“Has anyone seen the shit shovel and TP?” I asked, hunting around our camp.

“Dan took it and the Lambo (Dan’s shitty mountain bike with Lamborghini badges) ten minutes ago and headed out for his morning routine.”

My small cup of freshly percolated coffee  was kicking in, bringing the mid morning stroll into the desert for a scenic shit from casual to imminent.

“Fuck.” This is not the answer I was hoping to hear. I scoured our camp of three tents, Dan’s Vanagon, Johnny’s pickup and a dozen or so surfboards for an unmolested roll of toilet paper.  Finding one by the camp fire, I left with purpose.

“Those fifteen tacos you ate yesterday coming back to haunt you?”

“Hardly dude,” I responding with wavering confidence , still believing the hubris that my stomach could support the onslaught of a dozen street tacos in Ensenada with no delayed after affects.

 My brisk walk turned in to a slow jog and eventual settled at a dead sprint down the dirt road leading towards the desert and undefined outhouse zone behind the row of camps.  Looking back, our camp and half a dozen other surfers slowly shrank behind me. “I can make it,” I groaned to myself. A hundred yards in front of me,  Dan crested the small hill walking his bike and holding the TP and shovel in one hand.  We moved with a different sense of urgency.

“Give me that fucking shovel,”  I yelled,  doing my best to mimic Usain Bolt at the Beijing Olympics.

“Oooooh, Taco Greed?”  Dan bent over laughing.  Holding the shovel out in his left hand,  I grabbed the baton and kept on my path.

My situation was quickly deteriorating. Perhaps if, I walked slowly I could control myself?  No time for that. The shovel would be used as a clean up operation not to dig a premeditated, shallow grave digging tool as I had hoped when I left camp a minute before.

Avoiding cactus and other foot fuckers that could compromise my chances of making it out of this unscathed and unsoiled,  I left the trail and set out over the hard ground of the Baja Desert.  Dan’s laughs faded as I crested the small hill.  Glancing behind me, Dan’s head was still visible but the camp behind him was blocked.

I spun around, dropping the shovel and TP in one motion. Frantically, I fidgeted with my belt.  Despite my sprinting and efforts, the dike broke as I unbuttoned my jeans.  Inches from the finish line, I crashed.

Nap time.

Home is where you park it!

Suiting up.

Restocking on produce at a local grocery store.

Local transportation.

Erin attending to the morning dishes.

Everything you need,  nothing you don’t.

Tide pool exploration.

Siesta Time.

Kitchen for six.

A luxury.

Shred sticks.

Halibut beware.

Right by the beach.

Let there be light.

Dan’s Subaru powered Vanagon.

Shred sleds.

Ryan heading out to shred a few.

Banana boat.

Essentials.

Changing room.

Going through the roll of toilet paper like a ten year old through Fruit Stripe Gum,  I  cleaned up the mess as well as I could.  Periodically, I paused to burn the mountain of paper collecting in front of me.  As the sun ross behind me,  the off shore wind picked up.  The swell, that we chased down from Santa Barbara two days before, was showing up.  Lines, groomed by the wind,  were bending in around the point.  A few of the old time Baja guys were already out on their fun boards catching the best ones, showing their hard earned knowledge of the finicky wave.

Removing my boxers, I put my jeans back on and started my bowlegged retreat back to camp.

My boxers flapped from my index finger like a flag of defeat.  I considered berrying the boxers along with the mountain of rejected tacos in a shallow grave.  Coyotees would get it in no time and leave them discarded along the beach and I opted to burn them.  Thankfully, the off shore wind kept the shit smell at bay.  I walked slowly,  watching the waves break a hundred yards out from our camp.

“I’m not the first person or the last one to shit myself in Baja,” I reassured to myself. “It’s a cost of doing business.”

Here are some more links,

Fun and Dusted (Korduroy TV),

Old Clothes (Johnny McCann).

iPhone 5.  Want to find a place to eat?  Whats the weather doing?  How long does it take to get to Bishop from here?  It’s my connection to the world and spontaneity.  Mine is jailbroken and with the help of a handy  $20 tethering app, I can connect my laptop to the phone’s 3g modem.  Screw telephone companies and their price gouging ways.  (MyWi tether app)

LL Bean 20° Goose Down bag.  Few things are more essential to a nice camping experience than a good sleeping bag.   20° covers pretty much all of the temperatures I’ve come across in the last 60,000 miles.  After over 500 nights in the last two years,  my bag is still going strong. (LL Bean)

Poler Camera Bag.  I use this thing as a murse to hold headphones, iPhone Chargers and of course, my camera gear.   Remove your chatskis, and it doubles as a cooler for a six pack of your favorite beverage. (Poler)

Gerber Multitool. A solid pocketknife is a must.  It comes in handy in all sorts of situations. I’ve worked on my van,  cleaned fish and taken out a cactus spike in Mexico with it.  Plus it works when you need to open up a snack.  (Gerber Gear)

Casio F-91W watch. Back in the 90′s, a training camp in Afghanistan taught Al-Qaeda members to use this watch as a timer for bombs. Rumor has it that because of this,  the CIA has thrown Arabs into Gitmo and other godforsaken places simply because they wear the watch.  It also happens to be the most widely distributed watch in the world and costs $9 on Amazon.  The box claims that it’s water resistant but I’ve surfed with it dozens of times.  (amazon)

Dr. Bronner’s.  I don’t always shower, but when I do, I use Dr Bonner’s peppermint soap.  Me and every other NPR listener you’ve met raves about this stuff, but honestly its a must. You can wash dishes, clothes, your hands and even your teeth with this stuff. (amazon)

Short rubber boots by Tretorn.  When the weather gets shitty, you don’t want to have shoes.  These short boots have 90% of the upside of full-size rubber boots without the inconvenience.  I’ve worn them in the forest in British Columbia and on the beach in Mexico.  They have a faux-fur liner so your feet stay warm when it’s cold.  Don’t take this fur as invitation to not wear socks though, or they will start smelling like a DARPA-funded science project.  (Tretorn)

Down Jacket.  I wear this jacket 70% of the time.  It packs down into a travel pillow.  I take it everywhere.  Patagonia has a rock solid warranty so if it starts hemorrhaging feathers,  you can take it back. (Patagonia.com)

Backpacking Stove.  This thing packs into a box half the size of your fist and can cook a steak.  Need I say more?  It also has an auto lighting feature so you don’t need to fuck around with matches or a lighter,  things I’m always losing.  The tanks are easy to get your hands on and last a while.  (amazon)

John Wesley Twin Fin Pin Tail.  My friend Beamer turned me onto John and his Pin tail twin fins surfboards.  I’ve surfed them up and  down the coast and had a blast on them.  If I had to take one board with me on a trip, I’d take this one. (John’s blog)

Wrist Rocket. If I ever get around to it, I’d love to write a piece called Zen and the Art of the slingshot.  There are so many variables at play.  Rock size, distance from target, aiming technique.  It’s great for passing the time. (Amazon)

One of my favorite parts of living in a camper  is how it has shown me that I can be happy with very few things.  I’ve met a community of people on the road that take more pride in what they do than what they own.  These people have inspired me to think differently about my relationship to things.

Here are some more links,

Vanlife (Tumblr).

The underpowered Volkswagen hummed as we we sped through the cobblestone streets of the tiny Spanish town.  Jokin,  the Basque local whose house we were staying at, sang along to some American pop song that was never popular in America.  I didn’t want to spoil his illusions of America with this insight however, and kept my mouth shut.   The van smelled of damp wetsuits and smoke from hand rolled cigarettes.  Surfboards of all shapes, sizes and colors took up two thirds of the bench seat beside me. Rounding a sharp corner,  I braced the stack of boards with my forearm.

“How much farther until we will be able to see the wave?” Ryan Burch asked from the passenger seat.

“Ehhh five minutes, maybe a little more,” Jokin responded optimistically.  This meant about fifteen minutes, I surmised.

For the last few days,  Ryan had been working on shaping and glassing a board specifically for Mundaka.  A looming swell had the locals in a frenzy.  Big waves spots in Portugal and Spain were breaking and surfers from around the world were flying in. Garret McNamara would ride a 100 foot wave that same day, a few hundred miles from where we were on the same coastline.   It was pure coincidence that we were in the area for the swell.  We had been planning our trip for months.  Unprepared for the coming waves,  Ryan shaped a new board, designed for bigger waves.  Ryan’s boards are unlike anything I’ve ever seen.  As a gifted surfer and visionary shaper, Ryan pushes the boundaries of what surfboards can do.  Instead of imitating and updating the past, as is the norm these days, he experiments with new designs.  Form follows function.  My good friend Cyrus has believed in Ryan’s surfing and shapes for years, but it took seeing him in action to fully appreciate it.

As a goofy footed surfer,  Ryan’s boards are specifically designed to work with a right foot forward stance.  The carbon rails give the board strength and allow them to flex.  Check out more of his designs on his tumblr, Bobbers and Sinkers.

The van pulled over on the shoulder on a grassy hill.  Firing up the hazard lights, we jumped out and stood on the guardrail. A warm south wind blew from behind us. Even from the hill, a few miles away from the wave,  I could tell there was something special happening.  Starting at the point and feathering a few hundred yards into the river mouth,  the waves lined up.   They were big.  Bigger than any surfable wave I’d ever seen.  The look of shock and anticipation on Ryan’s face reinforced my growing idea that this was a day I couldn’t miss.  The urgency and severity of the opportunity was  contagious.

“Classic Mundaka!  This is rare, a gift.” Jokin said in a thick Basque accent as swung back into the driver’s seat and shut the door.  Turning on the van, we peeled off.  The whole stop had lasted maybe fifteen seconds.

“You gotta go out.” Ryan said, facing forward in the passenger seating.  Before I could answer,  he turned around and looked me in the face. “You’ll be fine.  Take Cy’s gun.”

As soon as I saw the waves, standing on the guardrail, I knew I had to go. Smiling sheepishly I nodded in agreement.

Sprinting toward the harbor, the arms of my wet suit flapped at my waste.  At the end of the walk way, we zipped up our  suits, pulled our hoods over our heads and checked our leashes. Pausing, I watched a wave grind through, sucking sand up the face and throwing spray fifteen yards behind it.  As I stood in awe, Ryan moved with the efficiency, seemingly unimpressed.

Standing up, Ryan tested his fins and moved towards the ten foot ledge over hanging the mouth of the Harbor.

“I’ll see you out there.”

Here are some more links,

Bobbers and Sinkers Tumblr (Ryan Burch’s Blog).

Cooped up in my apartment in New York, just over two years ago, I started obsessing over buying one of my own and living out of it.  Since then, I’ve left New York and moved into a van.  This transition has fueled my interest in and appreciation for such vehicles.  Shortly after moving into my van,  I started tagging vans and other campers with #vanlife tag on instagram and then put together the submission-based Tumblr to go a long with it. Recently, I worked with my friend Maddie Joyce on coming up with a new design for the site.  I’m really happy with how it turned out.  Here are some of my favorite shots I’ve taken doing the last two years and shared through the site.

A Nissan pick up in Central Baja, Mexico, Winter 2013.

A Westfalia parked along the PCH north of Ventura, Winter 2013.

My Syncro parked in the Los Padres National Forest, Summer 2012.

A Toyota parked on the beach in Southern Baja,  Winter 2012.

A surplus Russian Transport parked on the Beach in Kamchatka Russia,  Summer 2012.

The idea isn’t a fetishizing of the vehicles themselves,  but a celebration of the idea of traveling by cheep in a vehicle.  The site has received thousands of submissions since launching and its been great to see all the inspiring photos come in. Head over to van-life.net and share your photos of ships of the open road.

Here are some more links,

Vanlife (Tumblr),

Vanlife (#tag on instagram),

Home Is Where Your Park It! (Facbook).

“Do you hear that?” I asked to no one in particular. “The rain stopped,” I chuckled in surprise and contempt.

Cyrus (Sutton) looked up from the pot of vegetables he was cooking on a stove in the small apartment in Hendaye, France and studied the window.  The squall had subsided, and the trees were no longer shaking like middle school boys at their first dance. “Looks like it,” he said, returning to his afternoon snack.

Since arriving in Bilbao a week before,  the wind and rain had never stopped.  Growing up in the Pacific Northwest and experiencing a fair share of New England’s Nor’easters, the Basque weather caught me off guard.  The storms came in from the North Atlantic, slowed a little bit courtesy of the small speed bump known as the British Isles and then slammed into the southern European coast.  During our stay in the Basque country,  the largest wave ever surfed,was surfed five hours down the coast in Portugal.

James and Ryan looked out the window and nodded in agreement.  Despite arriving in Bilbao a week before, we were still jet lagged and worn out from surfing.

“What time is Sancho meeting us for dinner?”

“We have to meet him in San Sebastian at 7:30.”

Glancing at my watch, it was few minutes before four.  I was restless and jet lagged.  My clothes were damp and sandy from the constant transition from standing on a rainy beach to wearing a wetsuit to standing back on rainy beach.  Rising from the couch, I walked over to the window.  The sun peered through a break in the clouds.  I reached for my bag and jacket.  ”I’m going to go grab a coffee and take a look around. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“I may see you at the cafe, I need to check on the good old internet. You know,  make sure its still there..”

Walking down the stairs of the  comfortable but sparse apartment building, I exited onto the an empty street. The roar of waves crashing against the breakwater at high tide a block away echoed around the Orwellian apartment buildings.  Large puddles surrounded the storm grates and scraps from the various palm trees dotted the sidewalks.  During the summer months,  Hendaye is full of vacationers from inland.  It’s not as fancy as Biarritz or San Sebastian and in the off-season it showed.   Save for the a few surfers scrambling to get their wetsuits on,  the streets looked post Zombie apocalypse.

Heading towards the beach,  I searched the pockets of my jacket for my headphones.   Finding them, I plugged them into my phone and resumed Hemingway’s fabled, “The Sun Also Rises.”  It was nice to be alone and walking in a city, albeit a small, empty one. Back when I lived in New York, I opted out of taking a cab or subway to work and walked instead.  That hour per day was my alone time, it kept me sane.  I slipped into a similar mindset as I wandered Hendaye’s empty streets.

Luc’s Mini Cooper and his hand shaped eleven foot single fin.

Sancho making lunch.

Rainbow!!

“Should I stay or should I go now?”

Showers at the Mundaka Harbor.

Ryan Burch having a beer and watching waves at Mundaka after the best day of surfing of the trip.

Old-world streets.

The planner in Peta’s shaping bay.

The French and Spanish boarder.

A basement stairway in a five hundred year old castle in Spain.

It’s alive!  That little black speck on the wave is Ryan Burch.

A 70′s style single fin gun, a two plus one gun, and Cyrus Sutton‘s experimental one plus one gun.

Mildew in the making.

Sancho looking out over a thousand foot cliff.

Cobblestone streets.

Red, white and grey.

Cyrus Sutton and my surfboards for the trip.

 Cy and his broken 7’6 gun.

The street lights flickered into action, punctuating twilight.  My immersion in Hemingway’s bullfights had lasted two hours.   I needed to get back to the apartment for dinner. The wind was turning from a straight west to a south. Low pressure in the Atlantic was sucking warm air from Spain’s interior.

“We could score Mundaka in the next few days,” I mumbled to the empty street.  ”With any luck, we might get some sun…” I continued my one sided conversation.

Here are some more links,

The Fun Also Rises (Tumblr #),

Regressing Forward (Cyrus Sutton’s blog).

“When are you going to that wicked country?  Your father tells me you are heading down soon.  How do you pronounce it? Ba JA?”  my 86 year old grandmother inquired from my cousin’s couch in San Diego.

“Dan and I are leaving tomorrow morning.”

“But it’s Christmas.  You’re not going to stay?  You just got here?”

“I know, Oma, but the highways in Baja will be empty.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?  I hear all these stories of people being found with their heads off.”

“It sure can be.  The border areas around Texas and incredibly dangerous,  but the place where I go is empty.  It’s just fishermen and a handful of surfers,” I explained.

“What do you do for food and water?  Isn’t it incredible arid?”

“Well we bring food and water in jugs, and we spear fish.  Depending on our luck, we buy fish from fisherman”

“So there aren’t restaurants or towns?”

“Think of it like Nevada with waves.  You drive 10 hours on a beat up, two lane road and then turn off and drive a few hours on dirt roads and then you park on the beach.”

“…And then you surf all day?  Sounds wonderful.”

“It sure is Oma.  Especially if you’re into surfing.”

My cousin Becca sat down on the other side of my grandmother, and the conversation shifted away from my upcoming trip.  It was already 9:30, and my jet-lagged relatives from the east coast were starting to wind down.  The fireplace popped away on wood trucked in from the Sierras and the smell of a Christmas tree overpowered the scraps of dinner still lying on the dinning room table.  I was full, too full, and I laid my head back against the wall.  I could fall asleep right now, I thought to myself.   Across the room, Dan talked with my aunt.  Over the chatter, it sounded like he was having a similar conversation with my aunt about the tenets and risks of driving to Baja.

Sunset at low tide in Central Baja.

Para Gringos!

A Taco stand in Guerrero Negro.

Two 10 footers.

Naranjas for sale on the side of the 1 in Northern Baja.

There is a bad moon on the rise.

Home is where you park it!

Dan after a four hour session.

The refrigerator at a road side Taqueria.

Off my wave cook.

Be prepared.

Foot warmers.

Red, white and blue #vanlife.

A gringo dog watching over a camp in Central Baja.

At 5:32,  the standard IOS allarm went off, waking me from my slumber on the couch.  Rolling over, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked out the window.  It was still pitch black.  The street lamps lit the palm trees and a sixty degree Southern California breeze blew in from the open window.  Nothing felt like Christmas morning.  My cousin Nikko’s snore crept under the bedroom door into the living room.  Sunrise wasn’t for another two hours, but we still had to park Dan’s van at the airport and get gas.  Those two hours would go by fast.  Kicking off the blankets,  I reached for my jeans and pulled them on.  Feeling around in the dark, I grabbed my backpack and made sure my iPhone charger was in it.   Being as quiet as possible,  I locked the door behind me and headed out to my van.

Dan was already waiting right behind my van.

“Merrrry Christmas.”

“Happy Kwanzaa to you too.”

“You ready to go?”

“Absolutely.”

Here are some more links,

Out of Reception (Tumblr).

My lips were  burned and my armpits ached from three days of wearing a wet suit more than clothes.  Surfing encourages greed.  Scarcity explains it.  When the waves are good,  life comes to a screeching halt, and you scramble to satisfy your thirst saved up during the long flat periods.  My thirst wasn’t satisfied, just dulled to the point where I could comfortably pass up a session.

“Ehhhh,  how is it?”

“Really good,  there are barrels all over the place.  I’m suiting up right now and paddling out. Gotta go.” Trevor hung up.

“It’s really good,” Good,  I said to Dan as I plugged my phone back into the cigarette lighter.  ”Trevor is going out right now.  You wanna go?”

Dan was fresh off a cross country road trip, where the closest he got to waves was tanker wake in the Gulf.  ”Absolutely. Nice point break. Long, workable rides.  Are You?” Dan said mimick Keanu Reeves in Point Break.

Looking into the rear view mirror, I stared at my chapped lips and sunburnt face.  I was exhausted and, based on the amount of cars in the parking lot,  I knew I wouldn’t get many waves.  I didn’t feel like scrapping with 300 people for a wave or two.

“Na man.  I’m going to lurk on the beach for this one.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Yah,  the juice won’t be  worth the squeeze.  I’m pooped.”  I said with hint of conflict.

By the time we made it to the beach,  the sun was flirting with the hills of the Channel Islands.  I walked with Dan along the beach to towards the river mouth.  The crowd was emptying out.  Familiar silhouette and boards took off at the river mouth and pumped into the cove.

“You’re blowing it.”

“Yah, you’re probably right.”

Dan strapped on his leash and waded over the rocks.  The current pulled him down towards the flag pole as he started paddling.  Waves kept rolling in with no end in sight. Checking my watch, I looked at the sun.   If I ran, I could get a few.

Here are some more links,

Out of Reception (Tumblr),

@Fosterhunting (Instagram).

Mt. Bachelor’s parking lot was empty,  save for a few RV’s and vans parked in the corner of the lot.  Looking for Nick’s van,  I spotted it nestled between two pickup truck campers.  Pulling up behind the group of campers, I parked and walked towards Nick’s van.  Icicles hung from the corners of every vehicle as a result of the mid-teens temperatures the night before. Knocking on the window,  I heard movement in the van, and opened the door.

“Rise and shine,  it’s butt whipping time!”  I said,  drowning out Nick and Alex’s groans as I opened the front door and hopped into the passenger seat.

“You guys stay warm last night?  It’s fucking freezing out.”

“We had the heater cranked all night, it wasn’t that bad,” Nick said from the fold down bed in the back of the van.

“Ha, how was the floor?” I asked Alex.  He lay on the ground wrapped in a Poler napsack surrounded by a few empty 12 ounce beer cans and a bag of chips.

“It was fine.  What time is it?”

“Uhh… Let me check..8:15,” I said checking my phone.  ”It’s dumping out!”

“Really?”

“Yah, you guys are tripping!  I’m going to go get first lift.  They start running in fifteen”

“Uhghh…” Nick rolled over onto his stomach.  ”We’ll see you up there.”

“Have it your way dude…”  I said tracking in snow out of the open door.  ”Give me a ring.”

Ass, Gas or Grass, Nobody Rides for Free.  For the record these empties were from parked activities, not mobile.

Shutting the door, I grabbed my board and headed towards the lift line.  They’ll be up in an hour I thought to myself.

I first met Nick snowboarding on Mt. Hood ten years ago.  Nick, myself and our friend Jarad ripped around Mt. Hood Meadows like we owned the place, cutting lift lines,  going out of bounds and occupying the lodge.   In the winter of 2004, we went on our first road trips by ourselves together in search of snow and hand rails.  When we graduated from high school, I decided to go to college, instead of focusing on snowboarding.  Nick went on to be a pro shredder and has rode his board in places like Lebanon, Russia and Chile.   Whenever I came back to Portland,  I’d meet up and chew the fat with Nick and Jarad.  During college and my stint in New York, these stories of old times, and Nick and Jarad’s current shenanigans, made me question my path.  Seven years later,  we are both living in our vans.

Note the icicles and empty beer holder.

The inside of #vanlife.

The Vantasy’s custom board rack.  Pure Cambvibes.

An hour later, my phone rang in my pocket as I road up the lift.  Sitting on my gloves, I wrangled my phone out of my breast pocket with my slow moving fingers.

“Where are you guys?  It’s going off!” I laughed, tucking my phone under my goggle strap.

“We are at the bottom of Sunrise (a lift).  Where are you?”

“I’m a few chairs a head of you,  see you at the top.”  Shutting off my phone I shoved it back into my pock and checked the zipper.  I couldn’t remember the last time Nick and I took laps together.  It must have been at least seven years.  I hooted in anticipation.

Here are some more links,

The Vantasy Christmas.

Pulling off the Washougal River Road into the gravel parking lot, I scanned the dozen or so parked cars for a familiar face.   None stood out,  but then again,  I hadn’t been a regular at the Washougal River Mercantile for the better part of a decade.

“Do you still come here a lot Mom?” I asked.

“All the time.” She responded from the passenger seat.

“Good.”

Parking in an empty place, I checked my pockets for my wallet and grabbed a handfull of change from the ash tray.  I was hungry, and the Merc (as it is is called by locals), was the only option for 20 miles.

The steel bell chimed as I pushed the door open.  A few members of the Fuller family (three generations work at the store) stood around the cash register and met me with a familiar smile. I said hello back and continued towards the grocery section.  They layout, selection and prices, haven’t changed much since is started going there 20 years.  Heading towards the  deli section,  I searched the heat lamps for a bacon egg and cheese breakfast sandwich.  All sold out.

“A little late to the party.” I murmured as I checked my watch and headed towards the expansive beef jerky section for my protein fix.

Growing up 10 minutes away from the Merc afforded me an intimate knowledge of its offerings.  Some of the more glamorous purchases over the last 20 years include but aren’t limited to; my first .22 there, a Savage Single shot bolt action, my first rated R movie there, The Rock,  and my first steelhead fishing set up were all purchased at the Merc.  In addition to these notable purchase are countless Charleston Chews,  gallons of milks,  pipe fittings, and dozens of eggs.

As a kid,  it seemed liked the best store in the world with everything I wanted and nothing I didn’t.  It still holds true.

Once ubiquitous in rural areas,  these stores are fading to obscurity in the wake of suburban sprawl and shopping centers.  It’s happening in Washougal.  With the Portland Metro area constantly growing outward,  places like the Merc are feeling increased pressure from chain grocery and sporting good stores.

All the beverages you need.

The hunting and fishing bragging wall. Someday I’d like to make it on here.

Two locals.

Grabbing my coffee and Tillamook beef jerky pack, I walked past the pluming section towards the cash registered.

While searching my pockets for rolled up dollar bills I made small talk with the clerk.  She had been my baby sitter when I was 10 and hadn’t recognize me.  While talking, I noticed a hand written sine taped to the cash register.  The Sharpie on 8.5X11 paper read, “Gas Purchases limited to 10$.”  Taking a swig of my coffee, I bid farewell and pushed the sliding door open.  Walking towards the syncro, I milled the implications of the sign over.

“No gas sales over 10$?  Would that even get you to Washougal?” I asked my Mom as she walked up to the Syncro. I stood with my back against the drivers side.

“It’s not good.  They must be really strapped for cash.”

“Those places are going the way of the Blackberry.  what a shame,” I said popping open the drivers door and jumping into the seat.

“Sure is,” she agreed.

Here are some more links,

Washougal River Mercantile (Yelp).

We were a few hours out of Tofino when the wind picked up.  The mellow waters of the fjord lost their shine, developing half a foot high waves that rattled the small aluminum boat and all of our supplies. Sitting on a cooler with enough food, water and beer for two nights,  I bounced along as Jeremy piloted the seventeen foot aluminum boat towards the mouth of the fjord. The cold air and increasing waves kept small talk to a minimum.

“How long till we get out of here?” I yelled to Jeremy.

“The fjord?”

“Yah,”  I replied nodding towards the mountains on the right.

“15 minutes.  It’s going to get rough for an hour or so.”

I smiled in acknowledgment.

Twenty minutes later, our boat was cutting through five to eight foot ground swell a mile off the coast of Vancouver Island.  Dressed head to toe in Gortex,  frigid water covered me each time we bounced off the the top of a wave.  Keeping my head down, I avoided the bulk of the spray, but this left me blind from anticipating the jolt of larger waves.  Every few minutes, a wave shook the boat like a screen door, jaring me from my perch on top of a Coleman cooler.  One such wave sent my Wayferes flying, eventually shattering against the gunnel.

After that, I went quite and focused on nothing, the way you do on a long run.  Time stands still and speeds ahead at the same time.

Campvibes.

A trail to hot springs.

Displacement hull.

The BC Ferries.

Jeremy and Trevor kickstarting a fire.

Seasonal housing.

A grey whale off the coast of Vancouver.

Jeremy checking the weather forecast.

Equipped to rip.

Coffee time.

Light house.

Trevor at the Harbor.

Bald eagle.

#vanlife.

Heater.

Hidden Kitchen.

Sea lion Bonanza.

Boatlife!

With a descending whine, Jeremy eased off the throttle and the boat coasted.   Looking up from my stopper,  Jeremy motioned towards a stretch of ocean just off of a point.  Shifting the throttle handel back into reverse, he anounced, “Thats the wave.  The tide is still way to high.”

“So we made it?” I asked, signaling my relief.

“Yah we are going to camp over in the bay.”

“Awesome.  I want to get the fuck off this boat.  That was brutal.”

“Ahh come on” Jeremy said in his Vancouver accent.  ”Last winter Pete, (Peter Devries a pro surfer from Tofino) and I made the same trip in three times the swell and howling 30 knots.”

“I don’t doubt that shit, but I’m a land lover. I feel 3 inches shorter.”

“Cry about it pro blogger (Jeremy’s nickname for me).  The winds nice,  lets get our camp set up.  We’ll be able to surf before sunset.”

Standing up, I stretched and looked down at cooler.  One larger circular dent in the green aluminium correlated with the placement and subsequent jarring of my ass during the ride.

Here are some more links,

BC or Bust Part 1 (ART),

BC or Bust (Cleanest Line).