”

“I think we should get a honorary award for driving almost the entire coast of California to surf this swell.”

Suiting up, we grab our boards and head to the beach in search of a few waves with far too many people. Mentally and physically preparing, Alex and I paddle out into the subtropical water with two hundred other people looking for the same thing. It’s what we do for a few perfect waves.

Check out the last trip to Santa Barbara California

Choking Down MREs (Meals Ready to Eat)

Stepping out of the Tacoma in Northern California, my two friends Austin and Justin have just arrived from San Diego. Looking at Austin's Tacoma, I give him a quizzical look because it's lathered in dirt and dust.

With a huge grin on his face, Austin says, "yeah... we found ourselves on a dirt road for a little while."

Laughing, I bring Austin and Justin into my grandma's house to talk about our upcoming trip. We are backpacking into the Kings Range and my grandma's house is the meeting place before driving to the trailhead.

Stepping into the house, the smell of food wafts around the house. The oak kitchen table and floral couches give a homey feeling. It's what you would imagine a grandma's house would look and smell like.

"So this is basecamp grandma?"

"Dude your grandma is classic! She has lunch prepared for us and baked goods?"

Finishing lunch we're back on the subject of backpacking. Pulling everything we need out of our backpacks, the floor now looks like something detonated across it. Camp stoves, fuel bottles, water filters, and clothes are scattered everywhere.

Bringing up the topic of what we want to bring for food, Austin states that Justin brought a box of MREs.

"What's a MRE?"

Austin looking at me ecstatically says, "you don't know what a MRE is? It stands for Meal Ready to Eat! It's what the military eats when they are deployed away from their basecamp."

Taking one from Justin, I look it over. Vacuum sealed, the tough brown plastic casing that covers it looks bomb proof. Bold letters streaked across it state what kind of meal is in it. Pasta and vegetables. Grilled chicken. Beef teriyaki. Bean burrito.

The MRE

Stuffing our bear cans.

Commenting to them, I say, "these look pretty legit. I've never bought backpacking meals before and if the military uses them, they can't be bad. Lets open them up to reduce weight and we can stuff them in our bear cans."

Taking a break from sorting our backpacks, we start tearing open the MREs like a little kid opening Christmas presents. Each one has different snacks and desserts inside.

"I got M&Ms!"

"No way! Jalapeño cheese!"

"Snickers Munch Bar? I've never even heard of that but it sounds awesome!"

Stuffing our bear cans full we load our backpacks and get on the road.

Hiking into the night.

The next day after we hiked in, we prepare an MRE for lunch. Austin opening the cheese comments,  "this doesn't look or smell right." Grabbing it from him, I smell it, take a bite and gag, "that's the most foul thing I've ever eaten!"

Austin grabbing the Snickers Munch bar takes a bite and spits it out. Laughing and spitting chunks of candy bar out, he says, "this is horrible." Looking at the wrapper he reads out, "The Snicker's and Mars corporation! That doesn't even exist anymore. Come to think of it, I haven't even seen a Munch bar before!"

Pulling it out of the wrapper he takes a long look at the candy bar and says, "It's all yellow and old looking, it doesn't even look edible."

Justin pulling out an actual meal begins to open it. Putting his finger in the container he tries it. There's no expression across his face. "It's not terrible. It tastes like plastic and salt but this one is edible...", he says.

Grabbing the packaging and looking at it more closely. I begin to look for signs of how old the stuff is. The packaging looks old but there aren't any dates. By no means is it fresh. I begin thinking it's from the Cold War or Vietnam.

Setting the packaging back down, I take a look to see what we have in our bear cans. My heart sinks a little. It's stuffed with MREs and we are backpacking for another four days. Sitting down, I try my best to eat the MRE and enjoy it because we don't have anything else for lunch and dinner.

Mornings.

Evenings.

September Sessions

The fog crept in like a cat eager to pounce on it's prey. The last of the summer heat fought to keep the fog at bay but was slowly losing as dusk approached. Walking down the headlands trail, I spy a perfect wave breaking at the river mouth. This confirmed what I had thought I'd seen while driving along Highway 1. A combination of South swell and the right amount of sand in the bay has created the waves I've been waiting for.

Sprinting back to my truck, I eagerly start pulling on my wetsuit. Looking around I notice the amount of transients hanging out in the parking lot. Leaning on their cars, they casually talk with one another while passing around a joint. I remind myself that this is normal in NorCal during the late Summer early Fall. Grabbing my board I make my way down to the beach.

Walking across the sand, I continually see little lefts breaking across the beach. One perfect wave after another and nobody's out. The water an ominous dark color changed from the previous arctic blue hinting that Fall is just around the bend.

Sliding into a few waves I spy another surfer heading down the beach. With a sense of urgency, I paddle harder back into the lineup to enjoy a few more minutes to myself. In the distance I hear a familiar voice call out, "Wyatt!"

Turning my head I see that it's a friend that I grew up surfing with named Holly.

"Hey! How have you been?"

"I've been great! I was about to drive South but it looked like a lot of fun here."

"Yeah, there's no use in driving when there are waves closer by..."

Seeing a wave in the distance, Holly spins her board around and paddles into a wave. I follow suit and slide into another glassy wave behind hers. Kicking out next to Holly, I can't help but laugh. Amidst my laughter, I'm only able to produce a few words.

"Wow, this is amazing!!"

Holly reciprocates with a smile that seems to say, "I know."

Welcome Back To NorCal

Worn down after years of footprints, years of salt dripping off of wetsuits, the familiar trail hadn't changed since I could remember. While it's appearance hadn't changed, it felt like rediscovering an old friend again. Walking down the trail surrounded by the fresh growth of Spring, I'm focused on the shimmering blue ocean in the distance.

Setting my wetsuit and board down on the headlands, I spot the buckets, clothes, and bags that are temporarily abandoned by their owners for waves. Taking a seat on the grass, I watch the waves sloppily roll in. Debating my options, I decide it's better to surf then not to. Wrapping my towel around myself, I strip down and begin trying to stretch my parched wetsuit over my legs. Losing my balance, I stumble and catch myself.

I tell myself words of encouragement, "It's only because you haven't worn a wetsuit for six months..."

Yanking the hood over my head, I suddenly feel stiff from the restrictiveness of the wetsuit. Grabbing my board, I make my way down to the water's edge. Putting one foot into the cold water, I immediately want to run away like a child who runs from the swash on the beach. Not wanting to forfeit, I throw my body onto my board trying to keep my appendages out of the water.

My hands sear and turn plum red as I make my way out of the channel into the lineup. Twenty feet away from me, a sea lion breaks the surface and gives me a shock. The slightly opaque water reveals the kelp and sand hidden underneath me. A set rolling in forces me to duckdive and endure the frigid water over my entire body. Reappearing from underneath the wave, I instantly have an ice cream headache.

"Welcome Back to NorCal," I tell myself.

I've been home for several days now and while I miss the people and places in Central America, it feels great to be home. After six months of living out of a backpack, the conveniences of having a home are thoroughly missed. Even though the adventure was more than worthwhile, the wayfaring lifestyle is difficult at times. Suddenly trivial things like transportation back home suddenly become difficult in a foreign country. So when I stepped into the San Jose airport in Costa Rica, it was saddening to see this adventure come to a close but also exciting to see what other ones unfold in the future.

Wasting time in San Jose Costa Rica

When you have six hours in the San Jose airport, this is what it looks like when you lay on your back...

Empty lineup

One last bus ride


Looking at my hands, they looked crippled. After an hour of being in the frigid water, my hands succumbed to the cold and began to turn into claws. Shivering, I catch one more wave to the beach and walk back up to the headlands. Pulling my wetsuit off my body, the chilly air feels warm after begin in the much colder ocean. Replacing the wetsuit with jeans and two sweaters, I sit back down to catch up with the familiar faces that I left behind six months earlier.





Here are some photos from the traveling in the islands of Bocas del Toro Panama. I will also continue adding photos over the course of the next week or so.

Filtering our water for the day

 The hidden coffee shop in the jungle

 Jungle shack

Upcycled

 The unmarked jungle trails on Bastimentos

 B-ball with a view