Celilo

This is the Celilo. I came up with the idea for this board at the 2017 RVOD G Ride at Maryhill. I'd been thinking about a dedicated speedboard cut away design that had a shorter wheelbase. I like to ride as short of a wheelbase as I can get away with. It just feels more nimble underfoot. The wheelbase on this board measures 24 3/4".

Maryhill Loops Road, as many riders know, is actually an exhibit of the Maryhill Museum. The museum's founder completed the road in 1913 to demonstrate the importance of well built roads and highways, using new techniques and designs that would allow the automobiles of that period to climb the steep grade from the Columbia River to Goldendale. He is quoted on the Maryhill Museum website as saying "Good roads are more than my hobby, they are my religion". So, the man really liked roads. Moving ahead a century, the road now exists for many uses; the most near and dear use to skateboarders of course, is the road's utility in being a prime location for the sport of downhill. We in the downhill skateboarding community have Maryhill Ratz founder Dean Ozuna to thank for becoming involved with the museum and promoting downhill events as a dynamic community builder and economic generator for the region.

This shot was from this year's RVOD G RIde. It was taken by Robert McCarty. He took really beautiful photos all weekend long. Of course I'm riding solo because I've been passed by everyone on the hill already! But I love the shot because it makes me feel the fast railing corners. Thanks for letting me use this photo Robert! You can check out his awesome photos: @robrmccarty on Instagram.

The Columbia River has a vast geologic and cultural history. 15,000 years ago, as the ice sheets receded, an inhabitant of this region might have seen a 400 foot wall of water come down the Gorge. The walls of ice hemming in Lake Missoula periodically gave way, releasing all the water within to carve out across the badlands of what is now Washington and create the deep canyon of the Columbia as we know it today. But the Columbia was once a river that we today would not recognize. It was a fast flowing torrent that moved meltwater out of major Northwest drainages like the Snake and Clearwater Rivers. It was the lifeline for many of the First Nations tribes to grow their vibrant cultures from. Their ingenuity for sustaining life in the Columbia Plateau can be seen in their basketweaving techniques, their fish traps, their hooks, their clothing, their language, their ability to live within the means that the landscape demanded...

This is a photo from the Washington State Historical archive that gives a great perspective on a Columbia River waterfall that was just a few miles down river from Maryhill Loops Road. This spot was called Wyam by First Nations peoples. Wyam meant "echo of falling water" or "sound of water upon the rocks". Later it became known as Celilo Falls. The area has known human habitation for 15,000 years. Until 1957, it was the oldest continually inhabited community on the North American continent.  As the photo demonstrates, the reason for this was that it was an ideal, if not challenging, place to catch salmon. The tribes would build scaffolds out over the rapids from which to spear and net salmon as they moved up over the falls. There are some great videos on Youtube showing the falls and the people working them. The roar of the water was said to have been heard over a mile away.

It is hard to overstate how important these falls were to the native peoples who gathered and lived here. Not only as a food source but also as a melting pot for the different cultures that came. The river, as wide as one mile in places, choked down to just 140 feet wide at the falls. In the twelve subsequent miles below Celilo, the river dropped 82 feet. This section of narrows was referred to as the Dalles. Celilo Falls was sixth largest in the world by volume. It is estimated that 15 to 20 million salmon passed over the falls every year. The area also served as a crossroads between two major cultures. From the Northwest came people who spoke Chinookian languages and from further east came those who spoke Sahaptian languages. Both pulling in trade goods from as far afield as the Great Plains, Alaska and the American Southwest. Near the falls, there were two major villages. On the north bank lived the Wishram people and the south bank was populated by the Wasco. The most intense trading apparently occurred at Nix-Luidix, the Wishram village on the north bank. It has been called the Wall Street of the West.

The Dalles Dam

In 1957, hundreds of people gathered on the banks to watch as the newly constructed Dalles Dam began filling, inundating Celilo Falls and the villages surrounding them. In just a few hours, fifteen thousand years of culture and commerce were submerged beneath the waves.  Another tragic violation of native rights had occurred. It would be as if the NASDAQ and Anglo American history had been erased in a matter of hours. It left a vast and rich culture, desolate and destitute, and with few choices but to submit further to the powers held over them.

Heading east along I-84 at the former site of Celilo Falls. It is an unanswerable question now. The wildness of this river sits submerged beneath a series of lakes that were once the Columbia River. Here in the Northwest, however, we are not confronted with the ugly specter of coal fired energy generation except by the trains that haul the material to the coast from the Wyoming coal fields. The dams on the Columbia now serve as a valuable waterway upon which goods and raw materials move back and forth. We flip on the lights any time we need it. It is so ubiquitous, it is easy to forget about where it comes from and who the winners and losers are in that equation. Celilo Falls probably are not coming back in the foreseeable future. But I feel it is important to reflect that these actions amounted to a systematic ethnic cleansing brought about by a rapidly expanding nation with a dark history of similar actions towards indigenous peoples.

The Maryhill Museum is a superb place to get a taste of the native cultures that populated Celilo Falls. Their collection of Columbia Plateau baskets is stunning. The stencil on the bottom of this board is borrowed from this tradition.  It is humbling, wondrous and saddening to stand on the banks of the Columbia north of Peach Beach and try to envision the river flowing rapidly past. To imagine how vastly different it all would look if the bustling villages lay before you and not the scattering of fruit orchards and truck stops that occupy this area now. The intent of this board are two fold: to create a short wheelbase board that I felt would be appropriate for this hallowed grade and to make a thing in the spirit that encourages its rider to envision an overlay upon the present landscape, all that has gone before. Ride on.

This summer photo of my folks makes me very happy. Not sure of the date, but pretty sure it predates me! Definitely Summer, at our Berry Drive house in Boise.

Factory Rider

This here is the Factory Rider, finally brought to fawk-ing fruition after a couple of failed attempts. This is the board that I built my first actual concrete mold/steel frame press for. The idea for the shape is that it is a seven ply long board that one could cover a bunch of different terrain on. It's my hope that it is suited for ditch, mid speed downhill and park (for them that don't mind a little extra length). It's funny though. I made a board for a springtime trip to Arizona, that was patterned around being able to fit in a bag while having the wherewithal for some downhill/cruising through the desert, and certainly a ditch if I encountered one, but not a whole lot of other expectations. It was pressed on a little Caveman style form that I Frankenstein-ed to get a bit more length out of and then had to glue a little wedge at the rear truck to accommodate another inch of wheelbase out of. It was all a very hasty project, but honestly, it is the board that I've ridden all summer. It is perfect for the style of skating I've grown to love most: mid to fast hills where I standee slide some of the steep sections and purely set out to enjoy all of it. I love a full downhill setup, don't get me wrong. But that is next level commitment that I don't get into every day. My first rule of skateboarding is: have fun. Next desire: is to push the boundaries where comfortable. Think: less North Shore/Haines, Alaska, and more replication of an enjoyable point wave/powder day in the Alpental Slackcountry. I'm currently working on a mold that will hopefully replicate this fun little board I dubbed the Polychrome (after the ceramics of the Hohokam culture that thrived in the Tucson area in 300 bc to ad 1450). But the comparison of these two board approaches brought to the fore for me, how we sometimes land on the gold when we're looking least for it. Expectations and intentions can sometime foul the ultimate success of a thing. I've not yet ridden the Factory Rider. The first one, I gave to my friend Curt. The next one will go to my friend Steve. They're factory riders, they'll tell me if it works or if it was just folly. Hopefully someday soon, I'll feel the liveliness of it underfoot.

And it has a tail! Ride on!

Good lookin'

A Volcano and its Neighbors

Mt Rainier framed through the rampart of Pinnacle Peak, Tatoosh Range. We had gone down for a quick weekend at Mt Rainier with Nicole's mom. She loves nature but rarely gets the treat of it, so she rented a place in Ashford with a super rad VHS collection and we had ourselves a home base for mountain fun. It was nice to also visit all the stuff I usually speed past when we're to snowboard the mountain. We visited all the lodges, historic structures and a tiny museum that contained some pretty bitchin' taxidermy. It was there that I learned that Tatoosh is a Chinook word for the nourishing breast. Well I was about to find that out, for I went out to hike Pinnacle Peak while Pepper and Dianne took in Reflection Lake. When we hike to Muir in the Spring, I'm always looking over at the Tatoosh Range. It's interesting because it's very different from Rainier's bulk. Shorter peaks that sharply jut upward. It turns out that they are an uplifted granite block with an older layer of basalt on top like frosting. The rock itself is very chossy. The hike is a quick one up through the woods and into a saddle dividing Pinnacle and Plummer Peak. Lots of folks were heading over to Plummer, so I decided to head east around Pinnacle to have a look at the Pinnacle Glacier. My topo map must be old, because there ain't no glacier left.

This pic shows where the Pinnacle Glacier once sat. But what is left is a lovely little tarn in the basin that I hiked down to through the scree. I was thrilled about the lack of fellow hikers over here and even considered for a moment, a complete circumnavigation of Pinnacle, but realized it would've involved more bushwhacking than I had time for.

Sitting on the ridge between Pinnacle and Castle Peaks, looking east. Foregoing the bushwhacking, I retraced my path back to the trail down, which by this time was totally vacated. It was a pleasant ramble back down, with stops for blueberries- so abundant this season! Nicole and Dianne had a great day kicking around pretty Paradise, and I talked them into a quick trip back up the road, so I could skate some fresh pavement. A sweet little chub scrub road that completed the activities part of the day. Back at the cabin, we hung out and watched Jeremiah Johnson on the VCR! And it didn't eat the tape! The movie is perfect example of that weird 70's Hippy Vision/Cinema Verite crossover. Kind of dated but full of interesting turns and twists. 

ANTI-depression

It was time, I hoped, for the annual Gary February Expression Session. I asked Curt in mid August if he thought if he might be doing it this year. He wasn't sure. It seems that he and Gary, for whom the annual surf session at Neah Bay was named, had fallen upon philosophical differences. And to bring them that don't know up to speed, Gary is a character that exists out there in the salty brine of mystic surf ether. Gary has a medium, and his name is Curt. When we first encounter Gary, he seems heroic. He drives an old pickup with a surfboard on the roof of the cab and a bed full of salt water, in which, a seal named Sully swims. Gary plies the back roads and secret breaks of the Peninsula, often cutting barb wired fences in the dead of night to access off the grid spots that may only break once a decade under a full moon. He's been known to be seen revving a Zodiac across the waves, his head ensconced in a storm cloud; the occasional lightening bolt striking out, and Sully riding on the front; flippers bracing him side to side. If I had to guess, and Curt will correct me here if necessary, Gary would ride a 7' to 8' egg shape. He'd drop into foggy barrels in which kelp is suspended for the briefest of moments. Or he'd dapple across cold water walls with the evening sun filtering through the clear lip; his wooden fin just holding him in the pocket and his trailing hand drifting across the face. In short, Gary was in all of us, if we just took the time to properly search for him. 

Well, 2017 has been a hell of a crazy year. That sack of shit Trump has made it seem like 100 years of outrage and setback. Just when things seem like they can't get more disappointing, they do. It seems that this year has also revealed more about the man that we have perceived to be the feel good NW surf legend of our generation. It turns out that Gary enjoys killing bald eagles and nailing them to posts about his property. He's more Ted Nugent than Mr Natural. Report has it that he wanders his land mumbling about how the poor and the immigrants are tearing this country down. He thinks that Mitch McConnell and his ilk don't go nearly far enough. He says "Don't tread on me", and then he shoots another eagle.  And he doesn't say this in the deep dulcet voice you'd expect a mysto to posses, but in a high pitched whine that makes you wish you'd jammed wax in your ears prior to him opening his mouth. And the whole bit with Sully? It was all about optics. It wasn't clear to me at last telling whether Sully escaped or was reluctantly released, but what is clear is that their relationship was less that of a faithful friend and his caretaker than that of a conscripted Sea World dolphin and its leathery hardened trainer.

But Brothers and Sisters, I'd rather light a candle than curse the darkness. Along came the Anti Depression Session. We are bold Pacific Northwesterners, not consciousness avoiding reptiles! The Session was on- and as you can see it right there in the excellent illustration by Stevie D, not only is Sully a free seal, but he has a girlfriend, and her name is Umami! And their home is not the sloshing bed of a pickup but the deep blue wine of the Pacific! The positivity returns to the waves. Let Gary curse about the landscape like Gollum, and hope he'll come back to his senses someday.

In usual fashion, I got to Neah Bay late, but this time just before sundown. Just enough time to paddle out in the twilight and catch four waves before a squall came up. It was joyous dropping in on chest high waves and gliding over their gray faces as they crumbled to foam. When the rain came, it felt like weeks of forest fires and the smoke would end for the season. The next morning I got up and everything smelled fresh. I'm not a huge proponent of rain, but it felt well overdue. 

Chris filling the air with the magic of bacon.

Beach Logs Kill! is Curt's surf brand, and this is one of his longboard beauties. I totally staged this shot with the Expo '74, but it seemed appropriate to have multiple levels of "if you have to ask..." in play in one photo. Beach Logs Kill is derived from a sign that you'll find near Northwest beaches that has this exclamation next to a illustration of an old growth log suspended in the lip of a close out wave with beachcombers looking up in time to see their lives flash before their eyes in imminent log crush status. And of course Expo '74, I mean c'mon, need you ask?!

Bold members of an elite force. Defenders of the Realm.

Seeing as how I came out on the tail end of the Anti Depression Session, I bid farewell to my friends as they headed back to Sea Town, and I began the second part of my Peninsula journey. The first thing I did was suit up and paddle back out- not here, sakes no, this is far beyond my comprehension of the craft. Just a few more Hobuck waves and one really good pounding in an epic pearling nose dive. A fog rolled in though and the tide was ebbing, so it made the waves erratic and cross grained. I paddled back in with my happy share and peeled off the wetsuit. I had a few hours to kill before making my trip east to meet up with another group of friends for more camping, so I drifted around Neah Bay. This shot is taken just down at the south end of Hobuck Beach, where the Sooes River empties into the ocean. It's a mesmerizing spot for the trippy rock formations and the whelp and thock of the waves upon them. If one listens to the wind and waves hard enough, they just might hear...

I spent a couple of hours at this magical place, the Makah Nation Museum. They are the beginning of the world, the Makah, the Cape People. This is a really really great museum and well worth making a long visit.

Heading eastward now along Highway 112, I was settling into a fun poking around solo mission. I love those times that are in between planning to be in two different places and there is plenty of space to explore. I had downloaded The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, because it had been ages since I read it and it seemed like the perfect book for the Olympic Peninsula: part beautiful journey, part dark underbelly. This book is such a flawed masterpiece. One must view it through this lens of historical perspective. And yet it is jaw dropping how harshly treated poor Jim is even by the supposed benevolent and kind attitude of Mark Twain's outlook and politics. Jim is bandied about like a willing and complacent play toy throughout the book, and in the end still hasn't reached his family. But the reader of the day was to pride himself for seeing and feeling the glimmer of humanity Twain affords him. Mercy how slowly the gears of justice grind. So reading this book is much like traveling through the Olympic Peninsula. One must constantly be adjusting their vision to see the beauty amongst all of the clearcuts and environmental degradation. When one does, they can still see beautiful stretches of beach with tide pools full of sea anemones, shadowy, cool, slowly winding rivers; late summer leaves floating on their surfaces and small stands of timber that hint of the majesty once found here. But then BAM! it's directly through the middle of a land stripped of all living plants; huge slash piles everywhere and greasy logging equipment leaking oil into the groundwater. And Huck, suddenly empowered to do so, constantly battles with himself whether or not to turn his loyal friend Jim in as a runaway slave. And even more frustrating, as soon as Huck decides that he is whole hog in with Jim and committed to his freedom; it's on the terms that he's just gotta go to Hell as a result of his choice. What the actual fuck Huck? You think you're making a sort of Faustian bargain to feel okay about another human's freedom? Dayum. But as I pass through this land, it reminds me of the choice that is in all of us whether or not to protect what is important to us. And I look around at the ravaged landscape here, and the ragged hard hit economy that drives so much of the local conversation, it makes me think that maybe we're all just Huck empowered with a decision about protecting the planet or bowing to the beliefs of others.  

But back to the present. The book is wonderfully narrated and once Huck gets clear of his terrible father, he sets out on a well laid out plan set to elude discovery and winds up upon converging paths with Jim. And so this broad section of the book where Jim and Huck spin on their raft down the Mississippi River evading them that might question their arrangement, encountering wonders and beauty on every turn, is where I find myself ambling east through a slowly descending twilight, and it is sublime; a fine mix of literature and landscape. And though even a clearcut might have a certain beauty twice a day, there is real beauty here. It is after Labor Day, there are few people on the road and the air still carries the scent and weight of summer on it. 

Even a ravaged landscape can be beautiful twice a day.

This shot is looking up at the spot where the Glines Canyon Dam once was. In 2011 they began removing it to allow the Elwha River to run freely. Here I reflect that the river is the wily one. I hear the voice of Tom Sawyer admonishing Huck to not do a thing halfway- "It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the RIGHT way—and it's the regular way".  But instead of a child who desires to manipulate them around him to serve his own pleasures, the Elwha River did do it right, and upon the terms that nature demands. The river has rebounded with amazing speed; the salmon returned nearly immediately. It was a strange feeling to stand down in the bottom of what used to be the reservoir and look up at all that sweet air above it. And I, the direct beneficiary of a hydropower economy, knowing that we cannot let go completely, sure was able to feel firsthand that it does the soul a lot of good to see a river run wild again.

a little bit 'o time on your hands

An old friend we really just met. This is a mule I named, for our time together, Dolly. She kind of ran the roost. She vacillated between allowing me to take her photo and folding her ears back to show disapproval. She didn't seem to hold a grudge though, and I was really wishing that I'd had a big juicy apple to give her.

The sunset at Doobie Cove. This is a beloved campsite for the men of Mancamp- a group of friends who meet yearly to celebrate the absurd. I won't varnish it for you; it's Glamping of the highest order. But it is high performance glamping, and that makes all the difference.  Highlights include but are not limited to: snorkeling the Lyre River, storming the summit of Storm King, next level tarpitecture, thespian-isms, late night photography, short wave radio, firing the potato cannon into the territorial waters of Canada, stirring up wasp nests, slicing a foot nearly in half and other royal nonesuch.

Who loves having to go home after the party's done? The following day, I had to leave early from Mancamp, to make it back to Seattle, for duty did beckon. I'm told the Men bravely pointed the ship into the fog bank of Doobie Cove and many a treasure did they find. As for myself, I coffee'd up in Port Angeles, hit Swain's and then the road with Huck and Jim. By the time I was east of PA, they taken on the Duke and the King, and Huck was well on his way to having to confront more decisions that would reveal to himself who he was. It is interesting that Twain implores the reader, to READ nothing into the book. Of course this is bullshit. But I wonder just what Twain thought of his creation in Huck. It seems that just about every time Huck arrives at the moment of thinking for himself, Tom Sawyer re-enters his life and does all the thinking for him. If Huck is essentially the everyman, what does it say about Twain's outlook on humanity? Regardless, it felt appropriate that the period of unbroken adventure for Huck and Jim was nearing its completion as I rolled across Agate Passage and down towards the ferry line on Bainbridge Island, back into my own urban structure. But I hope that Twain contained in his heart an earnest wish that Huck and Jim were a vision of a better future; equals on a raft, always out there seeking adventure together. Both of them always feeling the pull of the Road and the freedom it affords. A microcosm of how things need to be.

Sitting in the ferry line always brings to mind that I have a pickup full stinky wetsuits, sand filled everything, board bags that need drying and coolers that need scrubbing. All that needs to happen before anything else, because that truck needs to be filled with tools and heading off to the jobsite in the morning. Upon arrival home, it is appealing to give in to the lazier instinct and just lock the whole mess up in the alley and head off to the house. But it is in our labors that we spin up the cheddar for more adventure. It is the effort that makes the sweet release, all the sweeter- and that for me, is the point. Ride on!

The Folsom Point

The Caveman Skatetech Folsom Point is a scaled down version of the Clovis Point.  As for the real world spearpoints that serve as the namesakes for these skateboards, anthropologists date them accordingly: The Clovis Point: 13,500-10,000 years ago. The Folsom Point: 9500-8000 years ago. The main differences, it seems, are that the Folsom Points were thinner and had grooves running tip to tail that possibly aided in attaching the point to a shaft of wood.  And they were made by two different cultures. Both points seem very difficult to master the making of and perfect examples of a winning form-function relationship. But AHA! Here lay such a perfect example of a refinement for the cavemen over at CST to capitalize on! Leaner! Lighter! Better! Actually I have no idea why the Folsom Points were smaller but the comparison is convenient, so I'm running with it. 

I first made the Clovis Point for a trip to the New Mexico ditches. And it worked really well, but I felt like the wheelbase was very 2005. It felt too long on downhills; too much length to work with as soon as you wanted to drift it. So I went back into the shop and reduced the wheelbase two inches. For me it felt just right. I know the kids are pushing the envelope with shorter and shorter wheelbases, and to them I say bless yer pea pickin' hearts. But this caveman just ain't that flexible these days. So specifically, I made the Folsom Point have a 24" wheelbase. And for full disclosure, if the Hemingray and the Folsom Point look similar, that's because they are. Same outline, different narratives. But the reason I feel sanguine about the shape, is because I busted out the Hemingray at Maryhill this year and was pleased as pudding and punch about it. It felt nimble and stable, and it retained its Inouye's Pool Service stinger aesthetic that the Clovis Point emanated. At one point downhill legend Cliff Coleman grabbed it and made like he was spiriting away with it in a wave nostalgic recognition, but I think he was just fucking with me. Anyway, this board is a competent all around ditch and downhill topmount that should satisfy any rider who, like me, ain't too hung up on having pre-tensioned fiberglass, three stage rocker and microdrops in their deck retinue. Ride on!

Vinnie

This is Vinnie. He's an 11 pound Rat Terrier. He's my friend's Dave and Amy's little buddy. Dave and I decided in mid August to have a crack at getting Vinnie to the top of Snoqualmie Mountain. The trail descriptions make it sound more daunting than it really is. It's a steep trail yes- 3100 ft elevation gain in just under two miles, but if you don't mind an ambitious trail through lots of scree, then the view is your reward. It's takes in the entire Alpental Valley, Commonwealth Basin, the I-90 complex, Middlefork of the Snoqualmie, east to Mt Stuart, Glacier and Mt Baker and even my old friend and aforementioned Mt Hinman, The Snowcatcher! I figured that we'd be carrying Vinnie most of the way, or at least turning around halfway up, but this little guy outpaced the hell out of us. And he's fearless of heights to the point that I wondered if he perceived them at all. In short, Vinnie is a badass- and the moisture around his eyes collected dust all day, until he looked like a little raccoon bandido. 

Geodetic Survey Marker on top of Snoqualmie Mountain. These always put me in mind of George Hayduke, the Ed Abbey character from the Monkey Wrench Gang, who measured distances driven in his old Jeep by six packs of beer, always had a trail of torn out geophones clanking behind him and absolutely could not abide leaving a survey marker in the ground when he found one. Personally the map geek in me kind of appreciates them, though they do serve as a reminder that the ground you trod is well trod indeed, generally wherever you are in the lower 48. 

Descending back down Snoqualmie. That's the prominence of Guye Peak in the foreground and Alpental to the right. I-90 snakes east-west in the middle ground and Mt Rainier sits cloud topped in the background while the Norse Creek fire burns away to the east. I counted six notable wildfires burning across the horizon this day, with the Jolly Mountain fire appearing the largest. August and September used to be the months of summer glory here in the PNW, but they now seem tinged with the copper apocalyptic light and acrid eye burning smoke of forest fires that burn until the first heavy rains of Fall.