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.

Early Storms

Stepping out of my truck onto the soggy sand, I grab my rain jacket and quickly pull it onto my body. The cold South wind cuts through my clothes like a knife cuts through butter. The wind carries the rain horizontally into my backside as my hands furl from the slight discomfort.

Without a soul in sight, I say to myself, "Feels like Fall is here..."

It was a gloomy day on the Mendocino coast. The sky and sea were of the same stormy grey. The only difference was that the ocean was sprinkled with whitecaps from the offshore wind. Continuing down the sandy trail, I try to avoid the puddles that obscure the pathway. It doesn't help. My efforts are in vain, and my Vans become soaked. No longer caring, I continue down the path with puddles and all.

"I need a pair of rain boots..."

Making it to the headlands edge I find the familiar log with the engraving R.I.P Frank. Perching myself upon the log I scan the shoreline for any rideable waves. Minutes go by as I stare out at the ocean. I'm hoping to see something rideable even though I already know it's not going to happen.

 Soaked and cold, I accept defeat that I won't be getting any surf today. I tell myself it will be here another day as I step back through the puddles.

"Man... it would be awesome to have rain boots..."

Brew Dudes

It sounds like a miniature space shuttle about to take off. The continuous drone of the propane burner releasing gas keeps the fire alive and well. The heat escaping from beneath the pot singes my leg hairs causing me to pay attention to where I place my legs.

I still couldn't help but daydream though. The aromas escaping from the pot would bring back memories to my earlier childhood. When I was younger I would joyfully dance around my dad as he stirred the massive cauldron with his wooden paddle. Climbing on a step stool, I would peer into the pot to try and watch the experiment happening. Staring into the medley, the sweet smells of the crushed grain would waft upwards making my mouth salivate. The bitter smell of the hops would make me relax.

"Wyatt! What's the temperature at?!"

Sensing that I was in another world, I drift out of my memories. Grabbing the thermometer out of the honey colored liquid, I read the temperature.

"Umm... It says 160˚."

"Good! Keep checking the temperature. We don't want that mash temperature to go down."

Taking a break from other adventures, I'm fortunate enough to help my dad brew his next batch of beer. It's something that I've wanted to participate in since I was a little kid. Until recently I was always too young to help other than to be at the sidelines.

My dad picking up the wooden paddle stirs the contents around.

"You know, brewing beer consists of three things. Keeping things sterile. Boiling water. And waiting. It doesn't matter if you brew two gallons of beer or ten gallons of beer. It takes the same amount of time. I learned that quickly when I first started brewing."

The finely milled grain which adds the body to the beer.

Bringing me over to his makeshift desk, he explains how the recipe works. Adding ingredients at different times changes certain properties in the beer. The same ingredients can create different beer styles depending on what time the ingredients are added.

"I keep all of my beer recipes so that way I can make small changes and be consistent. Look at this last batch. The alpha acids are different then the set of hops we're going to use this time. This means we are going to have to account for the change by either adding more hops or adding them into the beer at an earlier time."

I nod my head in agreement. Bits and pieces make sense but it seems like a lot of alchemy. Going back to the thermometer I check the temperature. It seems to be the position I'm most qualified for at this point in my brewing career.

My dad has years of recipes on tiny sheets of scratch paper

Several hours later, we begin siphoning the golden liquid into a glass carboy. The top is sealed by a sterilized rag to keep unwanted bacteria out. My dad hands me a coffee cup of the siphoned liquid and tells me to try it. Taking a few sips, it has the characteristics of a flat beer. The sweet malty flavors are strong but the bitterness of the hops helps to balance the flavors.

"What do you think? Is it well balanced?"

Taking the coffee cup from me he tries a sip. Enthusiastically he says, "Yeah, this is going to be a good one."

The golden liquid

The yeast cultures waiting to be added