Post blogger reckless G looks out her window in Carbondale and sees the world. "I quickly became addicted to observing the new family," she blogs, "picking up my binoculars a dozen times or more each day. I cherished this routine and the rare opportunity to observe nature’s wonder at such convenience. Within a week, the chicks began to develop their adult feathers, or ‘fledge’ as it’s called in the birding community. I anticipated watching them learn to fly; jumping out of the nest onto the thickly needled branches of their spruce abode, awkwardly testing their new wings as mom and dad encouraged them to explore the outer branches and eventually take that big leap. But it didn’t happen that way at all."
Minturn VFW Post 10721 members and supporters will meet for breakfast followed by the placement of American flags on military veterans' graves. Next stop? 10th Mountain Division Camp Hale at 11 a.m.
There is something about the name Cape Foulweather that fascinates me. My mind races with thoughts ranging from the history of the area and wanting to know the facts, to images of a full length feature film of mystery and suspense starring Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino and Jack Nicholson. I wish there was an actual town of Cape Foulweather. I would consider renting a house there while I wait to purchase my sloop or ketch.
The name itself, Cape Foulweather, doesn’t bring the idea of a warm sunny day to the average tourist. The truth is that Captain James Cook discovered and named the Point in 1778 when he first sighted the mainland of North America on the Oregon Coast, and one of the sudden fierce storms, which greeted his arrival, almost put an end to his historical expedition. Captain Cook never set foot on land at Cape Foulweather and couldn’t wait for the storm to pass so he could set sail again and leave this area. I have just the opposite draw to Cape Foulweather, even if there are winds up to 100 mph a few times each year.
I leaped at the opportunity to sail to the Point after we scrapped the idea of our Wednesday Night Regatta in Yaquina Bay in Newport, Oregon when there wasn’t even the slightest hope of a breeze strong enough to fill the sails for us to race. We placed our bets on the wind currents out at sea, as unpredictable as they always are, once we left the bay under power and raised the sails heading north a few miles to Cape Foulweather. The sea was as flat as I have ever seen it. Barely a ripple slapped against the boat. We were under power while we tried to catch some wind. Finally a whisper of wind became just strong enough for us to cut the engine and use full sails. It was slow going and unusually quiet. Seagulls were passing us the way a Lamborghini zips past a Geo Metro with an 8 watt blow dryer motor.
It was a short trip, even at our slow pace, but it was enough time spent on the sea to remind me that I don’t really care much about regattas and racing as much as I do spending quiet time in reverie on the sailboat. Since 1965 I have had my share of fast cars. But that’s another story for another blog. Boats are in a different category for me when it comes to speed and purpose.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m older, wiser, and no longer in a hurry for my days to pass by quickly. Time seems to stand still when I’m sailing. I forget that there is already an influx of tourist traffic on Hwy 101. I don’t think about how long it takes me to drive home from Newport to Lincoln City. The sun doesn’t set until after 9pm here in the Pacific Northwest. It isn’t dark until well after 10pm, so my days are longer and my nights are very short. I don’t get much sleep and I can use all the siesta time kicking back on the boat, listening to a sail flap when it loses its wind now and then, and I have to do some quick tacking to avoid turning the engine back on.
One of my co-workers who has been sailing for over 25 years here told me he became a little bored with sailing. He said, “What can you do? You leave the bay, you go straight for a little while, then you either turn left or turn right. There’s nowhere to go.” I reminded him that it’s not the destination that matters. It’s the journey. Even if that journey only takes you a few miles to the left or the right. It’s a journey filled with valuable time that rejuvenates the heart and soul of expatriated Woody Creek dreamers like me.
As soon as the food was gone, the chicks would immediately fall silent and settle back down to sleep. And I’d go back to work. I quickly became addicted to observing the new family, picking up my binoculars a dozen times or more each day. I cherished this routine and the rare opportunity to observe nature’s wonder at such convenience.
Within a week, the chicks began to develop their adult feathers, or ‘fledge’ as it’s called in the birding community. I anticipated watching them learn to fly; jumping out of the nest onto the thickly needled branches of their spruce abode, awkwardly testing their new wings as mom and dad encouraged them to explore the outer branches and eventually take that big leap. But it didn’t happen that way at all. One day they were there and the next day, they were gone.
I read in Friday’s Aspen Times that off-leach dogs may soon be allowed to run free on Smuggler Road. Judging by all of the un-leached dogs you see scampering up and down this popular hiking trail each day, you’d have thought this was already law. I wish I’d known that dogs were required to be leached. I would have strapped a billy club to my belt and made hundreds of citizen arrests by now.
The Con Man sticks a fork into the carcass of conservatism and says it's finished as a unifying national force. Also: an interview with Nick Heil, the author of "Dark Summit," the story of the deadliest season on Mount Everest--and a final shot at John McCain's disturbing ties to lobbyists with disturbing clients like the military junta in Burma.
It’s all action-focused, forcefulness. I’ve changed a lot since then. There are so many different ways to go about being fulfilled. I grew up in a home with very competitive athletes. My sister is a professional windsurfer, my brother is on the U.S. Sailing team, an Olympic athlete. I didn’t perform at that level. So that’s all I knew. How to go about it all the way.
This week, the Daily News reported that the City of Aspen is requesting locals go to aspenpitkin.com and complete a questionnaire. According to the article, the questionnaire asks people to list their three favorite places to congregate, as well as their three favorite places to be alone and reflect.
My first thought was that I didn’t want the city to know my favorite places. If they knew, they might do something stupid and ruin them.
So, instead I’ve opted to present the city with the three places that I don’t like to congregate, and the three places that I definitely don’t like to go when I want to be alone and reflect.
Last summer I swapped paradises. After decades of life in the Rocky Mountains, I never expected that I would return to my coastal foundations to live at sea level again. The first sign of infection was my desire to properly learn to sail in 2006.
Sure, I already spent time over the years in the water on powerboats and the more laid back ships under sail. I managed to handle both when I needed to, but not with full confidence. I wanted to learn all there is to know about sailing, so that when I have my own live-aboard vessel, I won’t feel like a stranger in a foreign land.
Leaving Colorado wasn’t easy. I had my doubts. I had more than my share of fear. I knew that the only way to do it was jump in without knowing how deep the water was. There was no plan in effect. It was almost a spur of the moment decision. It had to be; the longer I gave thought to leaving, the more likely it was I would never find the courage to leave. Change is a difficult experience, but it was time. The mountains and I had run our course in our relationship. The bug had spread and I couldn’t wait to breathe in the salty air once again. The Oregon Coast was about to be my new home.
The risk of leaving what was known as my life in the mountains has paid off. I have the best of nature here. I can walk three blocks and be on the beach. I step outside my back deck and walk thirty yards down the hill to the lake and private boat docks. In the evening I witness incredible sunsets. In the course of a day I can watch rain and hail in the morning turn to snow, then step outside under blue skies on a perfect spring day within a few hours of the wet skies drying up. A dozen deer graze off my deck several times each day. A bald eagle has a favorite branch in a dead pine tree, where he can scan the lake for signs of activity he considers for lunch. Osprey and Seahawks find ways of hiding themselves in the dense forest ten yards out the back door.
I’m up in the morning while it is still dark outside. I have a twenty-five mile drive to work, south of where I live. The commute is down Pacific Coast Highway 101. For the most part I have a constant view of the ocean, with the brief exceptions while driving through thick forest. The highest elevation I reach is 500 feet above sea level, at the top of Cape Foulweather. Once I see the Yaquina Lighthouse in the distance I know I will be at work in another fifteen minutes, unless I let up on the gas and stretch out my time outdoors to count the number of boats that are out this early in the morning. The sun is rising as I leave my house and my entire drive to work takes me through a more spectacular experience than I have ever seen anywhere else before.
A coastal sunrise. How does a writer describe one and do it justice? These photographs make an attempt, but can't really provide you with that wrap-around feeling of being there in the moment. Hemmingway was simple. He described it as “The sun came up.” In Homer’s Odyssey it was “Rosy – fingered Dawn appeared.” The sunrise I was presented with the other day was one of those moments we want to tell everyone about. It was the kind you want to get on the phone and tell your friends about. It was something that I immediately wanted to write about, but kept putting it off until now. It was like nothing I had ever been privileged to see before. This sunrise seemed like it was the main event I had needed to finally make me feel at home, without any regrets of leaving Colorado. It was my ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ gift from God.
It had rained most of the night before. The storm was still hanging around the area, but without the need for the wipers to run at a constant pace. Every few minutes were enough to clear the view. The sky was mostly dark gray, except to the east, where the background was filled with mountains, pine trees and clouds of colors that ranged from gold to orange, brown, smoke, gray, pink, and some white puffs now and then. The sun caused them to keep changing color. The few little valleys of the mountains had mist hanging in them. To the south the sky was very dark gray. To the west, the ocean seemed black. The sky wasn’t much lighter than the sea. Something was causing the waves breaking to appear pink instead of white. It was glorious! I wanted to stop the car, and stop time. I didn’t want this color palette to end. I found myself wishing I was on that black sea in my own boat taking it all in.
This experience lasted nearly thirty minutes. By the time I was almost to work it began to rain and the wind was blowing it sideways. The sun was up, the pink, gold, orange and brown clouds were now varying shades of gray, and I tried to remember when I had ever been privy to a sunrise like this one before. The strange thing is that I have never been one to really appreciate sunrises. I have always been a sunset kind of person. Until now.
There are times I miss Colorado. Thankfully, there are days like my Sunrise Day that allow me to admit I made the right choice. I wish you could have been here to see it. I hope you all have one of your own one day.
So absorbed was I in my thoughts, I only partially heard the harsh crackling of nearby brush and breaking limbs. But what happened next brought me leaping to my feet and turned my blood to ice. The journal fell from my hands.
Terrifying roars and bellows filled the air, and sounds of snapping limbs echoed across the river. Whatever it was, it was BIG--and the battle was being joined.
"What the hell was that?" Rex shouted, dropping his pan and scrambling out of the water.
"I'm not sure," I said, as he stopped beside me, breathing hard.
"I don't think we should wait around," Rex said--and at that moment a bull moose stumbled into view, head erect and blood blackening on his torn shoulder. He lowered his rack, as an enormous grizzly rushed at him and swatted the antlers aside. The grizzly charged with his thick neck lowered and extended, and his jaws opened wide as he lunged for the moose's throat. Somehow, the moose avoided the grizzly's teeth, and dug in his haunches so that the muscles in his legs were cable-tight. He countered with a lunge at the bear's chest. Horn ripped through his brown hide, hit bone--and the grizzly roared, but the killing lust was on him...
There is something about the name Cape Foulweather that fascinates me. My mind races with thoughts ranging from the history of the area and wanting to know the facts, to images of a full length feature film of mystery and suspense starring Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino and Jack Nicholson. I wish there was an actual town of Cape Foulweather. I would consider renting a house there while I wait to purchase my sloop or ketch.
I leaped at the opportunity to sail to the Point after we scrapped the idea of our Wednesday Night Regatta in Yaquina Bay in Newport, Oregon when there wasn’t even the slightest hope of a breeze strong enough to fill the sails for us to race. We placed our bets on the wind currents out at sea, as unpredictable as they always are, once we left the bay under power and raised the sails heading north a few miles to Cape Foulweather. The sea was as flat as I have ever seen it. Barely a ripple slapped against the boat. We were under power while we tried to catch some wind. Finally a whisper of wind became just strong enough for us to cut the engine and use full sails. It was slow going and unusually quiet. Seagulls were passing us the way a Lamborghini zips past a Geo Metro with an 8 watt blow dryer motor.
Last summer I swapped paradises. After decades of life in the Rocky Mountains, I never expected that I would return to my coastal foundations to live at sea level again. The first sign of infection was my desire to properly learn to sail in 2006.
