Where are they now?

These signs used to be everywhere. Hoquiam and Forks, Port Angeles and Montesano. The plywood placards were all hand made and haphazardly stenciled, and sometimes the wording would be a little different, but most of them were roughly the same. Little yellow rectangles hung in windows or on the sides of homes and businesses, an in-your-face version of reality aimed at the environmentalist punks and big-city know-nothings that were seen as trying to change the rules of the game.

Spotted owl? Marbled murrelet? These were convenient critters for the environmeddlers, stupid fowl that nobody even knew about until the Sahara Club and the other greenies started to rave about them, got all the city folk riled up. If you ask some people, all that nature noise was a calculated part of the plan to shut down the timber business entirely.

The people with those little, yellow signs on their houses, what was going through their heads as they took those signs down? Were the scraps of wood burned for fuel or simply discarded? Like the spotted owl, they are rarely seen anymore, and the timber dollars they speak of are long spent and gone.

Getting to small

I packed a test load the other day and I'm happy with the way it looked. There are a few more changes to make to the way the load will be tied down, but making it fit doesn't seem like it will be the big problem I thought it was going to be.

When I first started putting the load together, I wasn't as confident. As I started packing, however, as I began to work that Rubik's cube - drybag stuffing for maximum efficiency - things started to fall where they were meant to go. With the freeze-dried food moved out to the intersticial spaces between the inner drybag and the outer one, I was left with more capacity than I had expected. The tarp, sleeping bag, ground cloth and ropes were in one compression sack; clothing was in another. The stove and fuel nested inside the titanium pot and the air mattress was rolled up tightly. (I am thinking about taking a z-rest mattress as well... if I do, it will ride below the drybags as shown in the photo above.).

It's still a work in progress and there is more to come but I think I like it so far. I need to look at the calendar and find a time when I can put the system to the test, as it were. Maybe a San Juan traverse in April or May? Maybe.

Airs of heaven

It is a half-hour before dawn and somewhere in the covered boat slips at the entrance to the Foss Waterway there is incense burning. It comes on suddenly as I paddle past, completely enveloping the senses before it is gone, as quickly as it came. For me, this olfactory delight is as much a part of these Northwest mornings as is the rain. An invisible offering of sandalwood, courtesy of one of the shadowy boats tucked into the berths back there in the damp and dark, I don't know which one. I've never looked to find out.

Summer plans

Most of my personal trips, my busman's holidays, have come during the winter. Or, if not winter, then fall or spring, perhaps. It comes with the job, really. The summer, after all, is when most people seem to want to kayak; I don't get many calls from folks who want to head out into the teeth of a winter storm or who are hoping for strong wind and rain for their day on the water. If you teach kayaking (or stand up paddleboarding), you will quickly find that you will need to give up your summers to some extent. Make hay while the sun is shining, yes?

With the Olympic trip coming up, I'm taking a little summer back. I enjoy teaching, or I wouldn't be doing it, but it seems like it's time to reclaim a little bit of July and August anyway. It will be nice to pack shorts and sunscreen instead of fleece and mittens.

Second time around

I registered the other day for this year's Puget Sound Challenge. The official fee has been hiked up this year ($50), but that includes a t-shirt, sticker, raffle chances and a donation to WWTA (Washington Water Trails Association). Last year's inaugural PSC was a great success, not only for the Olympic Kayak Club, but for every participant I've talked to. It was an eye-opening run for me too, last year at about this time.

A year ago today I was pushing hard into the wind on Hood Canal, not quite halfway through the PSC route. I was on day 3 of a five-day stretch that would be fully self-supported, living off the things I'd brought with me on the board. It was a new experience for me, going ultralight in winter, and doing it all on a 12-foot SUP. The learning curve was very steep at that point.

Still is, really. That's what keeps it all tolerable.

This year's PSC is essentially a paddle from Port Townsend to Olympia. I'll be paddling a good 90 percent of the route as part of the Olympic Grand Circle, and I look forward to meeting up with other participants along the way.

GPPR - Official results

Here's the overall finish times for the Great Place Paddle Race last weekend. I have a long way to go before I'm a racer.

Kayak
Kyle Wynkoop 0:38:10
Greg Whittaker 0:45:11

Prone
Darrell Bednakk 0:41:55
Donald Kiesling 0:42:15
Matthew Long 0:45:11
Paul Jensen 1:04:30

12'6 SUP (Men's under 40)
Brandon Rambo 0:43:58
Beau Whitehead 0:43:59
Ken Wilson 0:49:40
Andy Friedlander 0:56:00
Ben Russell 1:03:00

12'6 SUP (Men's over 40)
Dan Eberhardt 0:44:45
Russell D'Card 0:45:53
Greg Gilbert 0:46:16
Jeff Underwood 0:49:37
Sean David Johnson 0:52:17
Mike Webb 0:58:06
Mark Etheridge 1:06:23
Keith Harkness 1:12:03

SUP Youth
Daniel Spurlock

14' SUP (Men's under 40)
Mitchell Santaga 0:50:30

14' SUP (Men's over 40)
Ken Campbell 0:53:32

Unlimited SUP (Men's)
Patrick Aio 0:45:42

12'6 SUP (Women's under 40)
Amy Waeschle 1:09:57
Allison Bruner 1:13:12

Unlimited SUP (Women's)
Donna Angevine 1:08:47
Joan Mell 1:22:36

Nuts and bolts

After much consideration, my current line of thinking regarding gear and packing for the SUP portion of this summer's expedition goes like this: I should carry my own stuff. While it's likely that I'll have kayaking company for most, if not all, of the section between Ruby Beach and Cape Flattery, it is a matter of pride that I not rely on others to pick up my load.

It also makes it that much more interesting. A self-supported SUP journey on the wild Olympic coast… that just sounds like a good story.

How light? How small? Where can I cut the weight? How little do I really need to take with me? These are the questions that relate. As to the canoe and kayak segments of the trip, I have more space than I need with room for the luxuries (bottle of wine, etc.), but traveling by SUP in coastal conditions demands as little extra weight as possible.

I am leaning toward a double drybag system, one bag packed and rolled, then stuffed inside another bag. I'll have room for two of these setups side-by-side, which should mean a total of about 45 liters of capacity. Based on last year's Puget Sound Challenge, I will likely plan on one bag for food and the other for everything else. Thusly:

Bag #1

Sleeping bag
Clothing
Stove/Fuel
Cook pot
Sleeping Pads
Ground cover
Tarp
Incidentals/toiletries

Bag #2

Food
Extra water

There will be room for a few random items under the netting that I'll rig up on top of the bags, things like charts, a snack, a hat and a first aid kit. Under the bags is where I'll wedge the spare paddle (sea kayak paddle, most likely).

And that's it. At least, that's the plan.

Feeling lighter

There's been a glow in the sky the past couple days as I've finished my morning paddle. Over to the east. I believe the day is soon coming when my morning trips to the Foss will be held under daylight conditions, and each successive morning sees the sun come up sooner.

I am looking forward to being able to see.

Making access more accessible

The latest on the Hurricane Ridge Road situation caught me by surprise. A little. It seems that Park officials are working with the Interior Department and the Port Angeles City Council on a plan to keep the road open on a year round basis, starting in 2011. Right now the road is open all summer, but only open Friday - Sunday during the winter months, and the realities of the mountain weather cut down even further on those times as the season wears on.

It's a fine idea, I think; it just caught me off guard in that it seems like it will cost money and ideas that cost money haven't been faring well in these times of budget cuts and doom. I'm not sure where the financing is going to be coming from, hard to say. It's a beautiful, precarious, sinuous, and stunning passage from the lowlands to views of the mountainous interior of the range, and if they (oh, them!), decide that it should be up and running 24/7, then I am not going to argue.

I still want to ride a bike fast down that hill. Someday.

Working in the woods

It used to be that when people talked about "harvesting" the local forests, they were talking about trees. Still are, in some places. Other locations, however, they're talking about the smaller stuff, moss, salal and slender stalks of beargrass, used mostly as decorative pieces of floral arrangements, not only here in this country, but around the world. It's big business.

How big? How does $250 million a year sound? (And that's just the legal part of the business.) In a 2004 study, Oregon State University professor Patricia Muir estimated that the commercial sale of moss, presumed to be worth $5.5 million a year, could actually be $165 million because of poaching. And that's for moss only. The forest biz is big enough that people, many of them undocumented immigrants, are robbed, beaten and shot over who gets to pick where. Pickers operating illegally often work after dark, heisting truckloads of vegetation off of public and private lands alike. It's an industry that mercilessly exploits its workers; the state of Washington has estimated that as many as half of the brush-picking businesses it has audited have been in violation of labor laws, and that doesn't even begin to address the illicit side of the racket.

It's a sordid tale, and one that most of us (myself included), know nothing about. Even the people who are supposed to know about what's going on - the foresters, the law enforcement types, the government - they don't know much more than the rest of us.

Mossy Mom, out of Shelton, has a couple of photos of pickers on her site, walking away from her, down a gravel road, their pack frames piled high with greenery. It seems right that the images, although powerful, are blurry and indistinct, just like the entire forest products industry.

Saturday at the races

It was a terrible start. I was near the back when I thought I heard the "10 seconds" call, but it must have been 30, maybe longer. Who knows what I heard? I paddled hard for the starting line, hoping to time it a little better, but I had to pull up short of the mark when it became obvious that the rest of the pack wasn't moving much. I never got my positioning back before the starter's horn blew. It took me a few minutes just to get back into the group, but once I got established, I started passing people. Passing people feels good.

I didn't get first place overall, just first in my division (which, I believe, only had one racer in it.) Whatever. A win is a win. I don't know the total number of competitors (about 20), but I think I finished about 6th or 7th overall. Official results are supposed to be up on Monday on the Great Place Paddle Race web site.

And really, I felt that I was competing with myself for the most part. I did better than I thought I would do and that feels like a win to me. Add to this that I won a sweatshirt in the post-race raffle, and I'd have to say it was an all-around success. Thanks to Surfrider for a great event.

PS. I'm sore today, a day after the race. Mostly my legs, which surprises me a little. I felt like I was pushing pretty hard with my upper body but my legs must have been getting quite a workout at the same time.

Equinox

There's a rumor going around that it's supposed to get up to 67 degrees today. The first day of spring. If it's like yesterday - but without the wind - I have no doubt we'll get there.

I'm planning on doing the race today down on Ruston Way. Hard to know what to expect. I don't do "fast" very well but I do love the venue. I think they picked the perfect weather weekend for the event and it would be a shame to miss it.

I suppose, if I'm planning on paddling a 4+ mile race later this morning, I don't really need to head down to the Foss for the morning ritual. I don't need to, but I think I might go anyway. That's why it's called a ritual, after all.

From here on out, for a few months anyway, the days will be getting longer and the nights shorter. And that is a good thing.

A Clear view

Some people take pictures; other people take photographs. Unfortunately, I find myself in the first category. I try to take good shots and, to be fair, every once in a while I get one that is truly exceptional, but not nearly often enough. It's not so much that my success is any evidence of skill or artistic talent, as much as it is proof that even a blind pig will find an acorn every now and then.

Gary Luhm, on the other hand, has photo skills. The proof is at his website or at any of the clinics he teaches at kayaking symposiums. Here's some of what he saw at the Pummel last month...

FREE!

The road to Hurricane Ridge opened up again a few weeks ago after being closed for about 6 weeks. A major slide carried away most of both lanes of the narrow, winding highway during the storm of January 18th and repairs were completed enough to reopen the road on February 26th. After almost $2 million dollars in repairs, the road she is ready to drive again.

Which brings us to what may be the best part: Entrance fees at the ONP Hurricane Ridge entrance will be waived for the last two weekends in March (20-21 and 27-28). That's a $15 fee that you can keep in your pocket, maybe put in your gas tank.

We bought the annual pass, so the price break holds no immediate gain for our family. But if it gets someone up there who might otherwise not have gone, it may be a gain for everybody.

At the movies

I watched Paddle to Seattle today. All in all, a humorous story of two friends who build a couple of sea kayaks, then paddle from Skagway to Seattle over the course of a summer and fall. The presentation was lively and interesting, largely because it was a story about an experience, about the areas that were visited along the way, and not merely about the kayaking.

IMHO, as the kids say.

Right from the start, it was obvious that the main characters weren't serious kayakers. At least, not serious kayakers the way some kayakers are serious. Their forward strokes were mostly arms and their movements in the boats seemed wooden and awkward. They didn't look like they were really comfortable in their kayaks, and even addressed this issue directly on a few different occasions. Still, even though their forward stroke might not have been all that efficient, they managed to do it well enough to complete the trip; you have to respect that.

I don't know, it worked for me because it was a tale of adventure, a story of a dream coming true. I believe it's been winning some awards of late, and rightly so. It wasn't perfect... there was too much fluff and not enough about the route, the actual course they paddled. It had its flat moments where it tried too hard and the gaps in the narrative are a bit jarring at times - most of the video was shot early in the journey, so the last portions of the route seem to arrive more quickly than I thought they were going to - but the tone was refreshingly upbeat. I could have watched it for another hour.

T minus 120

I'm planning on starting the Olympic Grand Circle on July 16th in Olympia. That's 120 days from today, and it seems like I haven't really done much to prepare. Then again, maybe I have. I have certainly gone over the route in my mind (almost every day since I first came up with the plan), and I've paddled at least half of the course already, in separate pieces. Still, there are always things that slip through the cracks in the planning process, perhaps with consequences later on, once the trip is underway.

For the next 120 days, my job is to find those elusive items and ensure that I have as many of the cracks filled in as I possibly can.

Progress report

It's been over 18 months since I first thought of the Summit to the Sea idea, following the nine largest Olympic rivers from their sources to the ocean. The idea was (and still is), that a system of hiking and boating through the largest watersheds on the peninsula would be a fine way to begin to get a handle on how the different parts fit together, and might be a pile of fun.

The thing is, I get a lot of ideas. Many of them never see the light of day, but with the ones that do get started, it's important that I periodically review how they are progressing, just to make sure that I still see them as worth doing. Motivations and interests, like the tides, rise and fall over time.

Of the nine river systems that I've identified as goals of the project, the Dosewallips is the only one that has been completed. The Elwha and the Quinault are getting close. The only parts of the Elwha that remain to be traveled are the final summit portion (windfall and high temperatures kept me from the top last summer), and the canyon stretch between Lake Mills and Lake Aldwell. In the case of the Quinault, the only section I have left to complete is the lower part of the river, between the lake and the ocean, and I'm hoping to do that on a paddleboard next month.

With the Duckabush, I've seen the whole lower section of the river, from Big Hump to Hood Canal, but the highland parts of the river are still undone. Likewise, with the Skokomish, I've traveled from the National Park boundary to the Canal, with paddles on Lake Kokanee and down at the delta, but everything above that still remains.

When it comes to the others, the Wynoochie, the Hoh, the Queets and the Bogachiel, I haven't made much progress. I suppose, if I looked back over my notes, I have touched on some of them during the course of the past couple of years, but I haven't made any concerted effort to follow them on their downhill routes.

I didn't really put a time limit on the project, which turns out to have been a good idea. This year has already been claimed by other pursuits - most notably the Olympic Grand Circle - and I'm not sure how much other time I'm going to be able to dedicate to this particular goal. But if being a Packer fan has taught me anything, it's that there is always next year. And another year after that.

Stirring it up (Part 3)

We took Micah to his first play last night, The Incredible Undersea Trial of Joseph P. Lawnboy, at the Tacoma Little Theatre. It was a good experience for the boy, an hour long was all, with plenty of lights and singing. The subject matter was environmental propaganda aimed at an early childhood audience, mainly centered around how pollution affects our waterways and what each of us can do to help. The characters central to the story included a fish, a loon and a mayfly larvae, all done up in colorful costumes and telling the story of how dirty water is bad for all living things. I happen to agree with the point of view that the drama espoused (if anything, I don't think the recommended solutions - recycling and taking shorter showers, for example - go nearly far enough.) Then again, I was not the target audience for this bill, and Micah loved it.

There was a certain irony for me in watching this environmental drama unfold on stage. One of the things I'd done at work yesterday afternoon was clean up all the plastic and cardboard packaging from a kayak delivery that had come earlier in the week. Just for fun (if that's the right way of phrasing it), I pulled it all into the parking lot and made a pile, all the sheets of styrofoam, the oversized plastic bags that all the boats are wrapped in for delivery, the heavy, white foam blocks, the bubble wrap and the amazingly thick cardboard boxes, 18 feet in length. When I'd finished, I had a pile about 20 feet long and 10 feet wide, a dome of discarded packaging that rose to a height of about 6 feet, composed mostly of plastic.

And, consider this: the pile was the shipping remains of 30 kayaks, all but two of which were plastic boats. So, other than the two fibreglass boats (which had been shipped in the large cardboard boxes and cradled in the sytrofoam), all of the plastic wrapping piled there had been used to protect kayaks made out of plastic. A layer of plastic, covering plastic, encased in more plastic. It's like putting your Tupperware in a Ziploc bag. The whole sordid thing is insane on so many levels, but the thing that gets to me most is the inherent hypocrisy this pile in the parking lot represents.

This outdoor biz is supposed to be a green industry, all the way up from consumer to retailer to manufacturer. The idea is that we are all connected to the environment in some deeper way because of the sports that we engage in; because we operate amid such natural beauty and wilderness, we will necessarily feel a closer bond with nature. I hope very much that this is true, but plastic piles in the parking lot and plastic boats on the rack shake my confidence. When you say one thing and do another, we have a word for that. Just as important, I'm not sure that any outdoor activity, however physically and spiritually valuable it may be, is entitled to make this much garbage.

How many shades of green are there?

In hot water

The Olympic Hot Springs are just that: hot springs. Holes in the ground filled with water. There's no lodge, no changing rooms, no gift shop and parking area, none of the amenities that you'll find over at Sol Duc, the "other hot springs." It's rustic, without any of the human conveniences and, with the snow falling all around on a winter afternoon, it feels about as primal as can be.

But it hasn't always been that way. There used to be a lodge here. With a swimming pool, and eighteen separate buildings. The area was a tourist destination for the better part of the 20th century, and could be reached from Port Angeles by road after 1930, when a round-trip taxi ride from PA to the resort cost $3.75. It had an up-and-down existence from the start and was finally closed for good in 1966.

By the early 1970's, all of the structures were in disrepair - some had seen their roofs collapse under the weight of winter snows, some had been damaged by fire - and the Park Service brought the wrecking ball. In a matter of months, nearly all the signs of human habitation and commerce had been removed and the area began to return to its natural state.

There is virtually nothing left of the lodge or the other buildings. It's hard to believe that such a place ever existed, in fact, as you walk down the one muddy trail that meanders past some of the pools that are still there, carved into little pockets in the hillside above Boulder Creek. It's a wild place now, especially in winter, especially on a weekday. You'll have to park at least 2 1/2 miles away, possibly as many as 6, and hike up the remains of the paved road to get to the springs, a walk that is mostly uphill but relatively easy. (If there's enough snow, it's a good road to ski down on the way out.)

If you want the wilderness hot springs experience, the Olympic Hot Springs has that. If you want a room, a bed and bacon for breakfast, you'll need to visit Sol Duc. That's probably how it should be.

It is definitely becoming more visible

There is a SUP race on March 20th at Hyde Park in Tacoma. It's hosted by a couple of the local chapters of the Surfrider Foundation and it's listed as starting at 8:00am (which seems kind of early.) Check out their web site for more info and, if I'm not sitting in a WFR recert class in Seattle, I'll see you there.

The home stretch

In Portland now, at a little pub in Sellwood, knocking back a burger and a beer and getting ready for the presentation this evening at the Portland Kayak Center. The slides and stories went ok last night in Eureka, but there are parts and pieces that could be better. As with any new show, there are a few small alterations and changes that might be beneficial. I'm going to go through it all in a few minutes, make the changes I can and see how it goes tonight.

I stopped at a rest area this morning to clean the car and make one more PB & J. Living out of the Subaru has been an effort, even for a few days, and it makes me miss the van. (Which is in the shop at the moment, getting an engine transplant... I hope to have her on the road again in a week or two.)

I plan on heading home tonight, back on up I-5, to sleep in my own bed. Regardless of how the presentation goes this evening, this has been a good trip. I got about 10 hours of California surf time in, I had two excellent flatwater paddles, in Trinidad and Eureka, and I got a taste of what living out of a compact car might feel like. I learned a lot.

Snow on the redwoods

The rain squalls along the shore took a decidedly wintery turn at the higher elevations. By the time I was fifteen minutes out of Crescent City, the rain had turned to snow and, even though it was not cold enough for any accumulation to develop, the flakes hitting my wind screen were fat and white and coming at me thick.

I overheard someone talking about a winter storm advisory on the highway going to Grant's Pass, which is the one I'm hoping to travel on later this evening. I could go back up the coast, back the way I came, but that would put extra hours on my trip and with another presentation tomorrow night in Portland, I'd like the miles to go by faster, not slower. I remain hopeful.

I did get out on the Eureka waterfront this afternoon, putting in at Woodley Island and paddling among the fishing boats and pleasure cruisers. It had been raining hard before I started and it's been dumping - off and on - since I got done, but for the time I was on the water, the skies were blue and the birds were singing. The Hawaiian Chieftain, from Aberdeen, was tied up near the park, and I paddled alongside, trading greetings with the crew.

Now I'm in the Lost Coast Brewery here in Eureka, me and all the other tourists. Which means that, for the moment anyway, I am no longer a dirtbag. It is virtually impossible, after all, to claim dirtbag status while feeding on crab/artichoke dip and chasing it with a pint of Indica.

It does not really bother me; I know that I will regain my standing sometime tonight, when I am shoehorned into the stateroom of the Hotel Loyale, in some rainy Oregon rest area. Ahhh, the good life.

Crescent City Monday

Still in Crescent City, weighing my options. From where I'm sitting, I can see the break that I've been enjoying the last couple of days, but it's not going off today. Where yesterday's session ended at dusk with five-foot peaks and long rides, the one-footers have taken over this morning. So I won't be going out right away, at least not to the same place.

The small waves here might translate into more ridable sets down at some of the places to the south that didn't look as good to me yesterday. So that's one possibility.

I went for a hike yesterday in the Lady Bird Johnson Grove, part of the redwoods that I hadn't been to before. The big trees are inspiring sights, and thinking about just how long they have been there on the hills near the coast, how much has happened around them and how they have simply persevered, gives new insight into ideas like patience, steadfastness and eternity. Many of the redwoods have been severely damaged by fire, yet they continue to live, their insides hollowed out by flame but their outer layers still able to function.

So I could go back to the woods today too.

Or, if I keep going south, I could even go for a flat-water paddle on Arcata Bay, maybe take in the Eureka waterfront before the slide presentation this evening. I went down for the Paddlefest there in 2004, but I didn't get out on the water much... this would be a good day to change that. Maybe.

Indecision may or may not be my problem.

Signs

If there's a prettier sight than the "open" sign on a donut shop, I don't know what it could be. I'm sitting here at Don's Donuts with a steaming paper cup of coffee, a glazed buttermilk donut and the Carpenters on the radio. Must be Sunday in Arcata.

I won't be here long. I'm planning on heading back north after spending the night near Trinidad. I did a twilight paddle out among the rocks of Trinidad Bay after dinner yesterday but I'm looking for surf again now and it seemed like the surf was better further north. And that course will take me back through the redwoods again, a happy coincidence.

I love the 101. Whether it's in the tropics of Santa Barbara or the wilds of the Olympic peninsula, or here on the sweet northern California coast, I am continually in awe of the country this road can take a body to. If life is indeed "a highway," as the song claims, I bet it's this one. North or south, there's no wrong way to turn.

Almost all of the beaches I stopped at yesterday had some kind of warning sign, a legal disclaimer that aimed to both inform the public and absolve the property owner in the event that something bad were to happen. I suppose the lesson I'm intended to take away from all this is that beaches are dangerous places, not for the faint of heart or hand.

So why is there not a similar warning sign on every freeway onramp?

Dirtbag Tour 2010

It is ironic, I think, that the title of the slide presentation I'll be doing on this trip is "Wild Island Shorelines." The shoreline I've been looking at all day is among the most intense and eternal I've ever seen, the very definition of wild. The gnarled stacks off the coast, ragged waves breaking on all sides, the green forest hanging over everything, with wreaths of fog wisping around its curves and hollows.

I got on the road yesterday, jetting down I-5 to just south of Eugene, then cutting over to the coast. I had dinner last night in Bandon, grilled a steak out in the dunes as the sun set. Ate it with beans straight out of the can, sitting on a drift log, watching the breakers spill on the steep, sandy beach below me.

Slept in Bandon last night too, though I must say, I don't care much for the Hotel Loyale (which is what I've dubbed the Subaru). The bed area is not quite as long as I am, meaning that the sleep is not really restful. But the price is right.

Yvon Chouinard called them "dirtbags." The climbers who hung out at Yosemite back in the day, living off scraps from the lodge and a variety of odd jobs, living to climb. It was not intended to be a derogatory term in the least, and I've always associated it with a certain element of surfing society as well, gypsies and travelers, not the type of folk you might meet at church. Vagrants, rolling through on their way to the place where the waves are. Transients, living out of dented cars, eating peanut butter straight from the jar, washing it down with cheap beer, and always looking westward. Looking out toward the waves.

I'm feeling a little like a dirtbag.

I just got done with a 4-hour surf session here in Crescent City, California. Just south of the harbor is the Whaler's Island Groin, and the waves there were perfect today. Perfect for me, anyway, about 3-4 feet and slow. I caught some great rights, and the faces stayed up long enough for me to carve in the green on a lot of them. Even the ones that I flailed on came out ok... it was a session that restored my faith in surfing.

Now I'm off to the redwoods.