Intentional Vagabonds

Our small band of friends came together during our early teenage years. As I remember, I first met Spock in the Boy Scouts. Spock was always the sensible one, living up to his namesake. Through him I met Bill who lived close by in our suburban neighborhood next to Minneapolis. Bill and his family were a kind of catalyst in our bonding. Tom was a close friend of Bill and was the fourth major player of the times. I remember Tom as the strongest and most serious in nature. He later married a former girlfriend of mine, Kari. We looked up to Bill's big brother, John, who had a beautiful girlfriend, a '54 Chevy, and told many tales of exotic adventures. John dubbed us “The Faggy Four” which became an identifier only amongst ourselves.

Many of the tales John told us involved travel via thumb to distant locations. My first jaunt in to this frugal mode of transport was in the summer of 1969 when I was 15. I really can't remember how we coordinated the whole venture, but our destination was a campground somewhere along the North Shore of Lake Superior where we would meet another party. I'm not sure who was with me, but I think it was Bob Rutt. We departed “The Trailer” (a whole nother story) heading East on Highway 210. We linked up to I-35 heading North to Duluth. We thumbed down a Semi-Truck hauling nice big recreational boats. The driver let us climb up to the front boat, directly over the truck's cab. We sat quite comfortably in the two forward seats of the boat, all the world before us. Most of the details are long forgotten, but I clearly remember the feeling of complete youthful freedom soaring through me. The sky was wide open. We flew down the big hill in to Duluth with all of the magnificent Lake Superior before us.

Two years later Tom, Bill, and I found ourselves in Jasper, Alberta. There may have been another vagabond along, possibly Dirk Layman. We were camped at the obligatory hippy camp at the edge of town. During the day we'd go off on hikes and in the evening we'd drink beer, smoke, and carouse around the campfire. One night we went into town and visited a festive Pub. Beers were 25 cents each and one finger up meant two. Tom, being 18 already, was old enough to drink in Canada. I may have been two weeks away from legal age, Bill maybe a month. We drank a lot. It was fun. Around midnight, Bill and I were groovin' over by the jukebox. The Rolling Stones were rocking away with “Bitch.”

Our merriment was suddenly interrupted by the intrusion of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman. He was unmounted at the time and he wore an unremarkable blue cop suit. He asked us how old we were. Probably with a great deal of slurring we answered, “Almost eighteen.” He asked us to follow him and we did, in a quite amiable way. As I've always told the story, we ended up spending the night in jail. A recent verification with Bill revealed that we were told to go to court the very next day and went back to our camp for the night. Either way, the next day we went before the Magistrate.

There we were, ragged and scraggily, standing before a man clad in a black robe and white wig. We were condemned for our violation of the Canadian legal drinking age law and asked how much money we had. Both of us were fined all the money we had, save maybe $20.00 to get us home. I bought a loaf of bread and a chunk of liverwurst. (Liverwurst turned out to be a poor choice for the road.) The next morning Bill and I began our return journey via thumb. I think Tom, being legal, headed out for more distant places.

And so our adventures became legend. At least in our own minds. Those times instilled in me a sense of adventure that remains secure despite the years gone by. Hitchhike across the country? Not at this point in my life. But the days on the road, the odysseys into the wild, and the spirit of seeking the unknown are strong memories that often spark plans for a new adventure.

Autumn Morning Run

I am most fortunate to have that valuable gift of time this morning.  I briskly walk through my neighborhood bound for Otter Beach, the starting point of all my local Runs.  I approach the trail that leads down to The Lake.  Suddenly the gentle and sweet songs of morning birds are overcome by a wild and joyous chorus of nearby coyotes.  The high pitched howling ends as suddenly as it started.  My first view of The Lake reveals a brilliant Sun floating atop a rapidly receding fog bank that obscures the far side of The Lake.  I walk out on to Otter Beach and glance up at the tallest Fir Tree just across the aptly named Turtle Cove.  Perched on the highest bare branches, seemingly in command, sit two Bald Eagles.  What a glorious sight inspiring this Run around The Lake.  After a brief stretch I begin my Run.  The trail along the West side of The Lake is bathed in tree filtered Sunlight.  Leaves of yellow, orange, red, and green adorn the branches above and carpet the trail below.  I settle in to my comfortable pace.  Nearing the North end of The Lake I see the streamlined head of a Loon moments before it dives.  Quoting Bob Dylan: "So happy just to be alive, Underneath this sky of Blue, On this New Morning..."

A lull in the wind compelled me to go for my routine paddle around the Lake early today. The Lake world was gray above, gray below, with a ragged band of dark green-blue-green separating the two. Nearby hills were barely visible through a shroud of steady Rain. The would be mirror smooth Lake surface was textured by splashes of billions... trillions... of raindrops falling straight down from the sky. I encountered a large Fish, an otter (I think), and several really cool unidentified waterfowl with remarkable submarine abilities. As usual, the frantic chattering of my kingfisher escort accompanied my voyage.

Call of the Ragged Crow

I camped last night at a quiet Forest Service Campground on the East side of the Pass between Republic and Kettle Falls.  I'm taking a tour of the Northern part of Washington, a sparsely populated and Beautiful section of the State.

This morning I rise and perform my various camping activities at my usual solo camping pace:  extremely slow.  I decide to take a bike ride up a Forest Road that follows a nearby creek.  The road is gravel, fairly well maintained, and very steep.  Up, Up, Up, Switchbacking, Up, Up, Up.

My ascent is accompanied by the complex chattering of a band of Crows.  At times sounding almost human like, it seems to be an intense conversation between maybe five crows.  They make short flights between closely spaced limbs on the pines alongside the road.

The climb goes on and up.  The Ragged Band ushers my way up this steep and steady Road.  The climb is difficult, I gain 800' in elevation in two miles.  The Crows accompaniment continues all the way to the top of the Draw.  After a short break, I continue onward and down the far side of this mini-pass.

Interesting...

And the Ragged Band of Crows remain on the camp side of the pass, presumably guarding their territory.

I see and hear a slight difference in these Eastern Washington Crows.  One, they are more voiced than their Western cousins.  The cawing and rattling and clicking conversations all seem louder and much more intense.  Also, wilder.  Two,  their tails do not end in a smooth and unbroken gentle arc like crows near my home.  Each crow I observe here seems to be missing a slice of tail feathers,  a more jagged feature... again wilder.

My descent on this far side of draw is short lived.  The main road forks off making a steep climb up the side of a mountain.  My ride continues...

I retrace my route back to camp and, seemingly, at the very moment I begin descent from the crest the Crows begin their escort again.  My ride down is swift and somewhat perilous so I lose track of the Ragged Band of Crows.

The Feel of Spring

No doubt, Spring is in the works here on the Western Front of the Cascades.  Snow measured in feet in the mountains and a healthy dusting on the hilltops can't squelch the emergence of Spring.  Over a week ago I saw green buds along the lakeside trail.  Just yesterday, as I entered my Dancer Kayak, I saw many mosquito looking bugs buzzing around the weed tops.

Frantic Fright..

A warm and sunny day in the  lowlands at the base of the Cascade Foothills in South East Thurston County.  I have the day to myself and feel driven to take a long run.  I walk down to Otter Beach to stretch and take in the beauty of The World I'm standing in.

I start running on the familiar trail at the edge of The Lake.  My body warms and settles in to the steady rhythm of my stride.  I decide to take a side trail past a pond and through a hilly neighborhood.  I feel a sense of relief as I enter the forest, thick with underbrush.  I haven't been out this way in quite some time now and the trail is marginal at best, obviously seldom used.  Arriving upon a two rut road,  hidden in the shadow of tall fir,  I run for several hundred yards and find the trail that leads down to Elbow Lake.  

The trail becomes more challenging as I descend a lush hill to the edge of this well hidden Lake.  I follow the shore in a clockwise direction, too many obstacles to be truly running.  No evidence of human encroachment at all,  this smaller section of the Lake is more of a separate Pond than anything else.  Various waterfowl sporadically inhabit the Water's surface.  

The trail becomes much less obstructed as I pass the channel that is the "elbow" of the Lake.   I find a very different environment as I run along the now well used trail.  I'm at the top of a ridge looking down upon a wide open beautiful Lake.  There's a Summer Camp at the far end and I hear the laughter of children at play.  I've been running about an hour now and I decide to turn around.  

Back at the elbow area,  I take a break and sit on an old grey log that juts out above the water.  Green and Blue surround me.  Looking across the narrow channel I can see a familiar clearing on the far side, maybe 100 feet away.  Why not make my little adventure more interesting?  I could easily swim across and run back home on a different route.  There were obviously weeds at each shoreline, but most of the middle appeared to be open water.  

I strip down and bundle up my shoes.  I figure it would be easy to keep my clothes dry on this short swim.  With not much trouble I wade and swim through the weeds out in to the open water.  Nice and easy.  The water is cool and refreshing.  

About 30 feet from my objective shore, I hit thick weeds that top out just below the Water's surface.  Hmmmm... swimming's becoming much more difficult.  My strong confidence is a wee bit shaken.  It's almost as if the weeds below are grabbing my legs and pulling me down.  In my mind, I curse.  I realize the danger I'm in.  A mere twenty feet or so to dry land, but I'm making almost no progress.  I become frantic.  I could drown here.  I take my bundle of now soaked gear and toss as far as I can toward shore.  No thought of clothing now, I am kicking and fighting my way toward shore.  I can't keep this up for very much longer, but for some reason I don't even think about passively floating on my back and taking a break.  I'm fearful that death is close at hand.  My uncontrolled and frenzied thrashing toward shore continues as I make painfully slow progress.  My breathing has become so very labored.  I can't seem to get enough air in.  At the periphery of my vision I somehow take note as a kingfisher swoops down from the trees and chatters chaotically.

I make it to shore.  I collapse and regain my breath.  I'm safe now.  A close encounter and lesson learned.

There is no bad weather...

I've always had a great love of adventure.  As a child I enjoyed playing "Army" out in the woods surrounding our house with my brother, Kirk.  Later, as a teenager, I lied to my Mom and took off on hitchhiking trips for weeks at a time.  The destinations of these ventures continually became more distant as the years went by.  The North Shore of Lake Superior,  Lake of the Woods, Winnipeg, Calgary, Banff, The Tetons.  But, of course it wasn't the destination, it was the journey that drew me.

As the years have gone by, I've become absorbed in many forms of adventure.  Some even made me a living.  I've enjoyed reading about the adventures of others, their tales always compelling me.

Now, experienced in Life, I still have a need for adventure.  The Human side of Life has reined me in somewhat, but I always manage to keep my needs met.  Adventure doesn't require large amounts of money or time.  An adventurous spirit can be fulfilled with a bike ride, a walk, or a swim.  But what makes a certain endeavor an adventure?

Overcoming obstacles and taking risks are key components of adventure.  A Run on a cold and rainy day.  Trespassing on "Public" property.  Paddling on a near frozen Lake.  Singing a song in public. Taking the long way.  Not overcoming, but moving along with Nature.  All these are examples of Frugal Adventure.

My Motto:  "There is no bad weather, only poor clothing choices."  (unknown)

Encounter with Eagle

I alternated running around The Lake on The Trail with paddling around The Lake in my red Dancer Kayak this past Thanksgiving Weekend.  Friday, the air was still and fairly warm.  I carried the Dancer the 200 paces down the steep hill to The Lake in the late morning.  I began a swift paddle heading counterclockwise along the shore.  

The shore along Clear Lake is mostly overhanging fir, alder, and madrona.  I paddled from Canoe Landing, around the point and past the Owen’s place, into the dock guarded little bay next to Otter point.  Nice.

Rounding Otter Point I spotted some intriguing waterfowl.  They promptly flew off when I   entered Turtle Cove.  I stopped under some overhang and took a little break.   

The Lake was only slightly rippled by a very gentle breeze.  I paddled to the end of Clearwood Proper and made a beeline for the Log that juts out not far from the Blue Lake outflow.

I was feeling playful so I made a tight turn around The Log.  As I approached the South East shoreline I glanced up instantly focused on a large bird soaring in from the South at tree top level.  I quickly caught sight of a second Eagle gliding in at the same height and vector... maybe 400 meters to the West.  

The Two sailed over the Lake effortlessly... they seemed to be inspecting their domain.  I watched as each Eagle took perch on trees at opposite shores on the distant end of The Lake.  

The Eagle Sighting left me exhilarated, humbled, and comfortable.

Two days later, Sunday dawn was accompanied by strong winds and rainfall ranging in intensity from drizzle to downpour.  Fortunately, I have the gear and mindset to remain comfortable in inclement weather conditions while kayaking.  I geared up, hoisted the boat, and head on down the trail.  

A strong Southerly was was kicking up whitecaps.  The rain was not torrential, but blasted down in a respectful deluge.  No stretching and warmups out of the boat, I quickly snugged in to The Dancer.  I pushed off, did a couple of stretches, and set off at a determined pace with the wind toward Windy Beach.  

I was feeling froggy!   I paddled under the little foot bridge at full speed, did a backstroke turn, and zoomed out without missing a beat.  Nice.

At the far windward side of The Lake, Windy Beach was living up to its name.  As I approached the dock, the wind was to my starboard and I was paddling at a full and steady pace.   Suddenly, a family of Otters popped up right in front of me.  They looked as if having a short discussion about my presence there and just as suddenly disappeared down under.  I laughed out loud about this brief encounter.

Paddling on, I was now on a course almost directly in to the wind.  Exhilarating.  This was going to be the most intense section to paddle today.  Maybe 2 or 3 hundred meters on this course just off the shoreline I saw a flash of white seemingly fall from the treetops.  In a matter of microseconds, I saw the deep black and recognized Eagle.  Just as instantly, Eagle’s fall changed into a beautiful and graceful swoop upward and into the wind.  I watched as Eagle made slow powerful flaps toward a tree far on the Lake’s lee side.

Me, a man often devoid of deep spiritual feelings felt a tug of tranquil power.