Riding the whitewater on my stomach,  I leaned left towards the rocky point of Steamer Lane.  Rolling off my board ten feet from the rocks, I landed in waist deep water and felt my way towards the shore.  Scrambling out of the water,  I ripped  the Velcro leash off my right ankle and wrapped it around the board haphazardly.  Following the route of the handful of surfers in front of me, I climbed and jumped between the boulders until reaching the stairs.  From there, it was a foot race along the sidewalk towards back towards the point.

Trailing the other surfers I stopped my light jog at the Syncro, and dropped my board in the grass. Fight against light.  Rushing to pull off my wetsuit down to the waist,  I popped open the sliding door and grabbed my Olympus XA from the center console.  Its analog dial read 17, meaning that there were still 20 or so exposures left in the roll.  Equipped to rip.

A set rolled through the lineup and with a distant crash  the ground shook and the crowd of onlookers cheered their approval.  Their hoots continued and, based on the continuous grinding of the wave,  I assumed some lucky surfer was getting a great ride all the way back to the rocks that I had climbed out of.  The kind of ride that end up as people’s Facebook profile pics.   Slamming the door, I followed the ant-like trail of running surfers along the sidewalk towards the point.

Holding the camera strap in my mouth, I climbed over the fence and headed towards the group of surfers waiting their turn to jump back in.  By now the sun was a half circle on the horizon,  giving the surfers an added sense of purpose.  This combined with some exceptional waves rolling in had them talking in two-word sentences and grunts.

One after another,  the surfers jumped the 10 feet or so off of the point into the water and paddled back into position.  Each wave advanced the cycle.

Standing in my dripping wetsuit,  I snapped shots and wound the film with the thumb wheel.  A good winter swell at Steamer Lane is one of those things you will never forget.

Here are some more links

Steamer Lane (Wikipedia),

Santa Cruz (Facebook album),

Twitter.

California’s Route 1 starts, or stops depending on which way you drive it, in a sleepy area of northern Mendocino county known for its “trees.”  (I’ll give you a hint; some are big and red and the others small and green.)  An unassuming sign for Fort Bragg designates the turnoff from 1o1 onto one of the country’s most celebrated highways.  Shortly after sunrise,  Spencer and I pulled onto the 1 after spending a few days in Arcata and headed south for San Francisco.

Cutting through Mendocino, Sonoma and Marin Counties, the 1 wraps around cliffs and through small towns.  Despite looking similar to the Oregon Coast,  the Norcal  is culturally very different from its neighbor to the north.  If the quazi-monster truck is the vehicle of choice in the southern Oregon,  the 80′s bio diesel drinking Mercedes wagon gets the honks and waves in this neck of the woods.

Point Arena.

Two tone.

“It was a run by fruiting…”

Drop off.

The Mendocino Coast.

Bumpers.

Someday..

An old growth eucalyptus tree.

Twinsies!!

Tide pool.

Vultures in Marin County.

As we worked our way down the coast a hundred miles a day,  the weather warmed up and the rain subsided.  Slowly the days lengthened.  Later in the year I will head north,  but now it’s time to head south.

Here are some more links:

The Start of the 1 (Facebook),

Twitter.

“Dude. Did you see that sign?” I said, taking a sip of tepid coffee from my thermos.

“No. What was it?” Spencer looked back through the rear window of the Syncro.

“‘Sandboarding!  Rentals$20 for 24 hours. The sign is straight out of Back to the Future.”

“Fuck yah, lets check it out.”

Signaling my concurrence, I turned onto the shoulder just north of Florence, Oregon on the 101 and let the minivan behind us pass.

“I have always wanted to try this.  It looks totally ridiculous.”

Five minutes later,  Spencer and I were standing in one of the world’s only dedicated sandboarding shops getting the scoop about the history of the sport from the owner, operator and enthusiast.  Resembling a former WWF wrestler, and sporting a mustache and ponytail, he informed us that sandboarding has been around long before snowboarding and that it was in fact an inspiration for Jake Burton.  I kept my mouth shut and nodded.   After the “history” lesson and short video highlighting the sport’s potential in various sand dunes around the world, Spencer were on our way, boards in hand.

That afternoon, we hiked around the dunes of Honeyman State park exploring shoots and picking lines.  Although the conditions weren’t ideal,  (sandboarding favors dry sand and being the middle of January in Oregon, the sand was wet) we got the hang of things pretty quickly.  Sandboarding feels like riding a snowboard in powder.  All the steering is with your back foot, and bad things happen when you put weight on your front foot.

They ollie just like a snowboard.  Yours truly shredding a shoot.

Waxing up the board before a session.

Spencer summitting the hill.

The boards have similar construction to a skateboard, but with a layer of polyurethane on the bottom.  Home Depot project perhaps?

Sand scrub.

Cranking a turn,  hand on the wave.

Dodging a patch of grass, I carved my way down the narrow shoot.  Pointing the board directly at Spencer,  I picked up speed and turned to the right at the last minute spraying him with a few handfuls of sand.

“Duddde.  Seriously.”

“Haha you were asking for it.”

“I’m over it.  Lets head back to the car.”

Taking a moment,  I looked back up the hill at our handy work.  In the distance a yahoo’s four-wheeler screamed up a hill.  I kicked off the board.  “Alright.  I’ll be doing this again.”

“As will I.”

Here are some more links,

Sand Surfing (Facebook).

Twitter.

The southern Oregon ccoast feels like no other part of the Northwest.  From Portland,  it takes five hours to get there along I-5 south with a cut through the coast range near Eugene.  Take the 101 from Tillamook or Seaside, and you’re looking at seven hours of winding road reminiscent to the 1 in California.   Because of this remoteness, the area gets limited visitation in the summer and in the winter, well its all but a ghost town.   Think of it as Twin Peaks with a few bags of meth borrowed from Deadliest Catch, and without the cute girls.

After a few weeks of the Pacific Northwest’s signature rain and gloom,  I headed south along the coast on my way to California.  Like most Oregonians,  I grew up spending weekends during the summer playing on the rugged northern beaches of Short Sands and Canon Beach.  My knowledge of the coast goes from good to nonexistent around Lincoln City.  With my buddy, Spencer Phillips, sitting shotgun, we worked our way down the coast searching for waves and views in the heart of winter.

Blasting.

Lagoon.

Ripping a few hundred yards out.

Late night.

Foaming.

Locs only, bro.  These gulls hold it down.

Dodge Rampage.

Sometimes slide film has a mind of its own.

Fixings.

Deers,  beware.

Holding it down.

Sunrise with Portra 160 and an Olympus XA on January 7th.

Traveling is always best in places that you don’t know that well.  The parks were empty save for a few dog walkers and retirees in their RV’s.  If you ever get the opportunity, head to this part of the country.  Bring your surf board,  there are plenty of waves.

Here are some more links,

Southern Oregon (Facebook),

Foreverenroute,

Twitter.

This week I’m doing some house keeping, working on a few projects,  surfing and waiting for some film to develop.  Regular, Tuesday and Thursday, posts will be back next week.  In the mean time,  head over to the A Restless Transplant Facebook Page to see some flicks from the Oregon Coast that I shot on an Olympus XA.  I accidentally dropped the camera and the back popped open, giving the roll some light leeks.  Also, check out my travels on Instagram @fosterhuntington.

More links,

A Restless Transplant (Facebook),

#vanlife.

Twitter.

“How many days do you want to drive it in?” I asked my dad on speaker phone at a stoplight in Ventura.

“Well, at minimum, three but I would like to do more than that…I’m looking at flights right now into Burbank.  They are dirt cheap.  60$ one way with tax.”

“I’m all for more days.  Three days would be a schlep.  Plus, the Syncro doesn’t like I-5 much.  Lets take our time up the 1, or go up east through Death Valley and the Sierras.”

“In December?  Are you fucking kidding me?  I’m not flying down from Washington to spend more time in cold weather. I want to see palm trees and eucalyptus groves.”

“Ha I guess you’re right.  Lets do the 1 then.”

“Cool.  Tim and I will fly down on the 20th and we’ll head back up to Washougal for Christmas.  This will be a blast.”

As planned,  I picked them up at the Burbank airport a few days later and we headed north.  We took our time meandering up Route 1. Surfing, hiking and skateboarding, we made a few hundred miles each day.  At night,  we crammed into the back of the van and had snoring contests.

Picture this, three six footers (I’m 6’3, Tim’s 6’8 and my dad’s 6’1) in VW van, listening to the Grateful Dead and eating at taco trucks.

December denial.

A surf session in Bolinas.

Jalama Beach.

Shred sticks.

Could be anywhere in Latin America, but no, its Lincoln Heights.

Tshirts.

The Channel Islands.

We left the bulk of the driving for the last day and made it back to Washougal early Christmas morning.  I couldn’t say exactly when, because Tim and I were asleep in the backseat.

Some memories are better captured on 35mm film.

Here are some more links,

Facebook,

Twitter.

A few cars parked on the shoulder made me take a second look as I rounded the bend on 101 heading north on the Oregon coast.  Seeing cliffs, ocean and foam though the sparse trees,  I deliberated.   If I head back to Portland now,  it will be dark by the time I get back.  No point in hurrying. Some few hundred feet past the pull out,  I turned around in a gap in traffic and headed back to investigate.

Turning off the ignition, I unplugged my iPhone from the stereo and kept Fire on the Mountain Cornell 77′ playing through the speaker phone.  An unseasonal south wind blew in warm air,  making January 1st feel like April and I left my sweater in the backseat.  “Blooop Blooop” my alarm sounded as I shoved  my phone in my breast pocket, and grabbed my camera.

Disregarding the family of four walking towards me on the trail,  I continued my air guitar solo and passed with a smile, hair still wet from a surf session at Short Sands.

“I wonder if they can guess which car is mine?” I chuckled to myself.

The sound of waves bashing against the cliffs beckoned.

Soon,  the trees and land stopped, abruptly,  a few hundred feet above the ocean.   From this vantage point, the swells’ dark shadows lined up towards the horizon. Hopping the fence,  I brushed some gravel off a ledge and sat. Fire on the Mountain wound down to some cheers from stoned college kids now in their 50s.  Being in no rush,  I pulled out the my phone and pushed repeat.

What if…

Pebble throwing,  idea jotting.

As far west as it gets.

Narrow.

An hour of daydreaming,  pebble throwing and wave watching passed.  Despite feeling like April,  January shadows reminded me of my hour and a half drive back to Portland.  Taking one last look,  I climbed back over the wire fence and walked back towards the pulloff.

Happy New Year.  Longer days are coming.

Here are some more links,

Scarlet/Fire on the Mountain (Cornell 77),

Out of Reception.

Facebook.

The river along US-26 boiled like two week old coffee down the drain.  Rounding the last corner before merging with 101,  a gust of wind shook the Syncro’s flat sides, forcing me to take a kiddy pool sized puddle head on.  With a crrrrshhh, we displaced half the puddles contents onto a Toyota Tacoma in the oncoming lane.   For the last few hours,  the rain had battled with the fastest setting of the windshield wipers.   Advantage rain.

Pulling off the highway a few miles south, the streets of Canon Beach were empty save for a few SUVs and local pickups.  Gusts on the flags at souvenir shops and water around the storm drains hinted at why.   Eager to catch a glimpse of the ocean,  I pulled off onto a side street.  Familiar with the saying, “We’ll get’em when he comes back in,” well the last scene of Point Break was filmed at this beach in similar conditions.

“That looks like…hell,” my mom said rolling down the windows to get a better view.

“Yah.  Wow,  that’s what a half mile of whitewater looks like.”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?”  Looking down the beach I spotted a lone person leaning at a twenty degree angle into the wind. “Yeah lets.”

Shortsands Beach.

Serious #vanlife envy.  These Mitsubishi Delica’s can’t be imported into the US, but our friends to the north, and the rest of the world, can get one for a few grand.  They are 4wd, come in turbo diesel and get between 25 and 30 MPG.

A duly named street.

Some fresh driftwood.

Wet.

Taking it all in.

It’s often said that, “the Pacific Northwest has two seasons,  August and 11 months of rain and fog.”  While I agree with this maxim,  it fails to capture the violence and intensity of the storms that charge down from the Aleutian Islands in the “Winter Months.”   Before bringing waves to Hawaii’s north shore,  these storms slam into the PNW as feral beasts, pulling trees from the ground, flooding rivers and closing harbors.  They breaking up the endless months of fog and mist,  with weather alerts and road closures.  Nowhere is their power more evident than on the northern Oregon Coast.  They make you feel small and vulnerable.

Here are some more links,

Facebook,

Twitter.

The Syncro skidded to a stop on the golf ball sized rocks as I stomped on the clutch and break pedal. “Did you hear that?” I asked my cousin, Nikko.

“No,  what was it?”

I turned down Secret Garden, by the Boss, to a whisper.  “I thought I heard a hiss,  it could have been a varmint though.”

“Nope, didn’t hear anything,” Niko said poking his head out the rolled-down window and looking around.

Momentarily relieved, I let off the break and  the Syncro lurched forward down the one lane road, the kind of road that donkeys died making a hundred years ago and  where yahoos get their jollies in jeeps today.

This time, the hiss left little to my wishful imagination.  “There!  Shit.  Could you take a look?”

Without saying anything, Nikko opened the door and took off his seat belt.

Over the rumble of the liberally muffled engine, the hiss continued.

“There is a hole the size of my fucking thumb in the front tire,” Nikko said looking down in disbelief at the front passenger tire.

Confirming my fears, I pulled the emergency break, popped my seat belt, and scurried around the front of the van towards the hiss sound.  Just as Nikko had described,  a hole the size of my thumb exposed the cavernous interior of the BF Goodrich Mud Terrains.

In shock, we stood side by side and stared down at the hole.  The escaping air kicked up a cloud of dust.

“So that’s what the inside of the tire smells like.”

“Yup. Well, this is what a full sized spare is for.  Plus, its not an adventure until something goes wrong.”

“I guess so.  How familiar are you with that jack?” Nikko asked motioning to the red Hi-lift Jack attached to the tire swing on the back of the van.

Neither of us moved.

“Well to tell you truth,  I used it once to try to get the van out of lake full of mud in Nevada.  I ended up having to get towed.  Haven’t changed a tire with it but I’m no stranger to a changing, just not on a hill like this.”

“Gotcha.” Nikko kicked the tire. “This thing’s losing air fast.”

Breaking inertia, I headed towards the drivers seat. “Yah, I’m going to pull it up towards that straight away.  This wont be too bad,  maybe take 20 minutes,” I asserted.

Creeping down the hill towards a relatively flat section, I put it into second gear,  turned off the ignition and cranked the emergency break.

“I’m going to grab the jack.  Could you pull off the spare?  Here’s the tire iron,” I said reaching under the bench seat and grabbing the tire iron and Vanagon jack adapter.

Five minutes later, we had the necessary ingredients laid out a few feet from the van:  Full sized spare,  tire iron,  jack adapter and Hi-lift. “Okay,  let’s dance.”

With a few cranks of the jack,  the suspension started to ease.

“Just a little bit more,”  I said out of the corner of my mouth,  fully articulating the arm of the jack.

As soon as the front tire left the ground, the Syncro lurched forward an inch, spitting gravel as if in disapproval of the entire scenario.

“Fuck.  FUck. Fuuuuhhhhhhkk.”  I jumped back.

The van skidded another inch, forcing the Hi-Lift jack into an even more precarious angle.

“Shiit, that is not good. This is not good.”

The creeks and groans continued.

“We gotta get rocks under the tires!  Now!  Now!”  I screamed running around to the driver’s side and shoving any rocks I could crab within arm’s length under the tires.  The wedges worked and after a few seconds, the creaks stopped.

“What the fuck do we now?”

“If that  jack knocks out and hits one of us, well,  this goes from being a shitty situation to a desperate one.  Totally screwed.  We are a good five-hour hike back to Racetracks,  and that’s assuming that someone is there for the night.”

“Yah that would not be good. Who knows how long that thing will hold.  I mean, that looks pretty fuckin’ precarious,” I said pointing to the jack, some 20 degrees off a comfortable axis.

“I’m not putting my head anywhere near that shit.”

“Me neither.  Let’s be calm.  Man, I wish we had another jack.  We could jack up the back and we would be fine. Should we wait for another jeep to come around?”

“Its the middle of December, in Death Valley.  We have seen two jeeps today.  Who knows how long it would be?”

“If the jack gives out the whole weight of the car will drop onto the that suspension arm.   Bye bye disk break. Bye bye CV joint.  We are 40 miles from the nearest paved road and there is no way we are towing this shit out of here.”

“Damn,  we are in a tight spot.”

“No shit, George Clooney.”

“What if we put the cooler and ammo box under frame and try to knock the jack out with a rock?  If it knocks out, maybe they will catch it, and if doesn’t we’ll at least know it will hold some stress.”

“We don’t have too many other options.  But I’m not throwing the rock though.  Oh no,  this is your rodeo.  Wait a second,  take that food out of there.”  Ni;ko said, rifling through the cooler and removing some necessities.

“Good call.”

Avoiding touching any parts of the van, I pulled the Coleman cooler and pelican box out of the van with a shovel handle and wedged them under the frame.

“Alright.  I guess this is all we can do.”

Picking up a rock the size of a seat cushion from the side of the road,  I took a deep breath, bid farewell to my van and  threw it at the jack.

Instead of triggering the anticipated catastrophe,  the rock bounced off  with a a metallic ding, wedging itself at an opposing angle against the jack.

“Jesus Christ.”

Catching my breath I took a step back. “What the do we do now? Should I throw another?”

“Ughhh.  If it can hold that, then it will probably hold a few more cranks from the jack.”

“Shit,” I said,  adrenaline still pumping strong.  “Alright,  lets  jack it up.  Grab the spare and get ready to throw it on.”

Walking forward,  I cautiously pumped the handle of the jack,  forcing the van up one click.  The precarious angle held.

Like a pit crew,  Niko and I positioned the wheel on the lugs and spun the nuts with purpose.  Scrambling for the tire iron,  I tightened the nuts, shacking with energy.

Breathing deeply, we stood back. High fives were in order.

Here are some more links,

Twitter.

Chattering over washboards the size of coffee mugs, I continued the Syncro’s acceleration from second to third. 35 mph. 40, the silverware in the cabinet behind me stopped chattering. 45, the coins in the ash tray quieted down.

“I think the sign said, “Dust Control, 15 MPH,” my cousin, Nikko, grinned, peering up from the Delorme Gazetteer of Southern California.

“We would separate our retinas, if we did that.”  I swerved around a six inch pothole onto the soft shoulder.  “A teacher in high school taught me this trick on a field trip to central Oregon.  He would go 50 in a fucking school bus on one lane dirt roads. In-Sane… Instead of going up and down with every bump,  we are cruising over the top of them.  Plus it’s more fun.”

“Looks like it, just don’t tweet and drive.”

“Oh noo, this is a two handed, white knuckle job.”

In the distance, the straight-away took a sharp turn up a hillside, switchbacking towards a pass, some 1500 feet off the valley floor.

“Where are we camping tonight? I asked, looking back at the dust plume behind us and the warm light on the opposite hills.

“In the next valley.  The Park Service map says this shit dead ends in two miles, or so, but we’ll take that pass into the next valley.”

“Party on Wayne.”

A #vanlife kitchen.

Sunrise.  Dirt roads, like in the foreground, are standard travel.

Nikko taking in the view.

Translation  from Park Service Square, this means, “Good things lay ahead.”

Flash flood’s a’comin’.

Red roads.

Ribeye with asparagus and bacon. Dinner.

Sunset on the Saline Valley.

Flat.

4:52 PM.

Open country.

An abounded mine turned rust pit turned shooting range.

Death Valley comes to life when you head off the main roads, away from the Cruise America RV’s, fanny packs and gas stations with scorpion lollipops.   Various jeep and hiking trails crisscross the park and surrounding BLM land, exposing remote areas.  This access combined  with December’s short days and relatively cool temperatures keep the park quiet.  For four days,  Nikko and I explored the area, and encountered 5 other groups.  Some things are better off season.

Here are some more links,

Death Valley (Picasa).