White Day That People Celebrate the Birth of Sweet, Sweet Baby Jesus (Christmas)

This will be short and sweet as i have a plan to catch. That's correct, i'll be leaving for the far east (Virginia) this evening, arriving tomorrow. . .east coast time. Stumptown was recently hit with the worse snow storm in 30 years. Wow! I think the hippies celebrated more than they do on Earth Day (coffee shops were closed, no work for the hippies). Here are some pictures from last week's and this weekend's vicious storm.

Because i know your first thought was, "i wonder how the porch sofa faired in all this wintery loveliness." You can rest your pretty heads friends. It made it through.

S.E. landmark the Bagdad theater in all it's powdery glory.

Yes please. . .on the rocks.

I think they spelled suchi wrong.

No wonder they spelled it wrong; it's Santa Clause behind the counter. What does he know about suchi?

Put some fun between your legs.

I really wanted this picture to come out but it didn't. I'm putting it up here anyway.

As you can imagine, round-a-bouts, snowy streets and hippies in old VW's don't get along.

I know, i know, much to do about nothing. 12inches is not nothing my wintery friends. . .it's something; it's reason to celebrate wintery goodness.

Hippies and. . .Day 5

Day 5.

Rest day (kind of)! With rain/snow in the forecast and poor visibility we discussed the day’s plans over breakfast in the lodge. I told Todd I was going to take it easy and just tour the surroundings. I think he was feeling a little battered himself so we headed to the mountaineering shop for another guide book. Bishop, CA isn’t too far from Mammoth and I’d heard good things about it. It didn’t really live up the hype but we did manage to get in a damp hike through some of the best bouldering country around. Todd picked up a rather impressive bouldering guide book for Bishop and it directed us to. . .Happy Boulders. How can you go wrong with a place called Happy Boulders. The guide book claimed it was situated in a rain shadow but even rain shadows get damp every once in a while. We hiked around a ravine filled with a variety of different rock formations. Todd got onto a couple problems but the moist conditions and lack of chalk didn’t help his cause.

On our way back to Mammoth we made a stop off at the infamous Crab Cooker for another toasty bath. Like the previous two nights, the tub was occupied when we arrived. Todd and I decided to check out some of the other water features in the area to see if any were batheable. The funny thing about hot springs is that it can be tough to tell just how hot they are. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, all the springs we dipped out fingers into were too cold for bathing. When we got back to the truck it looked like the current tub occupants were going to be around a while. I pulled out the monocular to see what kind of situation we were looking at. After brief deliberation, we decided we’d join the three topless ladies (even through a monocular one of them appeard to be a dude). A very difficult decision, I know. The ladies were happy to have us join them and they were quite the social locals. We shared some stories about our recent adventures and got some intel on what the hot spots were in town. While we were in the tub the snow really started falling, big juicy flakes. We all just tilted our heads back and watched as the snow would drift down and onto our faces. In my own words, “This is like an acid trip gone right.” The experience was pretty fantastic, something I hope to have again before I leave this place. The ladies left and we stuck around for another hour or so.

Todd and I toweled off and ventured back into Mammoth for some dinner. We found ourselves at a Thai place, apparently just under the restaurant where one of our tubmates tended bar. Dinner was good and spicy. Nothing a few pints couldn’t remedy. We took the advice of our tubmates and wandered over to a place called the Clocktower, or Watchtower or something like that. It was a bar in the basement of some German looking restaurant. This is where the night got interesting. We were greeted by a friendly dog of some sort. The bar was empty minus a couple picking out tunes on the jukebox and two, what seemed to be, resort employees discussing whatever ski folk discuss. Todd and I ponied up to the bar and ordered some pints of Oregon’s Dead Guy Ale. I dumped a few quarters into the Golden Tee game while Todd made his daily call home to check-in on the wifey and developing lass. A few games of foosball were followed by some pool. The bar started to acquire some birthday party folk and before we knew it we were packed into the back of the bar chatting with some of the birthday crew. Todd being the ever-so attentive big brother to his not-so attentive little brother’s single nature, asked the birthday boy, Brian, if there were any single ladies who would be interested in playing pool. Brian responded quite quickly with a shout to “Caroline.” “You have to meet Caroline,” he says, “ She smells like Kama Sutra.” Neither of us knew what to think about this statement. Was it a compliment or a warning? Caroline and Brian joined us for another game of pool. Caroline seemed like a cool bird, slightly older (born in ’69), but cool nonetheless. We continued chatting through the evening; discussing everything from healthcare to literature. I kept the conversation up while Todd poached beers off other people’s pitchers. It was looking more and more like we may have a warm house and soft sofa to crash on for the night. Things ended up not working out that way but it was really no loss; who knows what kind of sacrifices I would have had to make just to have a warm place to sleep.

As we parted ways with Caroline and the birthday folk we crossed paths with a drunk “hippy” in the parking lot of the bar. He was looking for a ride back to his place. In typical Todd and Scott fashion (shades of the hippy dude we picked up in Mexico) we offered the cat a ride. About 2 minutes into our travels uphill we discovered we would have been better off letting him bum a ride elsewhere. The guy started talking about his “fat” girlfriend, who keeps him warm in the winter. She apparently sent him a text insisting that he stop contacting her, they’re in love. At this point he had yet to tell us where he lived. The “hippy” went on to tell us more benefits of his fat girlfriend, I’ll spare you the details, some because I have no clue what he was even talking about. Similar to our hitchhiker in Mexico, it was time to ditch the dude.

I wasn’t aware but Todd already had an exit plan on his mind. The truck took a turn into a cul-de-sac, moved on through someone’s driveway and into their backyard. Todd claims he thought the yard was an extension of the driveway. An easy mistake to make when everything is covered in snow. The Yota didn’t like the soft soil/snow combination and refused to move. The “hippy” and I got out to push. Just as the truck broke free I attempted to jump into the truck so we could execute the “ditch the hippy” strategy Todd had planned. On my way back into the truck the door struck the back stairs of the empty house’s deck. The door bent in the wrong direction and made an uncomfortable noise. Now with the passenger door lodged on the deck stairs, the truck had new difficulties. It took a few swift kicks and a lot of laughter but the truck door was eventually dislodged from the stairs. The newly freed Yota rolled back toward the neighboring house and nearly crushed me against the back corner of the house. Thankfully, all those years of ninja training paid off because I was able to squeeze out of the way just in time. Todd muscled, as much as you can muscle a 4 cylinder, out of the hole and onto the roadway. I briskly jogged to the truck, held the door shut and we were off. . .sans hippy. Before you pass judgment. . .just know that this “hippy” was saying some pretty offensive things, particularly about women, more specifically about his fat girlfriend and wife (two different ladies). We did what we had to do out of respect for all of womankind (come on. . .you have to give me credit for trying). I decided that since we had told the hippy about our sleeping accommodations, that we should probably find a different place to park the truck for the evening. On our way back to the new crash spot, Todd pulled off into a parking lot so we could kick the passenger door into a more favorable position. . .closed. We really weren’t trying to embark on a two day drive back to Portland with the navigator also being responsible for keeping the door closed. A swift kick to the door panel and we were back in business. Todd found a nice flat spot in the Mammoth hotel parking lot and it was off into a giggle filled slumber for the two of us.

Hippies and. . .Days 3 &: 4

Disclaimer:
The contents below are part of a multipart series of events that took place during Thanksgiving week 2008. Please be sure to read from the bottom up, otherwise you will read the story in reverse. The events are told as i remember them. Names, ages, and locations have not been altered to protect the innocent. . .or guilty.

Day 3.

Rise and Shine!

Todd and I woke up to sunshine, glorious sunshine. For those of you who don’t live in the Pacific NW, you may not understand this sun worshiping habit. Up here in this corner of the U.S. cold weather = rain. Apparently in California, cold can mean anything it wants. . .damn liberals. The first thing I sought out, after my down jacket, was some water. The funny thing about water is that it freezes or gets mighty slushy if you sleep in sub 32 degree temperatures. I awoke to a near frozen, exceptionally slushy jug of water. Regardless of its viscosity, it did well to curb the impending hangover. We flipped up the tailgate of the truck and headed down to Mammoth Lakes for some breakfast. There is something interesting that seems to happen on the west coast (and possibly the east coast but I just haven’t noticed). For whatever reason, people, restaurant owners in particular, feel the need to make some East Coast claim when it comes to naming their establishment. For example, we ate at a New York bagel place, in Mammoth Lakes, California. It’s as if there is something special about New York that makes their bagels better than anything produced on the West Coast (I was recently told it was the water)?

Morning slushy.

After some delicious New York “style” bagels we headed up to the mountain for a day of serious shredding or. . .shreddin’. It was time for Brody to break out some of the moves he learned last year, only. . .Brody is still just learning to turn his skis. The resort claimed to have a base of 12-48 inches which turned to be more like 0-48 inches. There were a few bare patches on the hill but nothing I couldn’t fall over or around. The riding was good but I felt bad for holding Todd up, he didn’t seem to complain though. After trying a few different runs we pieced together a nice long route from just below the top down to the lower parking lot. The run provided for several options on its lower section, one being through the terrain park. I didn’t do much more than granny my way up and over a couple jumps, while Todd took on a rail or two. The upper part of the run started with a steep turn, usually crowded with beginners like myself, that swept down into a large shoot that afforded us with some gorgeous views of the mountains that make up the east side of Yosemite National Park. From there the ride was pretty open and mellow, not that any of that kept me from falling.

Todd doing some map reading mid-slope.

Todd dropping into the killer run.

Brody shreddin' on the long run.

The chute on the golden run.

Just one of the many views on the lift.

A view from the gondola up the mountain.

A long day on the slopes calls for a few things. But first things first. . .an Everline will not be denied; we made a second attempt at the hot springs. Since the lifts closed at 4pm we had enough light to actually see the fabled “green church” that represented the gateway to the hot springs. Daylight seemed to be the missing element from the night before because the Green Church stood out like a sore thumb. After taking the prescribed left at the green church we were one step closer to finding the sought after hot springs. There are a few springs all in line with one another, all being within a mile or so from one another. We stopped off at the first spring, Hot Tub (creative name I know) only to find two hippies and their dog, enjoying the warm water. No worries, two more springs to choose from. We made our way to the furthest of three springs, Shepherd Hot Spring, again we found inhabitants. This time a hippy dude and topless hippy chick (the dude was topless as well but not really worth mentioning, even though I just mentioned it). After wandering around on desert roads and some creative map reading, we found our way to a hot spring tucked a little further off the beaten path, Crab Cooker. Feeling the dire need for a bath and armed with a 12-pack of beers, we decided to wait out Crab Cooker’s residents. We broke out the FlashFlight and tossed the disc around until the spring was free. Todd and I jumped into our suits and headed down to the spring. What we found was sheer hot spring bliss.

Crab Cooker.

The view from Crab Cooker.

The hot springs on the east side of the Sierras have a reputation of being some of the best in the country. They are well maintained by the local community and Crab Cooker proved to live up to the national recognition. Unlike many of the springs in the area, Crab Cooker had an intake and exit valve allowing the user to “control” the water temperature. It also came with a gorgeous, secluded view of the Sierra Mountains. The tub was thrown together by what I would suspect to be a stoned stone mason but fit our needs just fine. A bench rimed the inside of the tub providing a perfect seat. Crab Cooker was also deep enough to attain full submersion, a nice touch after sleeping in a truck for several days. We spent a couple-a-few hours in the Crab Cooker. Throw a few beers in the mix and it was exactly what the doctor ordered after a long day of skiing. The biggest problem one runs into when soaking in a hot spring for multiple hours is. . .getting out. Crab Cooker treated us well while we were in the water but could do very little (nothing) to protect us from the cold air hanging around outside of the tub.

While Todd washed off the funk. . .

. . .I opted for some sleep

Following an awkward cold air, half naked dance, it was time to fill out stomachs with more than just beer. We hit up “Gomez’s” for some fine Mexican dinning. The food was great but the effects of sitting in a hot spring and drinking beer really started to kick in. I was so exhausted I could barely finish my margarita. I may have briefly, just briefly, crashed out on the table between bouts of stuffing my face with chips and salsa. It possibly happened again while waiting for the bill. Todd nearly had to carry me out of the joint. Good thing he didn’t have to because he barely had enough energy to get himself out the door. We decided to skip a drive down to the snowy meadow for the night and crashed right in the parking lot of the ski lodge.


Day 4.

After an uneventful night of sleep it was time for some nourishment before another day of shredding. Crab Cooker really seemed to loosen up the ol’ joints and tenderized the aching muscles that the first day on the slopes left us with. Todd and I headed into the lodge’s “marketplace” for a cafeteria style breakfast. The options were broad the prices weren’t nearly as bad as expected. With full bellies we lined up at the Broadway lift, ready to start our day on the mountain. We left off where we started the day before, back on the full mountain run. The snow seemed to be a bit harder and more sparse than the day before. We ran the mountain pretty steadily until 2ish. We walked back to the truck to get a little break and something to snack on. My knee and ankle were still a bit tender from the header I took on my bike so I opted to spend the rest of my afternoon in the bar (not getting any damn service), while Todd headed back up the hill for a few more runs.

The mountain.

Going up?

Todd hiding from the sun.

Monster lift.

Going down? A view from the top of the mountain.

Todd heading down hill.

Taking a break and soaking up the scenery.

Todd and I grabbed a few beverages at the bar and headed back to Crab Cooker for another evening soak. There was a family getting in their nightly bath so we waited in the parking area and enjoyed a beer and I snapped off a few pictures. It wasn’t long before the family was on their way back to their car and we were headed down to Crab Cooker. We had the tub to ourselves for a second night and enjoyed the sun as it set behind the Sierras. I drug down my camera and tripod with hopes of getting a few soaking photos. Todd’s point n’ shoot came away with better photos than my fancy rig could pull together.

The last bits of sunlight from Crab Cooker as it dropped behind the Sierras.

Steamy.

The brothers at bath time.

The, what now seemed ritualistic, dressing dance took place and it was off for some tasty treats at the Whiskey River restaurant and lounge. We both picked the portobello mushroom sandwich. Todd added a prefix of artichoke dip. The Whiskey was by far the classiest place we had dined at during the trip. They had real silverware and cloth, yes cloth, napkins; a real swanky place. After dinner we took our pints over to the pool table for a couple games of billiards. I crushed Todd, game after game (or so remember) and we left, one head hanging lower than the other. The Crab Cooker did us in again. Like a couple of old men in our assisted living village. . .it was (head)lights out by 8.30.

Hippies and. . .Day 2

Disclaimer:
The contents below are part of a multipart series of events that took place during Thanksgiving week 2008. Please be sure to read from the bottom up, otherwise you will read the story in reverse. The events are told as i remember them. Names, ages, and locations have not been altered to protect the innocent. . .or guilty.

Day 2.

What's the first thing you see when you sleep in the back of a truck. . .you're looking at it.

Morning routine in Tahoe.

Our abode for the week. Get used to it. . .we did.

We woke up to a nip in the air but a calm Lake Tahoe. I strolled down the deck of the yard we were staying in and snapped off a few photos and enjoyed the peaceful view. It was time for some nourishment and more southbound driving. One of the best things you learn by “dirtbagging” is how resourceful you become, taking baths in restaurant bathrooms and the like. The drive to Mammoth is only a few hours from Tahoe. The trip up and over the Sierras afforded us with some beautiful views, ones a camera will never do justice, so. . .you get no pics. If you want to see it you’ll just have to come out here and do it yourself. On the way down to Mammoth all signs pointed to Plan B. Plan B consisted of a trip into Yosemite if the snow wasn’t good or plenty enough for shredding. The problem with Plan B was that all roads, minus one that was way out of the way, were closed for the winter. Being bold explorers, non-law abiding citizens, and lastly. . .Everlines, we took a side trip to check out the access to said closed roads. The idea was we could contort the Yota around any gate or roadblock the U.S. Forest Service could put in our way. We were wrong! Apparently the Forest Service has been blocking roads longer than we have been driving. . .probably even longer. The closed road was well fortified with a steel gate, large boulders and steep hillsides; all formidable foes for the Yota by themselves, let along combined. We opted to avoid any tumbles down a hill or serious injury and headed back on our route to Mammoth.

This is what you do when the Forest Service blocks all your possible routes into a park.

Some random lake on our path through the Sierras.

A little tribute to the mother land.

The rest of the trip southward was uneventful. We pulled into Mammoth Lakes mid afternoon and immediately began scoping out our surroundings. We drove up to the lodge to find several people packing up their ski/board equipment for the day. A good sign since Plan B was ousted earlier in the day. Next on our list was to find a good place to park the truck for the night. We learned our lesson in Tahoe, finding safe side roads is easier in the light. After some cruising around we discovered a nice little break in the snow that led down to a flat, snow covered meadow out of sight from the main road. We pulled down into the meadow to check for level ground, decided it was fit for sleeping and headed to town for some food and more exploration. Downtown Mammoth Lakes is a pretty cool little village, outfitted with a gondola that takes village visitors up to the slopes. Todd and I strolled though the village for a while, enjoying the steel sculptures and poking our heads in windows of stores. After being the truck for two straight days it was nice to air out a little bit.

Bussling downtown Mammoth Lakes.

Big fish.

Steel (or some other metal) bear sculpture.

The east side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range is known for it’s abundance of hot springs. Without a tub or shower attached to our chateau (it’s in the works), we needed to find someplace, other than restaurant bathrooms, to purty ourselves up, especially if we planned on hanging with the SoCal crowd in Mammoth. We swept into the local mountaineer shop to see what kind of info we could pull from their guide book section. Todd picked up a hot springs guide for the area. The plan was to memorize the contents of the book and find the springs by memory. Yes, this was a budget trip if you couldn’t already tell by our sleeping accommodations. However, after a few pints memorization isn’t very easy so Todd coughed up the $16 + tax (Damn tax! I love Oregon!) for the book. The sun had set and like side roads for sleeping, hot springs are pretty hard to find in the dark too. We diligently followed the book’s directions, minus driving about 20 miles down highway 395 instead of the 9 miles the book prescribed (road trip coma). Both navigator and driver had a hard time finding the “Green Church” the book denoted as a landmark. Apparently, green churches are hard to see in the darkness of the central Californian desert. We did manage to navigate ourselves to one hot spring, which was closed due to unstable geothermal activity. The book stated that this particular hot spring would erratically fluctuate in temperature. The sign at the entrance of the park (the same sign that said DO NOT ENTER AFTER DARK) stated that 14 people had been killed or severely burned since 1970 something. I thought the number was pretty low, Todd thought otherwise. Nevertheless, we walked down to the spring, just to scope things out. It was pretty well barricaded, not well enough to keep us out if we really wanted to burn the flesh off our bones but the unstable geothermal threat was enough to keep us behind any fences. Rejected and dirty, it was time for some food and booze.

A waring worth keeping to.

It was back to Mammoth Lakes for some pitas and a night at the local tiki bar. The pitas were tasty and much appreciated. The tiki bar was blown off in our initial fly by but after checking out other options we returned for a night never to be expected at a tiki bar, in Mammoth California. Upon our return there was a band just getting set up for a night of jamming; what we hoped was some mellow tiki-like jamming. It seemed a little odd that the band was all wearing black leather and the lead singer had a 12 inch long cuff of 6 inch long steel spikes. Certainly not a Jack Johnson cover band. In fact, they couldn’t have been more far off from such. When they started moving all the furniture outside and the fog machine was drug out of the van, we knew we were in for a show. The band was loud, the lyrics were unintelligible, and the mosh pit (yes, a mosh pit at a tiki bar in Brody country) was violent. Todd witnessed a guy spitting blood into the bathroom sink and we both saw a drunk girl get run over by a giant human being who was stiff-arming mosh participants to the ground. The highlight of the evening, minus the ear-ringing that continued for the next two days (does that make me old?) was the condom machine in the bathroom. Just above the coin slot it stated “For Refund, Insert Baby Here.” If you haven’t chuckeled yet. . .think about it.

Think about it. . .

Nothing like a mosh pit at a tiki bar. The classiest of classy.

A tiki bar after several beverages.

Once we downed enough beverages to temporarily stop the bleeding of our ears, or at least not notice, it was time to hit the snow covered meadow and sleep. We found the meadow without incident and it was off to slumber-land for the two of us.

Nighty night.