The big 3-0

While many choose to celebrate their thirtieth birthday in an outlandish, extravagant debacle, i chose to celebrate like any good Everline should. . .in the woods. Instead of dropping my hard earned one dollar bills on a stage only to have some underfed, overbreasted pick it up with who knows what body part, i opted for a wintery snowshoe in central Oregon. Going into the weekend the plans took several turns. Originally it was a snowshoe trip on the might Mt. Hood, it morphed into a canoe trip along the Nehalem river but a gnarly class III rapid and lack of a drysuit changed it into. . .a mountain biking trip somewhere in central Oregon but a busted suspension fork and mangled derailleur kept us off the fat tires. In the end we circled back to the snowshoe trip but instead of snow camping at 7,000 feet we choose the more tame 4,000 foot shelter along the Santiam Pass.

My partner in crime for the weekend wasthe drive was speckled with rain showers but we hoped that once we found our way into the high desert of central Oregon it would all turn to snow. No such luck. Seeing the precip stay wet and not fluffy, i stopped at a mini-mart and scored a $1.25 "emergency poncho" to serve as my pack cover. It proved to be a brilliant idea because not only was the hike wet but it also turned out to be much longer than we had planned. I'm not sure who put me on map reading duty but it was a bad idea, as it usually is. My fearless and nearly blind navigation won us the scenic route, adding a few miles to the trip. So. . .yes my route was longer and it also turned out to be more vertical than the planned route. When we caught sight of the shelter's stove pipe i thought Greg was going to drop to his knees and start crying like a stranded man on a deserted island none other than my brother-from-another-mother, Greg. Greg and the doggies made the journey down from the Olympic Peninsula Friday afternoon. By the time he hit the doorstep i was beer in hand and getting him one outta the fridge. With Greg missing Portland and all it's dining glory, we headed to Apizza Scholls for some of the Rose City's finest pizza pie. We enjoyed a few pints while we waited and indulged on a meat plate and procuitto margherita pie. Deliciousness. After dinner we headed over to the backstage to shoot some pool. I was playing well but still ended up getting pummeled on the felt. I spent some efforts chatting up two young ladies only to find out that. . .i'm an old bastard who shouldn't say half the things that come mind. They moved to the next available table.

The next morning we shot out of our respective beds (Greg and the dogs the sofa and me, my bed) and got rolling down the road. Most of watching a plane fly overhead. The shelter was bliss, not like those Appalachian Trail lean-to style shelters. This place could have served as a home but given the fact that i think my Toyota Tacoma could function as a fine home that doesn't say much.

Greg ready to charge the hill.

Big E patiently waiting his turn.

Wrong turn #1.

Damp self-portrait. Gotta love the pack cover.

Three generations of trees; remaining old growth in the distance, 2nd growth front and center, and 3rd growth on the flats. Also the sight of wrong turn #2.

Greg bringing up the rear.

We settled in for an evening in the dry, soon to be toasty warm cabin. I hung up all my wet gear, picked a "bed" close to the wood stove and started digging into lunch. We drug up some Como bread, hard salami and a couple fine Oregon cheeses. There's something gourmet about cutting fine dried meats and cheeses with a Benchmade pocket knife that can't be explained. Once the fire warmed up it was time to crack open the cheap whiskey and break out the cards. In an attempt to dry my insoles i put them on the scorching wood stove. The wood hungry beast didn't disappoint. . .actually. . .it did disappoint, it melted my insoles like marshmallows at a girl scout camp. I pulled the goey insole mess off the stove and proceeded to scold the bottom of my feet as i tried to reform them. I thought it was a brilliant recovery given the moronic mistake. I was wrong. Not only did i nearly blister the bottoms of my feet but the insoles had shrunk beyond usability. Shortly after working past the half-way mark of the bottle we had some visitors to the shelter, a couple of dudes from Stumptown checking out the shelter for future excursions. We chatted for a while, mostly about health care (why does that crap follow me everywhere?), before the headed back downhill. After they left Greg and i continued our "Switch" marathon. By the time the sun began to fall i realized that i had failed my boy scout of a father; i didn't bring a lantern. We strung a few headlamps to the now empty whiskey bottle to create some nice stadium like lighting for the card game. It was getting close to dinner time. We pulled the cans of chili out of the packs and threw them over the residual insole goo on the wood stove. We stuffed our faces with piping hot low grade chili, which was just what was need at that point. After a few more hands of cards it was time for bed.

Our humble abode for the night.

A welcome sight. . .a front door.

The view from the front porch.

Our gourmet meal.

My superfeet getting all "mellowie"

Why my superfeet got all mellowie.

Making some water.

Friz taking a fireside nap.

Throwing down some switch under the stadium lights.

Having fun with low light and an extended shutter speed.

More fun with less light.

During some time in the evening we received another visitor at the cabin. Being the light sleeper that i am, i heard the guy turn the handle of the shelter. Greg apparently sleeps a little heavier. Surprisingly, the dogs didn't make a sound. I think they were both too busy shivering to make any noise. Greg suddenly startled awake and yelled at the guy, "what the hell are you doing?" It wasn't until the next morning that he explained that he thought it was me making all that noise. Our new shelter mate rustled some of his stuff around before finally settling in for the night.

Rise and shine.

Looking back at our freshly laid tracks.

Greg and the dogs making way.

The next morning we rose with the sun. When i stepped outside to drain the previous evening's whiskey i stepped into 8 inches of fresh, unexpected snow. It was beautiful. Here i was, at the top of the ridge with nothing but fresh snow and not a single sign of another human's presence, minus the big wooden shelter behind me and the trash can to my left. You get the point and if you don't. . .i feel sorry for you. Greg and i stuffed some nutrition bars into our mouths and stuffed our gear back into the packs. The snow was still falling while we strapped on the snowshoes. We set out to make our own wintery tracks through the fluffy white. The course was plotted and we slugged along, looking forward to the downhill journey. In typical fashion i was in charge of navigation and in typical fashion, we ended up not knowing where we were. Expecting this. . .i napped one of the maps hanging on the wall in the shelter. What i discovered on this trip was that no matter how many maps you take from walls or have in a book, they don't do you any good if you can't read them (it sounds like a have a goal for my summer). Greg, being the search and rescue character that he is, pulled out his handy-dandy GPS. I'm sure in my hands it wouldn't be any more useful than a map but in his. . .we actually got somewhere. We got ourselves right into the middle of a forest with no tracks, no markers and no trail. The GPS pointed us toward the highway, which eventually would lead us back to the truck. We never really got the opportunity to test the above theory because we crossed a marked trail before hitting the highway. Once at the trail intersection it was time to make another decision. Greg said left (uphill) while i said right (downhill). Given my most recent and past history of mapping we went with Greg's left. . .for about 50 yards before we turned around and headed downhill. Finally! I had made a correct choice. After a few more miles on the trail we ended up safely at the parking lot where the Yota was waiting patiently for our arrival.


The drive back to Portland was uneventful minus the SUV driver driving about 35 miles an hour on the highway because for some reason they felt the need for chains on their tires. They must have been from California or something because there was only an inch. . .maybe two on the road. We returned to Stumptown without a scratch. Greg packed up the dogs and headed back north to his waiting wife, Gingey.

So that was the weekend prior to the big 3-0. One may ask. . ."So what did you do on the actual 3-0?" In typical fashion, soccer takes priority over just about everything, thus, i played soccer. After the "game" we headed to the Lucky Lab to share a few pitchers. When it was all said and done i had a fabulous time "not" celebrating my 30th birthday. I wouldn't have had it any other way.