Getting Lost

"Dude I'm surprised that we haven't backed out yet."

"It's not too late to turn around now..."

"I'm surprised we are so committed."

Ryan and Christian, two friends I met at UCSB freshmen year were ecstatic at the idea of a backpacking trip. Making the long haul up from Southern California they were ready with their gear for an adventure.

After changing plans multiple times due to weather, we came back to the original plan - backpacking the King Range in Northern California. With dawn around the corner, we stepped outside and let the cold crisp air bite into our bodies. Loading our packs into the Tacoma, Ryan looked at his watch and comments, "we need to get on the road now otherwise we won't make no pass."

In the truck, trying to find a radio station without static we cruise Highway One in the dark. As the One veers inland, the first sunlight softly shines through the towering redwoods and fog. Climbing out of the fog into sunshine we drive along a high mountain pass. The fog below looks like a dark grey ocean as it sits in the valleys around us.

Three hours later we make it to the trailhead and unload our gear. A small rusted car drives by with it's windows rolled down. Smoke wafting out of the window eventually reaches us.

"Dude I love this place. It's nine in the morning and they are already smoking joints." I laugh in return to Ryan's comment.

The car drives around the parking lot and parks by us. The man stepping out of the car in grimy clothes comes over and asks if we want a photo taken. Saying yes, Ryan hands him his camera. With the three of us posing with our packs, the man says, "One... Two... Three.. Say Weed!" Handing the camera back to Ryan he looks at the three of us and says, "have an epic!"

While the man is walking away, Christian looks at Ryan and I and retorts, "have an epic? What does that even mean?"

Grabbing our packs we make our way down to the trailhead. Stepping onto the beach with our fifty-five pound packs, the black coarse sand gives way as our boots sink in ankle deep. Each step is slow and exhausting.

"This is gnarly..."

Having done the hike before, I reply, "it gets worse, we only have ten more miles of this. We have to make it to no pass in time before the tide gets too high."

Slowly making our way along the ankle deep sand, it eventually gives way to grapefruit sized cobblestones. Walking across them our feet slide out from underneath us with the sound of crunching ice. Each step is a potential for a rolled ankle.

I jokingly comment, "what's worse, walking in ankle deep sand or these cobblestones."

Ryan laughs but Christians looks at me and says "shut up, I think my IT Band is going out."

Stopping and unloading his pack in a sandy region, we look at his knee. The tendon on the side of his knee is slightly bulging out. Grabbing my first aid kid I grab a Motrin and hand it to him. Finding my Ace elastic bandage I begin bracing his knee.

"You good."

"Yeah I think so."

Continuing on I'm a little worried looking at Christian's knee. Limping in the sand like Forest Gump, he hobbles on swinging his leg around on each step. I'm thinking about how it's bad to push it but we have to continue on. We are in no pass. There is no turning back. There is no waiting. If we don't continue we will get trapped by the tides.

A couple more hours pass by as we slowly make our way along the coastline. Eventually we spot our destination. A large expanse of headlands at the edge of the mountains lined with towering evergreens. Deer graze along the oceanfront while whales spout and jump several hundred yards out at sea. Logs line the beach where people hunker down between them for protection from the wind.

Stoked that we've finally reached our destination we set down our packs and sprawl out on the logs. Stretching out Ryan asks, "do we need to make our camp now?" "No we can wait for a little bit," I say.

With dusk approaching we put on our headlamps and begin preparing dinner. Looking around we see other camps along the headlands do the same. Glowing fires begin illuminating their camps as their headlamps flick to and fro like searchlights. As it gets later, campfires and headlamps begin to disappear.

Hemingway...

"I'm going to sleep so good tonight."

"Yeah I can't wait to pass out."

With the North wind picking up, sorely I crawl into my tent and my down sleeping bag. It's going to be a cold night.




Some other photos from the trip

Where mountains meet the sky and shadows meet the light.

Welcome home

 Style points...

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..."

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."

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

Traveling Through Central America - Three Months In Four Minutes

It took a while, but here is an edited compilation of our three months in Central America. It's only some of the places we went to during our travels. Enjoy!

This is the start of our trip through Central America traveling through Mexico, Panama, Costa Rica, and Nicaragua starting with the Mexi Log Surf Contest.


Plan for more posts in the near future.

The Road To Zion - National Park

Looking up at the towering geologic formations overhead, it's hard to believe that a river shaped them, let alone that they are real. The rock cliffs standing at least a thousand feet over head seem like they are the masterpieces of a great artist from long ago. The cliff faces have the texture of an oil painting. But the overall coloring of the rock looks like a watercolor that has faded from too much sunlight in a living room. It's these rock structures in Zion National Park that have bewildered many generations of people.

The walls of Zion

My grandma and I are climbing up the rocky trail in solitude. The only human sounds are our footsteps and the continuous rhythmic tapping of my grandma's walking stick. Skipping from stone to stone easily, I turn around to hear my grandma say, "they should have taken out these daa-gum rocks to make it easier to walk." Seeing how easily I hike the trail she calls out to me, "I remember when I was faster than you. Looks like the tables have turned."

It's true. When my grandma used to take me on hikes when I was younger she was much faster than me. Dragging my feet behind, she would often be out of sight and extremely adamant to complete whatever hike we were on. Catching up with her, we would take a break and she would name all of the wildflowers around us - scientific name and common name.

To this day, she is still just as persistent about finishing a hike. Maybe even more so now. Making it to the first viewpoint I say, "you want to continue to the next point?"

"Of course! I haven't gone to those other viewpoints before... If only they'd take out these daa-gum rocks..."

My grandma pausing to look at a patch of wildflowers calls out, "we don't have shooting stars like that in California!" "I think those are called Wallflowers and look at those Penstemons!"

All the way up the trail and all the way back down we stopped to view all of the flowers and all of the sights. There is something to be said for going slow and enjoying each and every bit of a hike. I guess it isn't about how many miles you hike but it's really about how much you see.



Here are a few other photos of Zion National Park as well as Bryce National Park.