Mount Baker, Washington

Okay, let me get one thing off my chest before I start. If you're a guy, you're hot-tubbing with a bunch of strangers and there's nudity involved, and not the sexually-charged kind of nudity, but the "not-all-of-us-have-bathing-suits-so-who-gives-a-shite" kind of nudity, you DON'T...I repeat, DON'T, as a respectful male individual, stand up to reveal to everyone that you have a raging-hard boner. ...Twice. It's uncomfortable, unpleasant for the rest of us and it legitimately freaks people out. Nature's nature, and I get that, but if nature happens, as it sometimes does, keep it to yourself. And quit brushing up against my knee. Cripe, man...I just can't unsee that. *shiver* ...Okay, tirade over. I feel better now.

Early in the week, I received a call from my friend Chuck in Seattle, inviting me up to Mount Baker to join him and a group of his friends for a few days of skiing on the mountain. Not yet having a chance to make it to the slopes yet this year, I jumped at the opportunity and after working out a few things with my schedule, decided to leave on Friday morning for northern Washington.

A day later, due to a freak ice storm, western Washington found itself in declared State-of-Emergency leaving thousands without power and the entire city of Seattle in a complete standstill. Now, being from the mid-west, I'm used to this. You hunker down for a few hours and usually within half of a day, everything is in the clear. Not the Pacific Northwest. When they get hit with a storm of this caliber up here, everyone freaks out. They don't know what to do and the disaster remains a disaster for literally days. So, I was a bit nervous that the roads wouldn't be totally prepared for my 6+ hour drive up to Mount Baker from Portland. Luck was on my side, though. The temperatures has risen into the low 40's, offering enough of a light melt to allow some traction on the roads. The worst part was between Portland and Seattle, which was still in the midst of a onslaught of winter mix, freezing rain, and remained mostly out of power. Once I got north of Seattle though, the weather turned in my favor. The rain stopped, the ice disappeared and the sky even cleared up a bit. From that point on, I was able to peacefully enjoy the rest of the ride to Baker, sans white knuckles.

I arrived at Chuck's cabin just as dusk was turning into night. Kino and his dog Missy got along right off the bat, and after a nice dinner, a few drinks (including the shot-ski!) and introductions to the rest of his friends staying in the cabin, we all crashed for the night in preparation for a long day on the mountain the next morning. I barely even remember resting my head on the pillow.

We were on the mountain by 8:30am, traveling up Chair 6 into a complete white-out at 5000 feet. By the time we reached the top, I had mentally prepared myself for the "warmup" down the mountain. Now...this was a different experience for me. I consider myself a mid-advanced level skier. I'm not a pro, by any means, but the terrain I'm used to skiing on is that of the Northeastern parts of the U.S., New York, Vermont, Pennsylvania, etc. Experiencing powder there is nothing like the powder I was looking at on Baker that morning, which was nearly thigh deep in places. Wouldn't you know it, I didn't ski 50 feet before falling flat on my face.

I have to give Chuck some credit. He did wait for me for a full five minutes as fresh tracks were being laid through the powder below us. Then I heard a "...Sorry, man. I gotta go," as I was picking my happy ass up out of the powder for the fourth time. I waved him off and watched him disappear into the blind. For the rest of the morning, I worked at getting my legs under me. I took to some of the lighter hills and dropped through the trees, leaning back in my skis for the first time in years, allowing me to more or less, ride the powder as opposed to diving into it. Within an hour, I felt much more confident about my skiing abilities and took to the mountain's blacks, picking my way down slowly (a lack of health insurance will do that to you), but only loosing my footing once or twice.

After I met Chuck and the crew for lunch, I headed out with them and tackled some of the more difficult runs in the park. Our first hit was Pan-face, a nearly vertical drop off of Chair 6. I took my time on it, but I kept up with the guys, nonetheless. The rest of the afternoon, we dropped off almost every ledge on the west side of the mountain. There was some avalanche danger in the Canyon though, so we kept away from the inside. By the end of the day, I was physically destroyed and my face was coated in a thick layer of beard popsicles, but I felt great. Now that I'm out here, I'm going to have to get myself used to this skiing terrain as a norm.

Instead of heading straight back to the cabin, a few of us stopped over another one of the cottages for a bit of relaxing in the hot tub for a few hours before grabbing a bit of dinner. Afterwards, we stopped by another cabin for a party, where there was another hot tub, one of which we got in, sans suits. This wasn't a big deal, we are all adults, save for the one douche that...well...no point in rehashing that bit again. Refer to the first paragraph of this entry for more clarification if you, like me, have since tried to purge it from your tiny little brains.

The next morning, while Chuck and a few of the other guys decided to head out of bounds for a bit of touring, I hopped in the car for the long trip home. I figured it would take me upwards of 6 hours or so, with stops. I took my time, letting Kino out of the car occasionally for a quick run or to sit down and eat some food. I even paused at a rest stop south of Olympia to close my eyes for about 45 minutes or so as I was getting overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Chuck and his friends have that cabin for the remainder of the season, so if I get another chance to head up, I'll jump on it in a heartbeat. In the meantime, if I can get some time in on Mount Hood and a few of the other resorts between here and Seattle, I'm in. I can't possibly go the year with only having one ski trip under my belt. It's just an impossibility.

Summer Hike Series: Eagle Creek and the Journey to Tunnel Falls

I did my research. The hike through Eagle Creek canyon is supposed to be one of the best experiences in the Columbia River Gorge. It is one of the most popular and well-traveled trails in the Gorge, and for good reason. Being just 45 miles outside of Portland, Eagle Creek's soaring, basalt cliffs, spectacular waterfalls and dramatic vistas in the midst of a lush, temperate rainforest offer even the most seasoned outdoorsman some of the most breathtaking sights in the region.

Kino and I left early in the morning, arriving in the parking lot of Eagle Creek, just off of I-84 around 9:30am. I bought my Northwest Forest Pass, locked up my car and with Kino's expandable leash attached firmly to my pack strap, started up the paved road that led to the Eagle Creek Trailhead, another mile or so up the path. Once on the the trail, we hiked along the water for about a mile ascension that brought us high above the creek before emerging into an old-growth forest decorated with footbridges, hanging moss and countless babbling streams. The views and passageways through this part of the forest were reminiscent of a fairy tale, specifically the world I imagined my old King's Quest games to exist in. My imagination began to come alive with the secrets this part of the world could hold and strange feeling of nostalgia passed over me.

Continuing on along the cliff face, I approached the 100-foot Metlako Falls, the tallest falls within Eagle Creek proper, and wary of the steep drop to our right, we merged onto the spur trail and dropped down into the canyon another mile and a half to the resting hole of Punchbowl Falls. Being about two hours into our hike (I was snapping way too many pictures, although it was difficult not to), I decided that we would take our break here. After letting Kino have his run amidst the hidden pools of the hole, I picked a dry spot on the rocks adjacent to the falls, sat down with Kino and shared our packed lunch. After a few minutes, however, the peacefulness and solidarity of the hole disappeared, as scores of people, children and dogs poured into the canyon from the trail above. I remember one woman in particular thinking it was hilarious that her dog was clearly irritating Kino while he was eating, and refused to restrain him even after he bowled Kino over while simultaneously trying to grab my sandwich straight from my hand. It's instances like these that could potentially ruin an otherwise magnificent day, so no longer wanting to subject both myself and Kino to someone else's inadequacies as a dog owner (I wasn't the only one attempting to correct this woman's methods of discipline), I quickly packed up our stuff and headed back up the switches to the main trail and continued on.

Further down the trail, as the path rose high above the creek bed and crossed a number of wooden footbridges, I suddenly found myself across the way from what I learned to be the 90-foot high Loowit Falls. It was here that I ran into another group of hikers, all from Portland, who advised me that I had about another three miles until reaching Tunnel Falls. The leader of the group explained to me that around the next corner of the trail was High Bridge, which marks the point just a tad over halfway. After analyzing Kino to make sure he was still in good condition, I took a few more photos of the falls and continued on over High Bridge. As I approached the gap, the trail narrowed into a well-groomed but rocky ledge that dropped off over 120 feet to my right. Holding Kino close, I wound my way around the cliff-face, conscious of the cableline affixed to the wall on my left. High Bridge then spans over a 150-foot narrow chasm before the trail drops considerably in elevation through a series of redwood groves and fields of Poison Oak.

About a mile later, I crossed the appropriately named Four and a Half mile bridge, which also, in contrast with its downstream cousin, sits only four feet above the water. It was around here where I ran into a bunch of young, naked hippies sunbathing on the rocks by the creek, completely unfazed by my presence. In fact, one woman waved a hello, a gesture which I silently returned. I couldn't help but appreciate the fact that it's always nice to see boobies so unexpectedly. I was probably smiling non-stop for the next mile, at the least.

Over the next mile or two, I passed through a fairly flat and uneventful part of the trail that boasted a series of campsites, a transition of deciduous maples and hardwoods, and the entry into the Hatfield Wilderness, which asked me to fill out a day pass for entry. I did, and following a quick read of the visitation requirements, Kino and I trudged on towards Tunnel Falls.

Just as I was starting to wonder, "How much further...?," we reached a spot that I immediately recognized from my research called, "The Potholes." Stepping carefully, as we were once again traversing alongside a nearly 100-foot sheer drop, Kino and I crossed over a series rock formations which are actually columns of basalt formed by a lava flow that cooled so slowly, it allowed the crystal-like structures to form. As we rounded the corner, the magnificence of Tunnel Falls merged into view.

At 175 feet, Tunnel Falls is one of the most specular sights in the Gorge. As the name implies, the trail actually passes through a cave behind the waterfall and winds precariously up along the side of the awe-striking amphitheater, carved by millions of years of the flowing stream. This was surely the climax of our trip and it was here that Kino decided to take his rest on the trail, perching himself on the edge of a rock high above the pool below and slowly closing his eyes to the hypnotic sound of the water crashing amidst the rocks below. I was somewhat tempted to continue on a bit more along what some have referred to as "The Vertigo Mile" and take our midpoint rest up there, but I decided to turn back here and head back the way we came.

Noticing Kino's growing fatigue, I gently urged him on until we reached the redwood groves that caught my attention just after our crossing of High Bridge. As I stepped into one grove in particular, I felt an immediate sense of peace and serenity sweep over me. Fully believing that there are places scattered throughout the world that are "special," for lack of a better term, I decided to stop here and allow ourselves an hour's rest before finishing the final three miles of the hike. It was the most relaxing, meditative series of moments that I had experienced since arriving in Oregon and knew, once and for all, that this is where I belong.

The final three miles were mostly a descent, which, considering his age and our milage for the dat (13.5 in total), Kino was handling extremely well. I did notice he was moving a bit slower than normal, but that was to be expected. I took our time and allowed plenty of rest stops for photo opportunities and water breaks. As the final stretch wound down towards the trailhead, Kino received a burst of energy that I actually had a hard time keeping up with and, once within access to the water of the creek, pulled me gently off of the path's boundaries and jumped headlong into the stream, refreshing himself after the long day's hike. I could tell he was at one of his happiest moments in his life, and I let him bask in it for as long as he felt necessary.

Eagle Creek Gorge has been one of the more dramatic and rewarding hikes I've explored since I arrived in Portland. It's winter now, and the trail is treacherous with ice and obstructed by thick clouds of mist. Once summer hits again, however, I plan on tackling the loop over the course of a weekend, an option that would force us to bring along overnight gear and at least a day and a half's worth of food. I can't wait.

The Moose Gets Married

I would easily say that my timing in coming out to Portland was perfect, if not for one small detail: I needed to travel back to Cleveland not four weeks after moving out here to attend one of my best friend's weddings. Now, there was no question that I would be heading back. I wouldn't miss this wedding for the world. I was just kicking myself for not waiting to actually make the move a month later than I did, if only to make things a bit simpler. But, it all worked out. I found Kino a kennel in which he was able to run freely on a farm for a few days and half of my flight was generously covered by Scott and his bride-to-be, Cassie, with the only request that I film their wedding for them.

I arrived on a Friday night and was met at the airport by my buddy Garrett, who was generously giving up some space in his apartment that weekend so I could crash while in town. Before my bags even made it to his doorstep, we stopped into Edison's, my personal favorite bar in Cleveland and home of the city's best-tasting pizza. A heavy claim, I know. But just try it if you haven't already. Still don't agree? Fine. I'll fight you on it.

Our stay there lasted well into the wee hours of the morning, unsurprisingly. Edison's always tends to have that effect on us. The crowd is a rare mix between a few elderly ragged locals, Cleveland hipsters, raging hormones and a blue-collar artists that just appreciate a wide selection of bottled beer, so at times, it gets really difficult to leave. Being the social butterflies that we are, Garrett and I always happen to bring a few random patrons into our discussions. This can go on for hours, and usually does.

The next morning, before the wedding, I got myself showered and dressed before meeting my date for the evening's events. Arriving about 30 minutes early, she and I sat up in the balcony where a bird's eye view of the ceremony offered the video's best coverage. The ceremony itself, having taken place in the Old Stone Church, one of the oldest, if not the oldest structure remaining in downtown Cleveland, was beautiful and fairly tame as one would expect. By knowing Scott and Cassie from the moment they got together, it was great to see them finally tie the knot. I will admit to some bittersweetness, however. Scott was instrumental in getting my ex and I together for a courtship that lasted three full years before we split following her move out to California. He and Cassie met during that three year period and the four us spent quite a bit of time together before my better half left. Seeing them finally tie the knot reminded me of some of the things I had planned during that time and where it could've led me. Some day, perhaps.

The outdoor wedding reception was, easily stated, the single best wedding that I've been to in my life. For the first time in years, I was able to cut loose and show a side of me that most of my friends haven't seen in a long, long time. Maybe it was my recent move to Oregon and my overwhelming sense of freedom. It may have simply been due to being in the company of some amazing friends. Or maybe I was just happy. Regardless, after completing my filming duties, I danced, laughed, sang, jumped around like a pure nut-job, waited patiently for my fifth martini in the pouring rain, chased a raccoon (he was friendly, I swear), almost swung the Mother-of-the-Groom into a table, chair-danced in front of the Bride, photo-bombed, wheeled a piano into a hotel lobby at 3am (the staff was NOT happy about that one) and joined the entire wedding party in a badly sung-rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'." Was the hangover worth it? You bet to high hell it was. I'd encourage them to get divorced and remarried, just to do it all over again. ...I'll give it a few years before I formally make that suggestion.

Now, what is the Moose, you ask? Because after all, that is the title of this entry and would only make some sense if I were to take the time to explain the allusion. Or, I could leave you in the dark and guessing, but what fun would that be. No, I would be more than happy to elaborate.

The Moose is, proudly, a Scott Keller original. Made popular by him in his drunken-stupor days of college (let's not kid ourselves, college may be over...the stupor, not so much), the Moose consists of leaning backwards, shoving his thumbs into his armpits (palms out and spread wide) while simultaneously lifting up his shirt to expose his belly and chest while screaming "The Moose!!" Ridiculous? You bet it is. But I love this guy for it. What better is that the Moose comes out in the most inappropriate of instances, including, but not limited to, work functions, high-class lounges, the RTA rail line, St. Patrick's Day and of course, his wedding.

That weekend, I also had breakfast with my ex, lunch with my parents, a few drinks with a few other old friends and a short visit to my old house, but I'll never forget the Moose. Married or not, he will live on forever. Congrats, buddy. Now go and make some babies. Baby mooses. Or moosen. ...whatever you call more than one. We're all rootin' for ya.