tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194422412024-03-13T11:41:03.503-07:00val's venturesValhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-49612877193889119052012-10-23T16:15:00.000-07:002012-10-23T16:16:37.578-07:00It's Been Awhile.For heaven's sake, how does one even begin to write a blog post after a year and a half? When so much has changed, when my life as I once knew it has evolved beyond belief? Sit down and just start, I suppose.<br />
I write this beachside, sitting cross-legged on a picnic table, listening to waves crashing and watching the sun sink lower on the horizon. It's October. It's a Monday. I'm camping in SoCal, where it's not raining or snowing, and for that I am grateful. I just rode a road bike, by choice, and I liked it. It's almost Happy Hour, and that's ok too.<br />
I don't live in Hood River anymore. I live in a van; I seem to have an affinity for Sprinter Vans, because I now drive one for a living.<br />
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Ok, I don't really live in the van, as it's full of bikes and there is no living space. But I drive it all over the West, alone (sometimes with Turbo), and I sometimes (although not as often as you would think) get to ride bikes. Mostly, I help other girls ride bikes more, and teach them how to fix their bike. </div>
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It is enjoyable, and I meet extraordinary people. </div>
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Like the lovely Lauren:</div>
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And Nica:</div>
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And Erin:</div>
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And these two, Ginjer and Savannah from the Flathead Valley:</div>
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I got to see my old friend Woody in Sioux Falls, SD. It had been five years.</div>
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He even took me flying! Just like old times, except I didn't jump out.</div>
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I met all of these kooks along the way, too. Hernan, Sonia, and Pati.</div>
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This guy, Evan, a fellow Giant Bicycles demo driver:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIUg1GPeIf0W9ze24T_z8yUE4jQRLO1ii0XtcCLTAJk-qOlUFt9EDyFvjr1M8cF6rjVEkAly-22grjO1fH1kDVShcKC_-kX9CZWyo_PaVdRQBHc-UXVnLz0kxTduC53TNEUjtRg/s1600/IMG_2197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIUg1GPeIf0W9ze24T_z8yUE4jQRLO1ii0XtcCLTAJk-qOlUFt9EDyFvjr1M8cF6rjVEkAly-22grjO1fH1kDVShcKC_-kX9CZWyo_PaVdRQBHc-UXVnLz0kxTduC53TNEUjtRg/s400/IMG_2197.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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And Jenni from the Block:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3v6PpJUUITpyGeZfT3MU78kNuwpAb59utTgR895JcWyctD1GI2wdslyPEqRflmY-uTmiVorJ3BUQmc47Q8QDtvYDtDQrVmSx1GL9Oii5D1z8OnE6h6mTxkDKM_xt2WiLy0wBGw/s1600/IMG_2213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3v6PpJUUITpyGeZfT3MU78kNuwpAb59utTgR895JcWyctD1GI2wdslyPEqRflmY-uTmiVorJ3BUQmc47Q8QDtvYDtDQrVmSx1GL9Oii5D1z8OnE6h6mTxkDKM_xt2WiLy0wBGw/s400/IMG_2213.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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And I got to see my dear Jessica again in Bellingham!</div>
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These two from Reno, Maggie and Eric:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidFXF8KFihxJF-RH5_H99kzc3_pfn7QVR0hApH2ao9Vwmi-NUTsBu85Jqvh5fMj2tWl40pbj4U2dLscSoPa3ArLEQ7zYHTL7n1V3Sw5DWG-fN8Wfz_4-E_nlzOuOL7s5j11V_fDQ/s1600/IMG_2028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidFXF8KFihxJF-RH5_H99kzc3_pfn7QVR0hApH2ao9Vwmi-NUTsBu85Jqvh5fMj2tWl40pbj4U2dLscSoPa3ArLEQ7zYHTL7n1V3Sw5DWG-fN8Wfz_4-E_nlzOuOL7s5j11V_fDQ/s400/IMG_2028.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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And Craig:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcmMtZCGzvtkIgkBYwKh7fFO3gWB4t7inWwYonlTA-n4jzvaIRKw8Eu_RZFjpZa3KZRYJxJIvcyfo2HD5pEEfXyB9B4vhQYfIShGKTvn2P4ZY6bOgwIKPJj8COz3VurgFtKnhFg/s1600/IMG_2054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcmMtZCGzvtkIgkBYwKh7fFO3gWB4t7inWwYonlTA-n4jzvaIRKw8Eu_RZFjpZa3KZRYJxJIvcyfo2HD5pEEfXyB9B4vhQYfIShGKTvn2P4ZY6bOgwIKPJj8COz3VurgFtKnhFg/s400/IMG_2054.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I also get to see places like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrPW_CwagSpUrCnMqL9jLiJuLGpPVKOumIOAB1F62Ltnlck0ZHQLCe7c2RErY0gaTpU0s12mI524ollpspbBCZPidltGNPhbqc9N6OBnJwhqPcz0_r9ULEePorZVr7rtPFQ8vTDQ/s1600/IMG_1437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrPW_CwagSpUrCnMqL9jLiJuLGpPVKOumIOAB1F62Ltnlck0ZHQLCe7c2RErY0gaTpU0s12mI524ollpspbBCZPidltGNPhbqc9N6OBnJwhqPcz0_r9ULEePorZVr7rtPFQ8vTDQ/s400/IMG_1437.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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And this:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGm22ESwuhuF4WdS0kqSzE8E2Ioa3sa4NzATNHrrybivkCCpUFXlyyqFIKsNlUjzNdPabuzDVvTbE0ftD3QssdFziLUGyed5zAq3c_9fQgjJ4NKAFBdM7r1-LrfanjDSX7IiHgw/s1600/IMG_1458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGm22ESwuhuF4WdS0kqSzE8E2Ioa3sa4NzATNHrrybivkCCpUFXlyyqFIKsNlUjzNdPabuzDVvTbE0ftD3QssdFziLUGyed5zAq3c_9fQgjJ4NKAFBdM7r1-LrfanjDSX7IiHgw/s400/IMG_1458.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Got to chase Twenty6 Tyler through the woods in Bozeman, MT.</td></tr>
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Or maybe this:</div>
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And sunsets, like this:<br />
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Moonrises like this one over San Francisco:</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This is just the tip of the iceberg, really. I have so many stories and adventures to share from the past year! It's been one heck of a ride.</div>
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Cheers to a lovely life!</div>
<br />Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-27578791247198393192011-06-27T08:38:00.000-07:002011-06-27T08:38:05.309-07:00Spring / Summer in Pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE5A9pkdEXVeT2J6jqKLpV-_ZpZs6gtWUzch4lwFtlUSAraT1krpNPZpizcJKDeZeljyCk8oma39YJn4f5HFHIHV8aLRLJ2xYu5XYO35FqbrgIYUtWYcn784qTKbr1TA38Pkp1oQ/s1600/IMG_1234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE5A9pkdEXVeT2J6jqKLpV-_ZpZs6gtWUzch4lwFtlUSAraT1krpNPZpizcJKDeZeljyCk8oma39YJn4f5HFHIHV8aLRLJ2xYu5XYO35FqbrgIYUtWYcn784qTKbr1TA38Pkp1oQ/s320/IMG_1234.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Chair</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIKLgD-Z6XU3g3d_Yul9JA4i3c-Tt6cTyRAD-FkkI8deu8Xp9jLLYKfTxB7qE7CYA4Yzy_lYAbXKZszbhyL166DW1wrbeLDDPVtliuCCl54buHHAyzwyANctJpTUVFenkyoKIBw/s1600/IMG_1247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIKLgD-Z6XU3g3d_Yul9JA4i3c-Tt6cTyRAD-FkkI8deu8Xp9jLLYKfTxB7qE7CYA4Yzy_lYAbXKZszbhyL166DW1wrbeLDDPVtliuCCl54buHHAyzwyANctJpTUVFenkyoKIBw/s320/IMG_1247.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainbow Over the Hood</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfYH1tnr1OCOmWOqouv5RpAaX5MqjKhYrIPIaCW98ljlRnv60cvJLvD1M1d_rpNastPahL_K4-srosDvqb5n4s0gGhAKQ28MEjozelDd44Ca5iKuatZT4eFLWiGHt2MY11XhoKXQ/s1600/IMG_1260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfYH1tnr1OCOmWOqouv5RpAaX5MqjKhYrIPIaCW98ljlRnv60cvJLvD1M1d_rpNastPahL_K4-srosDvqb5n4s0gGhAKQ28MEjozelDd44Ca5iKuatZT4eFLWiGHt2MY11XhoKXQ/s320/IMG_1260.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday Cake Made by Joe</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Z8cGFv-y6fiDj2IC45G0qZ0blgSMWTCdjhk_ZQpeBIFwROiF-kf8stI6_eHgfiX0kOzFs3i4xGAW4bHTtyHj_QoXHji3SzftcD80_D0r9IxYv6Q-_AO86v3s6fB8eKAAkoNz9g/s1600/IMG_1265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Z8cGFv-y6fiDj2IC45G0qZ0blgSMWTCdjhk_ZQpeBIFwROiF-kf8stI6_eHgfiX0kOzFs3i4xGAW4bHTtyHj_QoXHji3SzftcD80_D0r9IxYv6Q-_AO86v3s6fB8eKAAkoNz9g/s320/IMG_1265.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring Syncline Shred</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoDvH8sx0ko_0h98qe-Nh94quiHiiSOyx89-4IEHen4YX1NdV9Kf74UuvSL3amNrvEV1WGcLXuoRk3d332zicC9Z7D4wzK3OIe6OzHNg0xqOVanNe8v5QouNgB7ebbw74nqWqlEQ/s1600/IMG_1273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoDvH8sx0ko_0h98qe-Nh94quiHiiSOyx89-4IEHen4YX1NdV9Kf74UuvSL3amNrvEV1WGcLXuoRk3d332zicC9Z7D4wzK3OIe6OzHNg0xqOVanNe8v5QouNgB7ebbw74nqWqlEQ/s320/IMG_1273.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready to Eat at Anna's</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oijxKuoL3hQJm3HgHa-GLFgJHnNKcPqZ5-nFBAqz2-q_XxTq3dagLfCapxq-ZP9THERNlRwlP7ebFB5DlfTOfgFa276T7NnE_-blGLAPC9KwQhL38ENPcEN9kyNUtK5rRupoQg/s1600/IMG_1282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oijxKuoL3hQJm3HgHa-GLFgJHnNKcPqZ5-nFBAqz2-q_XxTq3dagLfCapxq-ZP9THERNlRwlP7ebFB5DlfTOfgFa276T7NnE_-blGLAPC9KwQhL38ENPcEN9kyNUtK5rRupoQg/s320/IMG_1282.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Farmers' Market of the Year</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9RzVBomJSlb7ej-bWAnTWai0LNp1Jh29JSDtIiceAuclZZw_2RGbcmAVH1LcnoAHFq614Ny9kFbp39OlPmybGKsg65QvEs7GCPBfJiU2Efm3tNXQJCuYZJcAQvVdCMPmoKIJvQ/s1600/IMG_1283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9RzVBomJSlb7ej-bWAnTWai0LNp1Jh29JSDtIiceAuclZZw_2RGbcmAVH1LcnoAHFq614Ny9kFbp39OlPmybGKsg65QvEs7GCPBfJiU2Efm3tNXQJCuYZJcAQvVdCMPmoKIJvQ/s320/IMG_1283.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Perfect Spring Dinner</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk90zPq_lhABCfXVtRb_3_q-WaY9Jn0sGZwfQUEYFfJco6CzpjM8ocx2JFXKqijgETvXpzW6fsEJio4JLxjiRdOj16HjOPzyVXozImkzKLA-j0eu31BaoEYxDe9hoGTjhI_4sa7Q/s1600/IMG_1312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk90zPq_lhABCfXVtRb_3_q-WaY9Jn0sGZwfQUEYFfJco6CzpjM8ocx2JFXKqijgETvXpzW6fsEJio4JLxjiRdOj16HjOPzyVXozImkzKLA-j0eu31BaoEYxDe9hoGTjhI_4sa7Q/s320/IMG_1312.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heart, Heart, Heart!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwXomDHAZ7YJnn3tn3l7WiglwRjPPBw7s3QBk63ZPZd-LB_sh7k3O5qwvN1liuUlaGLwlzMayC4SE1FXg125y2CEzbL8z2JY26RsRoC6kdXGSdoqDoylsIfH3SsdB6PtdtqWCFQ/s1600/IMG_1322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwXomDHAZ7YJnn3tn3l7WiglwRjPPBw7s3QBk63ZPZd-LB_sh7k3O5qwvN1liuUlaGLwlzMayC4SE1FXg125y2CEzbL8z2JY26RsRoC6kdXGSdoqDoylsIfH3SsdB6PtdtqWCFQ/s320/IMG_1322.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jody's Birthday Cake, Carrot of Course</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuuSLFwVWnBQete73MmPSfjiURDaJ8g-_KJS07Qin9E-VnTXQMRylvZvv0yqxVc82V98E1-U8qQtFzBwtJPZ9_e63vDvIih4OVn5SRLjNuPq0BmRTlXWPEqZJmgxN1YZy7vR-dw/s1600/IMG_1328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuuSLFwVWnBQete73MmPSfjiURDaJ8g-_KJS07Qin9E-VnTXQMRylvZvv0yqxVc82V98E1-U8qQtFzBwtJPZ9_e63vDvIih4OVn5SRLjNuPq0BmRTlXWPEqZJmgxN1YZy7vR-dw/s320/IMG_1328.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny Liquor and Hat Party</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBtZTwjgD2tEeevSWAwCCXiXa8cN0Eyptd-n0Ghts80HfPjFxN1H8sgicKkce-QAD_v4DhuT3lIsQ_5fH6n11pZ-vqfVVmaGRXLHNyTJ5fTqU1vLWAggqntt8sBBj3teL8oK8VCw/s1600/IMG_1347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBtZTwjgD2tEeevSWAwCCXiXa8cN0Eyptd-n0Ghts80HfPjFxN1H8sgicKkce-QAD_v4DhuT3lIsQ_5fH6n11pZ-vqfVVmaGRXLHNyTJ5fTqU1vLWAggqntt8sBBj3teL8oK8VCw/s320/IMG_1347.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cocktail of the Season</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RbQEP58LgHtWcpRa2jNniKZfY30AXjF5zHvmxQKARAcaadtWmLtBn0e4GDTlDIYb5IQAGrtac7vGY3IRj8oufB5tN0EFVosrsR0xgU6n45eCrbh0CAMr2l6gZ_kq6uTwNHZvnw/s1600/IMG_1355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RbQEP58LgHtWcpRa2jNniKZfY30AXjF5zHvmxQKARAcaadtWmLtBn0e4GDTlDIYb5IQAGrtac7vGY3IRj8oufB5tN0EFVosrsR0xgU6n45eCrbh0CAMr2l6gZ_kq6uTwNHZvnw/s320/IMG_1355.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hood River Super-D -- Go <a href="http://hermosaharlots.wordpress.com/">Hermosa Harlots</a> (formerly Hotties...)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4SE8ugrti075joTAjaoeieSPL1i1F0yAfxHQOoT-jNu8ulLVIdF8kj7rs496CSTrhUEbURFQPqFUKLFneZRvCHhzZZdKRZfjG5lD_bz8TdUc_lTg_PNHtB2fUw2jH4nmyWrZMqw/s1600/IMG_1359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4SE8ugrti075joTAjaoeieSPL1i1F0yAfxHQOoT-jNu8ulLVIdF8kj7rs496CSTrhUEbURFQPqFUKLFneZRvCHhzZZdKRZfjG5lD_bz8TdUc_lTg_PNHtB2fUw2jH4nmyWrZMqw/s320/IMG_1359.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Radishes + Butter, oh hell yes</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio0xDHGUXkBFgnLEcCf3eYLeLUTbtTZv8v3ooilKMcgraeaqD5cL33nuKmZjYLH3KVMCHqFzz9z8PCT-wou9neDwUocWWLot4pd3PsRKv-vN09KdNicYKuep5XpqVBC-YEMnhgBA/s1600/IMG_1361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio0xDHGUXkBFgnLEcCf3eYLeLUTbtTZv8v3ooilKMcgraeaqD5cL33nuKmZjYLH3KVMCHqFzz9z8PCT-wou9neDwUocWWLot4pd3PsRKv-vN09KdNicYKuep5XpqVBC-YEMnhgBA/s320/IMG_1361.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mojitos!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVHl_Esch8gjwEeNLcrmyNBLNZxTuSZuICs0b9CEGrQS5i0qsfOrz6aw34mzAvcpEkDE-m7oOPJ_b6kklnXejvtb8HKlZxASz4xCzytKqY90ugQejbedu0TZ1GdGWDyfj2sk23g/s1600/IMG_1367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVHl_Esch8gjwEeNLcrmyNBLNZxTuSZuICs0b9CEGrQS5i0qsfOrz6aw34mzAvcpEkDE-m7oOPJ_b6kklnXejvtb8HKlZxASz4xCzytKqY90ugQejbedu0TZ1GdGWDyfj2sk23g/s320/IMG_1367.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nomadic Kitchen</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUoj8wQ__7aq5prLmpsLkRKmdESVS_I7dI_4c1eghfd3uiXyjt50t2K2a9A1N81mbab56sv2Vb9z5orZ8v2NNZVPujZ2Zhz_zBNqBskmcIjIUse56eInAouZYj8qf9fckRJ1gAg/s1600/100_1676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUoj8wQ__7aq5prLmpsLkRKmdESVS_I7dI_4c1eghfd3uiXyjt50t2K2a9A1N81mbab56sv2Vb9z5orZ8v2NNZVPujZ2Zhz_zBNqBskmcIjIUse56eInAouZYj8qf9fckRJ1gAg/s320/100_1676.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hermosa Shuttles</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgey_BkMTM4Tlm4fQCQ_TYWGVTcb6nSkt18l8VbKq9MyDqNdbAR7LuNrXQKtO7kHySv0T8z4sFim85icgnjDmnAbzJA3caKIfmBsvmfEv3GWMcPY5yxgowXwhICpp_Psspni_JxMg/s1600/IMG_1377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgey_BkMTM4Tlm4fQCQ_TYWGVTcb6nSkt18l8VbKq9MyDqNdbAR7LuNrXQKtO7kHySv0T8z4sFim85icgnjDmnAbzJA3caKIfmBsvmfEv3GWMcPY5yxgowXwhICpp_Psspni_JxMg/s320/IMG_1377.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deviled Eggs + Dogs</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOkpDdnMm6UWr2fBUdlnn_aXf4vIUrdkxkUThOI6xuu0QouFu4Z65asYq_lra7nzEG4jWXOZMjIsAuEPi1ikewbD1aK5UB55QEW5hA5lJlemBS_rgSDFtae9YbjvF9fnbXx1hdWA/s1600/IMG_1379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOkpDdnMm6UWr2fBUdlnn_aXf4vIUrdkxkUThOI6xuu0QouFu4Z65asYq_lra7nzEG4jWXOZMjIsAuEPi1ikewbD1aK5UB55QEW5hA5lJlemBS_rgSDFtae9YbjvF9fnbXx1hdWA/s320/IMG_1379.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post Canyon Ladies Adventure Ride!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTu0Z3UxYQc1qjNF4ejkxCfRy4Qxnq6U4Lo3HNaqBa3-hkrJm66LesLIx95675l7f7X5Oxhp0Fc874XqP-00R9k_BaQdxEeR9MFXPWVbF2vkjJpDyhU9Qix1vuPA4IJUK6npm9ug/s1600/IMG_1384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTu0Z3UxYQc1qjNF4ejkxCfRy4Qxnq6U4Lo3HNaqBa3-hkrJm66LesLIx95675l7f7X5Oxhp0Fc874XqP-00R9k_BaQdxEeR9MFXPWVbF2vkjJpDyhU9Qix1vuPA4IJUK6npm9ug/s320/IMG_1384.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mari-Beth</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9b5WypK6QgNGVSdu5-iijRgh_hNJdWKGf9ETtmJ_YDX8yppVv3q353_Mpae7dX01TWnfPUngLoxv3O0Xjo4T9flILbcoQW81OlJzXsIFmqfgjkhrDP8WaO9w-N2csRejPRr3d_w/s1600/IMG_1388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9b5WypK6QgNGVSdu5-iijRgh_hNJdWKGf9ETtmJ_YDX8yppVv3q353_Mpae7dX01TWnfPUngLoxv3O0Xjo4T9flILbcoQW81OlJzXsIFmqfgjkhrDP8WaO9w-N2csRejPRr3d_w/s320/IMG_1388.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sturdy Bitch Race Team at the Ashland Super-D</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcLX-vuedijAE0mjT0kBi8zj16937q-_1cWx1Cc-yechy5k8GttjL7d818dvdUzwnLt784gUj8gLN2n_cKk2UtsTzroxvhUGJ346MFjzUoJ7XSlItpPNCJi6F-B-jBC9KSEMo1Q/s1600/IMG_1391.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcLX-vuedijAE0mjT0kBi8zj16937q-_1cWx1Cc-yechy5k8GttjL7d818dvdUzwnLt784gUj8gLN2n_cKk2UtsTzroxvhUGJ346MFjzUoJ7XSlItpPNCJi6F-B-jBC9KSEMo1Q/s320/IMG_1391.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing Stone Sampler</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fdsO0GLNVUP38bMM6AnaalWUnf_Eb-SdpNolfNoDaSDvK4dOEqgFKMBAEeODwQhk3uDy_eiEXEsfG5XiLZ0V6ozBeVEECMzACVTyqI4roGReRl9nZ4WOR1aq-6OLYYPXrrLNBQ/s1600/IMG_1396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fdsO0GLNVUP38bMM6AnaalWUnf_Eb-SdpNolfNoDaSDvK4dOEqgFKMBAEeODwQhk3uDy_eiEXEsfG5XiLZ0V6ozBeVEECMzACVTyqI4roGReRl9nZ4WOR1aq-6OLYYPXrrLNBQ/s320/IMG_1396.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Race Readying</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcY5g_UofGPHad0oT80sqt-McHaOcbzlHAkqj0qkwDb76a0d_mKuVHOJWk67OUlseKenQ2KcAB2s7dzQPuIlOm3smAJdCiWb03KbcqXMnYvRNv0U_aWBr0Q_8TlcHVy0YZ7RSoJQ/s1600/IMG_1398.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcY5g_UofGPHad0oT80sqt-McHaOcbzlHAkqj0qkwDb76a0d_mKuVHOJWk67OUlseKenQ2KcAB2s7dzQPuIlOm3smAJdCiWb03KbcqXMnYvRNv0U_aWBr0Q_8TlcHVy0YZ7RSoJQ/s320/IMG_1398.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love these Ladies</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioSOpGWSCwwnW-CxFiFEDDASWGPF-DbhSskwVT9oycEpt1lGrdQf7cUGi_A1rB_aWhyphenhyphenUDgJEGBGX1y27VqaqN31CgZhcGwSyz016cO4TogcGBeQcYzqAJO4RgyY07JPF5O7ynBQg/s1600/IMG_1400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioSOpGWSCwwnW-CxFiFEDDASWGPF-DbhSskwVT9oycEpt1lGrdQf7cUGi_A1rB_aWhyphenhyphenUDgJEGBGX1y27VqaqN31CgZhcGwSyz016cO4TogcGBeQcYzqAJO4RgyY07JPF5O7ynBQg/s320/IMG_1400.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ashland Finish</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0zU43BajB-Dktlu4L-F-abGab8fczt8691bHq_s-72kLIUIesLPh277PjNHOsDix1iq_gjD1kmicAQYtnsh25q-PqAl1spabACHgjVNeGEs_1XXQHCtNgsvnH1TThr5Q5eAyLQ/s1600/IMG_1405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0zU43BajB-Dktlu4L-F-abGab8fczt8691bHq_s-72kLIUIesLPh277PjNHOsDix1iq_gjD1kmicAQYtnsh25q-PqAl1spabACHgjVNeGEs_1XXQHCtNgsvnH1TThr5Q5eAyLQ/s320/IMG_1405.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finish of Chuck's Chips, Talent, Oregon -- Take One</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfpWTiCuqDmi04eS55UolwDQpJmPIBiftcguqUt2UhoRudKncaZKHZPjrYkqyZoV0ypLsyVJdOzR_bD8lB8UsDlF4zar1c36MWtAAB2IONhy3Yc4Mry6fwR0v6CanNnEGT7MgRA/s1600/IMG_1406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfpWTiCuqDmi04eS55UolwDQpJmPIBiftcguqUt2UhoRudKncaZKHZPjrYkqyZoV0ypLsyVJdOzR_bD8lB8UsDlF4zar1c36MWtAAB2IONhy3Yc4Mry6fwR0v6CanNnEGT7MgRA/s320/IMG_1406.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take Two</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLvrOZf0yp5R102gi8vUaQUAciijcVr-r0xBq3__ed27gaA44iQrswC6ozL3ttdeZvihwEQQhRRXyXOU3iLWEOYlCi2RaM8iXXOGZBooBW4OhkV-HDnGgpgjQRbmH51vy0RrLtg/s1600/IMG_1414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLvrOZf0yp5R102gi8vUaQUAciijcVr-r0xBq3__ed27gaA44iQrswC6ozL3ttdeZvihwEQQhRRXyXOU3iLWEOYlCi2RaM8iXXOGZBooBW4OhkV-HDnGgpgjQRbmH51vy0RrLtg/s320/IMG_1414.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fred and Katie, <a href="http://wolfhoundcycles.com/site/">Wolfhound Cycles</a> Headquarters, Talent Oregon</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejHrkj4VqeiECD6IdhX1LZzwbjRgzrcrewZyJcDHDPHU62H_VaglwlusDjmZ9VZc0hMJcJNqWB-PPDqq2DLdvjstGiQavgxx2SD5vFdWrijHn2cgv3zSwQAh8cHT_IRfMn-7pBw/s1600/Harlots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejHrkj4VqeiECD6IdhX1LZzwbjRgzrcrewZyJcDHDPHU62H_VaglwlusDjmZ9VZc0hMJcJNqWB-PPDqq2DLdvjstGiQavgxx2SD5vFdWrijHn2cgv3zSwQAh8cHT_IRfMn-7pBw/s1600/Harlots.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUXVU-Hte2zY9uWSyMCPhw3ry4mhLY_vW6949qfT6b-cnM07MWboAtSijmQHVNh1xced4-maEKwrj88MbzbWC54_c5s38Vaxm2f3HOkFRrl6PHzLa1ZgWLMilmf2lr4t2G_k3NQ/s1600/IMG_1416.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUXVU-Hte2zY9uWSyMCPhw3ry4mhLY_vW6949qfT6b-cnM07MWboAtSijmQHVNh1xced4-maEKwrj88MbzbWC54_c5s38Vaxm2f3HOkFRrl6PHzLa1ZgWLMilmf2lr4t2G_k3NQ/s320/IMG_1416.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hermosatours.net/">Hermosa Tours</a> Sighting at Black Rock!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ0mM4oKA02bgZ1iLX_OToTuUaNFeRid8KRfvdNKPKTrfA9-wVGWux-aU-kwNB_71-NaRC0fqeQEklMyhhUgr0c9CrBiGsrufcqDkIxIupGeNN0ECSrg6RUhcDXNB8TPe_Qxa8A/s1600/socks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ0mM4oKA02bgZ1iLX_OToTuUaNFeRid8KRfvdNKPKTrfA9-wVGWux-aU-kwNB_71-NaRC0fqeQEklMyhhUgr0c9CrBiGsrufcqDkIxIupGeNN0ECSrg6RUhcDXNB8TPe_Qxa8A/s320/socks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Socks from our sponsor, <a href="http://www.harlotwear.com/">Harlot Clothing</a>, gave us Superpowers at Black Rock!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1gohBH_2TSpDPv6dGBb8Q8EQWmg15zHb-Dnv2_VbwUslNuoJSb3GILg-a1OEYFSsnRPxWr19Y6nZIybAUrz38jWKGvSlhKC5xhZuvgCIVww6IuwipGrA7MqRbiaxeOtKVxggQA/s1600/air.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1gohBH_2TSpDPv6dGBb8Q8EQWmg15zHb-Dnv2_VbwUslNuoJSb3GILg-a1OEYFSsnRPxWr19Y6nZIybAUrz38jWKGvSlhKC5xhZuvgCIVww6IuwipGrA7MqRbiaxeOtKVxggQA/s320/air.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet!<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejHrkj4VqeiECD6IdhX1LZzwbjRgzrcrewZyJcDHDPHU62H_VaglwlusDjmZ9VZc0hMJcJNqWB-PPDqq2DLdvjstGiQavgxx2SD5vFdWrijHn2cgv3zSwQAh8cHT_IRfMn-7pBw/s1600/Harlots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejHrkj4VqeiECD6IdhX1LZzwbjRgzrcrewZyJcDHDPHU62H_VaglwlusDjmZ9VZc0hMJcJNqWB-PPDqq2DLdvjstGiQavgxx2SD5vFdWrijHn2cgv3zSwQAh8cHT_IRfMn-7pBw/s1600/Harlots.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harlots!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-77787550994556922612011-04-30T09:52:00.000-07:002011-04-30T09:52:58.799-07:00GGThe latest issue of the Gorge Guide Magazine is on newsstands now! You can also <a href="http://www.gorgeguide.com/gorge-guide-magazine.html">read it online</a>. Three of my articles are published there. My friend Anna is the Art Director for the magazine, and it just keeps getting better every year. Commentary by Kristin: "It looks like Sunset Magazine!"; it kind of does!<br />
<br />
This year, I wrote about farmers' markets, beer, and wine. I was kind of in my element. I particularly enjoyed all of the sampling that was required in the name of research.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lwd5zMatVUYMHpQp9qbNepO7lA9_9u2iIrhZaQDjtrf1kvm-BzJCpU-jv6bjvTr4aEBaj_OkWdKl6UlW7CJ-yg39YbcM1iJ1ePUhMvOS695U9xhUp_Wg9kxcvDX26pEPoz2aGg/s1600/IMG_1161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lwd5zMatVUYMHpQp9qbNepO7lA9_9u2iIrhZaQDjtrf1kvm-BzJCpU-jv6bjvTr4aEBaj_OkWdKl6UlW7CJ-yg39YbcM1iJ1ePUhMvOS695U9xhUp_Wg9kxcvDX26pEPoz2aGg/s400/IMG_1161.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlzov4eKYPPDPBJ5R68OMURzwDN5wVEvXi2nq5Mkv5o-_z7b3uzcq3zbcZtEe7TApmOiUEx4vnk5ZevafqCXmkq-LOCRj21MKLQNi8SInDcLpssEXGG6A2sKhdU0JEzk23cU7Rg/s1600/IMG_1162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlzov4eKYPPDPBJ5R68OMURzwDN5wVEvXi2nq5Mkv5o-_z7b3uzcq3zbcZtEe7TApmOiUEx4vnk5ZevafqCXmkq-LOCRj21MKLQNi8SInDcLpssEXGG6A2sKhdU0JEzk23cU7Rg/s400/IMG_1162.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgTTRzXnrQw7dROU77QGbDfDGQFiYHuisg5-jz8fM750nmqNly6CwQx6UISgguDmv8Zj_nddyRMlp8m3nD6_yBJhjO-xAHHZ_AD3PonZYfVJIZKxtcgcoKz3mEM8mf3mTn7eLdw/s1600/IMG_1163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgTTRzXnrQw7dROU77QGbDfDGQFiYHuisg5-jz8fM750nmqNly6CwQx6UISgguDmv8Zj_nddyRMlp8m3nD6_yBJhjO-xAHHZ_AD3PonZYfVJIZKxtcgcoKz3mEM8mf3mTn7eLdw/s400/IMG_1163.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm real proud!</div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-85550520470007659402011-04-13T19:56:00.000-07:002011-04-30T09:38:43.006-07:00Pacified in Pacific City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6zwGgQfyrds/TaZc8hnHGXI/AAAAAAAABNg/s-hRIYk01as/s1600/IMG_1128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6zwGgQfyrds/TaZc8hnHGXI/AAAAAAAABNg/s-hRIYk01as/s400/IMG_1128.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div></div>The ocean is so pacifying, it has a way of lulling the soul into contentment. Water in general, yes, but there is something about the waves, the tides, the connection to the ebb and flow and life. It's primordial. It speaks to something way deep in the ancient, intuitive, instinctive part of our brain. We know deep down where we came from; we have a homing device, maybe.<br />
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<div>Growing up land-locked, I'm not that comfortable in the waves, I'll be honest. It takes me a good long while to paddle out past even the cleanest, easiest break. I'm not master of the duck dive, clearly. Deep water mortifies me. I love the idea of surfing, but I really stink at it. My fears get the best of me out there; I don't really even like my feet to dangle for very long, so I end up stretching out on my board and watching the pelicans or the frigate birds or whatever is flying around overhead--which is why I stink at surfing. I also like to practice yoga poses out there. <a href="http://www.yogajournal.com/poses/468">Crow </a>-- yeah, that's hard on a surf board. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Someday, though, I'll master this mind, and be able to catch waves. I don't think there's any sport so pure, so beautiful in it's simplicity. </div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T66uaLTtVbU/TaZXgOI9YwI/AAAAAAAABMA/9er4RTqMG_E/s1600/IMG_1123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T66uaLTtVbU/TaZXgOI9YwI/AAAAAAAABMA/9er4RTqMG_E/s400/IMG_1123.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
</div><div>This past weekend, I took a little road trip out to Pacific City. I camped in a tent for the first time in a couple of years; van and camper living sure do spoil a girl. My trusty 15-year old MSR stove leaked fuel like a sieve, so I was doubly thankful that the <a href="http://stimuluscafe.com/">Stimulus Cafe</a> was a stone's throw from where I camped.</div><div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e820f4hRcfE/TaZcqkjbeBI/AAAAAAAABNA/KWrFpNUYOHs/s1600/IMG_1144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e820f4hRcfE/TaZcqkjbeBI/AAAAAAAABNA/KWrFpNUYOHs/s400/IMG_1144.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TvGUf7xUf4A/TaZYmourmQI/AAAAAAAABMg/5XFuvU-z4kM/s1600/IMG_1139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TvGUf7xUf4A/TaZYmourmQI/AAAAAAAABMg/5XFuvU-z4kM/s400/IMG_1139.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
</div><div>I walked at least 10 miles on the sand with <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Turbo-the-Three-Legged-Dog/111152785588544">Turbo</a>. I climbed the giant sand dune right near Haystack Rock, on a sunny day that was perfectly warm and not windy--a gift in April in the NW. I laid down on a fresh patch of ripply, velvety sand and just watched the clouds pass overhead.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m58oykAvYM4/TaZXrqcCazI/AAAAAAAABMI/7ACDbVmL6_A/s1600/IMG_1131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m58oykAvYM4/TaZXrqcCazI/AAAAAAAABMI/7ACDbVmL6_A/s400/IMG_1131.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bDV9kXoR48M/TaZc8GOp26I/AAAAAAAABNc/WgkmoMHRDu4/s1600/IMG_1129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bDV9kXoR48M/TaZc8GOp26I/AAAAAAAABNc/WgkmoMHRDu4/s400/IMG_1129.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://cathedralridgewinery.com/store/avactis-images/CR_Pinot_Gris_2009_web150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://cathedralridgewinery.com/store/avactis-images/CR_Pinot_Gris_2009_web150.jpg" width="98" /></a></div><div>I watched a bunch of surfers put on very thick wetsuits in the morning. I watched them peel them off, beer in one hand late in the evening, satisfied look on their faces. I admired their dedication to the sport in such harsh conditions. Did I mention I'm also a total wuss when it comes to cold water? Yup. I ate a lot of bread and cheese and salami because that stuff makes a good breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I drank some--ok, maybe more--wine alone by a campfire. <a href="http://cathedralridgewinery.com/store/product-info.php?_pinotgris-wine-pid203.html">Cathedral Ridge</a>'s '09 Pinot Gris, now that's a pretty good beach wine. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I wrote and I wrote. I even wrote some fiction (!); man, that <a href="http://valsventures.blogspot.com/2011/04/artists-way.html">Artist's Way</a> is something else. It's working miracles already.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I had cocktails--perhaps the stiffest G&T ever--at the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Pelican-Pub-Brewery/143175083434">Pelican Brewery</a>. It's right on the beach, so that's just an excellent idea on a sunny afternoon.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0jwn9vxwMCM/TaZYnoP8ByI/AAAAAAAABMk/UiZyBZYGb18/s1600/IMG_1140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0jwn9vxwMCM/TaZYnoP8ByI/AAAAAAAABMk/UiZyBZYGb18/s400/IMG_1140.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
</div><div>It was a lovely weekend. I came away with clarity, pacified and content.</div></div></div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8YV9KjESwvg/TaZX2A2FySI/AAAAAAAABMM/_OsUbORWVko/s1600/IMG_1132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8YV9KjESwvg/TaZX2A2FySI/AAAAAAAABMM/_OsUbORWVko/s400/IMG_1132.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-34889647775165890032011-04-05T15:08:00.000-07:002011-04-05T15:08:44.354-07:00The Artist's Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.webprosperitywithjill.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/hand-holding-sprouting-seed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.webprosperitywithjill.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/hand-holding-sprouting-seed.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br />
Sometimes out of tragedy and despair comes new growth that wouldn't have otherwise sprouted, simply because the seedbed was never prepared to nurture such new life. This is a thought that is really keeping me going lately, you know, the whole 'silver lining' angle. But it's more than that, I think. Besides just instilling hope and faith, it's helping real change take root, and that, my friends, has been a long time coming. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>Before an evening drive and walk, my friend Kristin presented me with a book I've been eyeing for a couple of years now, but likely didn't have the courage to approach, <a href="http://www.theartistsway.com/">The Artist's Way</a> by Julia Cameron. It's a course on how to discover and recover your creative self, heal that creative child inside of you and follow the path to higher creativity. It's not meant only for those who want to 'be' artists; it's for anyone who has ever dreamt of learning to play the guitar, knit, or cook. Anyone at all who wants to sprout their creative seed, in whatever medium it might be.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.theartistsway.com/images/stories/artistsway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.theartistsway.com/images/stories/artistsway.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div></div><div><br />
</div><div>It's twelve weeks long, and takes about an hour a day to read the required chapter for each week, and to do the corresponding exercises. I'm on Day Two, and I have an embarrassing confession: my right arm and hand are sore. From <i>writing with a pen. </i>Each morning you fill three 8.5 x 11 pages with whatever words creep on there. It's a brain dump, really. But really, when was the last time any of us wrote that much by hand? </div><div><br />
</div><div>Mechanics of the exercises aside, my Morning Pages, as they're called, have so far been therapeutic. Emotional, sad, frustrated. Lots of stuff comes up, stuff you really don't expect, or that you thought you had dealt with. A lot lives in the far reaches of our cavernous brains, I'm finding out. Childhood memories, happy or sad. Past mistakes, skeletons in the closet. Things we can't so easily forget. That's the nature of the beast, but to nurture and heal, to steal a quote, "...you gotta get rid of the shit that weighs you down." I couldn't agree more, and writing it down helps us do this.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Besides the Morning Pages, you also get to take yourself out on an Artist's Date. Nothing fancy or pretentious, just a time for you to spend with yourself to be creative an do something you enjoy. The point is to <i>make time for you, </i>with we seldom do. It can be going to a thrift store, a museum, even a walk in the woods. Anything you enjoy doing that is FUN.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Each week, there are other exercises that are designed to draw out the creativity-blocking demons once and for all, including affirmations and digging deep inside the memory bank for clues to why you doubt yourself in creativity, and in life really.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'll try to update my progress here, it's a way for keeping myself accountable and to stick with it. I'm also doing it with Kristen, who did it several years ago and wants to revisit the process. That will help, having a partner to keep me motivated. </div><div><br />
</div><div>It's a big commitment, but one I'm willing to make. </div><div><br />
</div></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-82818574207946483722011-04-01T17:32:00.000-07:002011-04-01T17:32:23.514-07:00Life After...I'm not really sure where to start, so I won't. With self-preservation in mind, all I can divulge is that I, for the first time in awhile, am striking out on my own, flying sola. It's my own undoing, I'm not proud of parts of it, but I can say that the cracks in the fuselage finally burst into a gazillion pieces, not over the sea, but over the small towns of the Gorge, wreaking havoc on more than one family.<div><br />
</div><div>I refuse to dwell, and the only way to forward is take the steps toward change. Through this process, I look to past to identify patterns, to the present to relate to feelings, and to the future for a glimmer of hope. I do not know what lies ahead, but at the end of the day, I'm looking for improvement of any kind big or small, on any level or layer of my being. That's all we can do as humans and I refuse to stay trapped in my mistakes and history only to repeat them. I refuse to be the victim of my own abuse any longer, and what does that leave? Truthfully, that's the part that remains unseen, the part I need to really extract and accept for what it is. I'm getting closer. I am.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm not running, in fact, I refuse escapism as self-defense. It hasn't worked before, and it's not going to work now either. Perhaps part of growing older is realizing and calling ourselves out on our own bullshit and accepting it, then moving on and trying to fix it. A quote I love from a Kathleen Edwards song:</div><div><br />
</div><div>"You spend half your life trying to turn the other half around." That's my world, that's my reality, and I'll shout it from the rooftops, write it in the sky. I'm ok with it. There is so much I want to accomplish in this world, so much I haven't seen, a small part of me wants to reach in and strangle that girl of the second half of my life. But on the other hand, I love that girl too, because she taught me so much. We did have some good times together, she and I, but I have to let her go. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Here's the video for Kathleen Edwards' "Six O'Clock News". Love her.</div><div><br />
</div><div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/obcYbQmgtno" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe></div><div><br />
</div><div>The other album that comes to mind that is both haunting and just so real is none other than Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks, particularly "You're a Big Girl Now". Maybe now, maybe for real this time, I am finally becoming a Big Girl now. Incidentally, Blood on the Tracks came out the year I was born, 1975 to date myself. This cover is awesome:</div><div><br />
</div><div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dXirB4ti6w4" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe></div><div><br />
</div><div>So many songs, so little time. A little wine, a lot of music, love and laughter with friends, that's what's getting me through. For everything, I am grateful.</div><div><br />
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</div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-81082329694150158012011-01-21T12:09:00.000-08:002011-01-21T12:09:47.692-08:00Here's to a Bloggy New Year!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8ZqJ48Z4W7OcQDLV8HNjClojUt763PC6dThfrg8-9okVGNzX6TjcQsqvVG5t3x7G1T6QQEwbgn1oKKyk74U3JyaQarKcu3M-8cwAtJQWVwUFERiLAu0mLDqSEa3kv008Jr5SMg/s1600/IMG_0418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8ZqJ48Z4W7OcQDLV8HNjClojUt763PC6dThfrg8-9okVGNzX6TjcQsqvVG5t3x7G1T6QQEwbgn1oKKyk74U3JyaQarKcu3M-8cwAtJQWVwUFERiLAu0mLDqSEa3kv008Jr5SMg/s320/IMG_0418.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Nomadic Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The thing about writing for a living, I'm discovering, is that by the day's or week's end, I'm out of energy for my own projects, including my own blog. I have an ongoing list of blog posts, short stories, and article ideas for someday, but I sit down to write, and I don't seem to have any bandwidth left.<br />
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Maybe it lies in time management skills, in letting go a little at the same time. I've grown accustomed to writing very professional, composed, as perfect as possible blog posts for my clients, that I feel the pressure to do the same on this blog...which often results in the tendency to not post anything because I don't think it's up to par. I think it's high time I leave this fear behind, and just go for it. Write it down, and share, because what's the use of having knowledge and ideas if we don't share them?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMXgNWCGvWyhtkSuNE5DNbj6DQaaLCFgsI-7b7pzf6eZC2JO6C2kroiRcIUQMNUvwahHmrqAmXo6Xud2R9GntFPK2rZZGbTtrThynUD-jA_aJEI0Sbo5E-Dx4OuWW72vauhxCVg/s1600/IMG_0397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMXgNWCGvWyhtkSuNE5DNbj6DQaaLCFgsI-7b7pzf6eZC2JO6C2kroiRcIUQMNUvwahHmrqAmXo6Xud2R9GntFPK2rZZGbTtrThynUD-jA_aJEI0Sbo5E-Dx4OuWW72vauhxCVg/s320/IMG_0397.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nomad Camp in Cali, November 2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That said, I'm writing for three different blogs these days, about topics ranging from mountain biking and advocacy, design and weddings, to freelance writing and the nomadic lifestyle. I'm trying to break into the wine industry because I love it so much, and always enjoy writing about sustainability. I feel lucky that I have the luxury of working from anywhere, and can pick and choose what I work on. I recently spent a year living and working on the road, roaming the West in search of singletrack and adventures, which has inspired a number of projects, including <a href="http://nomadwrites.com/blog/">this blog</a>. It's still in the works, but what the hell. Might as well share the two posts I've written about freelancing while on the go.<br />
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My hopes with Nomad Writes is to inspire others to reconsider the traditional job, the restrictions that come with it, that potentially tie us down. Working out of a Sprinter van for a year shattered the notion that you need an office to get anything done, that you need to be in one place. I can't say enough about how rewarding it is to explore more and work less (but work more efficiently); the freedom to come and go, to pack up and hit the road is something everyone should experience for at least a short time in their lives. It changes you, opens your mind and your heart, and fills you with hope and possibility for what could be, if we just think outside of the box once in awhile.<br />
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So, if you're interested in trying out the nomadic way, but still need to pay the bills, check out the blog. I'm planning to share all the tips and tricks I've figured out along the way.Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-76186554425401776522011-01-02T17:14:00.000-08:002011-01-02T17:14:43.224-08:00Charge It.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I don't normally make New Year's resolutions, but typically set intentions instead, to identify the direction I hope to take certain aspects of my life in the coming year. Resolutions tend to be so extreme, unrealistic, and limiting--not to mention short-lived. I don't like that. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br />
For 2011, I'm thinking of making a list of 100 things I want to do before the year is over. That sounds like a lot, doesn't it? Well, some of them are going to be very simple, like cooking certain dishes I've always wanted to make. Like visiting new places in the Gorge or wherever that I've always wanted to, restaurants, waterfalls, and even the Red Carpet. Visit all of the wineries I've never been to, be more of a tourist in my own community. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Things like that, nothing too heavy, but simple things that create good memories. Go back to Toro Bravo in Portland for an awesome meal. Plant an herb garden at the house we're staying at, because we need one and it would be fun.</span><br />
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Take a pottery lesson from my friend Donna, because that's just something I've always wanted to do. Do more yoga because I need it in my life. See more live music, because it makes me happy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br />
I've come to believe more whole-heartedly in the phrase "Nothing to it but to do it." We are by nature, pensive creatures, which clearly has it's advantages, but sometimes I think we spend a little too much time thinking, planning, worrying about things instead of just doing them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br />
As my friend Allison says, in reference to being a totally kick-ass mountain biker, "You just have to nut up and charge it." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.6667px;">I like the thought of approaching more things in life with that attitude. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br />
So, here goes. Welcome 2011. Charge it!</span>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-22500435480034932642010-10-13T14:26:00.000-07:002010-10-13T14:26:57.949-07:00Layers<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of an onion, peeled away, one at a time. Cake layers, stacked neatly, iced to perfection. Clothing, thin to thick, piled for warmth. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of a soul, walls torn down, brick by brick. Denial, years add up, easier to bury. Clutter, mental and physical, removal is necessary.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of identity, placed strategically, make the man. Compassion, expressed sincerely, shared uninhibitedly.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sitting in an airport shuttle van in Chile, I saw into my soul and said hello for the first time. The business professional in suit and tie got off at a stop in front of a shack; the well-dressed lady with perfectly coifed hair stepped out onto a dirt street, garbage blowing at her feet. With this glimpse into their reality, I felt that in the short ride we shared, we had all, in some way, bared our souls. I saw their roots, and for a split second, compassion and admiration gave me goosebumps. In a ghetto slum, in the middle of nowhere Chile, the bonds of humanity had been exposed. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Regardless of our outward differences, the people in that van were in no way different from me--race, religion, creed, it doesn't matter in the end. When you get down to it, once all the layers are peeled away, we are all one in the same. For a 25 year old girl, this realization was only the beginning of a long journey of self-discovery. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">That first hello—to my own soul, to my fellow human—would certainly not be my last. Ten years later, our meetings are often not frequent enough, and don't last nearly as long as I would like, but I'm getting there.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Here's to another ten, one layer at a time.Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-1797519476914801202010-09-16T22:26:00.000-07:002010-09-16T22:26:57.392-07:00I prefer it that wayWell now. That was fun. Crazy. Head-spinning. At times, gut-splitting, and always entertaining. The past couple of months have been a frenzy of writing, riding bikes, driving, camping, socializing, writing, and more writing. I don't even know what day it is half the time, and you know, that's ok with me. I prefer it that way. Clearly, I could use some structure, like a regular blog posting schedule, but one thing at a time. This freelance writing stuff is taking the majority of my writing bandwidth at the moment, and that's ok with me too. <div><br />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF3aVxQ1hCWvVs3jQh_lgvOEH7r7YIR1Jz7_hABKexaBydoWUzZc8lo_Kk1Nek37wimSPDjCwje_CZaR7XVBFJe-n8H3nLY4YtJ38uQouSNJ9QI91Yyzqq9TEfNUQarNo5BRQSgw/s1600/CIMG2249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF3aVxQ1hCWvVs3jQh_lgvOEH7r7YIR1Jz7_hABKexaBydoWUzZc8lo_Kk1Nek37wimSPDjCwje_CZaR7XVBFJe-n8H3nLY4YtJ38uQouSNJ9QI91Yyzqq9TEfNUQarNo5BRQSgw/s320/CIMG2249.JPG" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>And we're still going, no end in sight. In my last post, I alluded to the fact that the footloose and fancy free days of van living were numbered, but, it turns out, they're not! At the time, I thought were going to have to settle down and live in a house again, like normal people do, but it looks like we don't have to. I don't have anything against houses or walls or indoor plumbing, but I've grown so used to the freedom of just picking up and leaving, without worrying about anything, without any roots holding me down, I fear there is no turning back now. It's kind of like working for yourself at home, or in your van if you're me, in your pajamas, and reaching a point when you absolutely cannot fathom going to work in an office for eight straight hours a day. </div></div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZR0sYeTE3EcCwPBc7xF9uk4L1OGGyGiTO4S1HCtq0y4rWOftBacWxaPSDVlYcmdE7VWQYcHwqM93g2qB9hv29XbgWQXYxHTHvMWZdhJqM-yLisLCbtPolMbjXanbSC-S9wI8oWg/s1600/CIMG1072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZR0sYeTE3EcCwPBc7xF9uk4L1OGGyGiTO4S1HCtq0y4rWOftBacWxaPSDVlYcmdE7VWQYcHwqM93g2qB9hv29XbgWQXYxHTHvMWZdhJqM-yLisLCbtPolMbjXanbSC-S9wI8oWg/s320/CIMG1072.JPG" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>We're coming up on eleven months living in the van. E-LEV-EN months. That's almost a year. It's a pretty big deal, although most of the time, I try to forget that it is. I prefer it that way. For the first six months, I freaked out a little about not knowing where we were going, where we would stay, and for how long. Truth be told, it was stressful with so many unknowns, when all you really wanted was to go home and curl up on the couch and not worry about such logistics. </div><div><br />
</div><div>But, somewhere along the way, I learned that it always seems to work itself out. Things fall into place, and when you don't have a strict plan, random, cool things happen like meeting someone awesome who invites you to park in their driveway and use their shower, and maybe their oven because I like to do that sometimes. These people are the best, and there have been so many, I'm starting to lose track. There aren't enough thank-you cakes in the world to repay them.</div><div><br />
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</div><div>So, for now, still rolling, out on the road. We've been back 'home' in the Gorge a couple of times now, but only for a week or two at a time. And that's about how far out we're planning at this point, one to two weeks. I definitely prefer it that way.</div><div><br />
</div></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-39457869959428163102010-06-26T17:13:00.000-07:002010-06-26T17:13:39.136-07:00Navigation.Life's about to undergo a major overhaul. First, van living days are numbered, for better or for worse. Second, I'm diving headfirst into a full-time freelance writing career. No more Bionicon, no more STI--new things on the horizon have got us running in circles once again. Thank goodness for High-Altitude Fridays (no, not skydiving!) to help keep us sane.<br />
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The thought of returning to the Northwest and specifically, the Columbia Gorge is bittersweet. I've spent the better part of ten years there, tolerating the wind, staying afloat during the soggy winters, and reveling in the abundance of summer. I've gone to extremes there--countless pursuits, broken dreams, chasing hope, all the while, comforted by some of the best friends I've ever known. There are associations, good and bad, as with anywhere, making me both fear and eagerly anticipate going back.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2_Ph-C5OJHb6-j4OGSG22dY_YuPteIBpHy2JvShASlLszhc67k9MB7Oz3apWt-WFKUixvu26AYQJBfnpcDFMX8GjUqnQDQQOgXcY4F5rxXIvCNeX0EH3BLsp73cNZHQmk11p6Q/s1600/IMG_0166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2_Ph-C5OJHb6-j4OGSG22dY_YuPteIBpHy2JvShASlLszhc67k9MB7Oz3apWt-WFKUixvu26AYQJBfnpcDFMX8GjUqnQDQQOgXcY4F5rxXIvCNeX0EH3BLsp73cNZHQmk11p6Q/s320/IMG_0166.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuTuF_sATtV024Wt_C40qobvqesdUkwJwCwJjRsXrqQ5_CwS6cxdrcWsQ3S7Fqul9STINN74wW4-_2IhO8FDJHwwuQVcFHdr64QInuoBCJF6EK5DGImVGnEnTrR4SnDMwDBwlUKQ/s1600/IMG_0053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuTuF_sATtV024Wt_C40qobvqesdUkwJwCwJjRsXrqQ5_CwS6cxdrcWsQ3S7Fqul9STINN74wW4-_2IhO8FDJHwwuQVcFHdr64QInuoBCJF6EK5DGImVGnEnTrR4SnDMwDBwlUKQ/s320/IMG_0053.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But, I always do. Even after sunny Mexico, tropical Venezuela, the desert Southwest, somehow, my compass always navigates me back to the banks of wide Columbia, to the shade of the pear trees, and into the homes of beloved friends. When I've sworn I wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't, there I was. Back in the Gorge.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFOnnWtonVWy0k-NTQAk_FEsw3DIKiby1rxGJT5PsKCJ6YfnBvsQCgPaK5n1YInNhiaxxg_HjQMlIQWj8l1cI9NEjOXvwyMsDwzLQnPfSI08AQUpHu5gMf2bEJ4sTLW6ZPX1VVw/s1600/DSCN1515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFOnnWtonVWy0k-NTQAk_FEsw3DIKiby1rxGJT5PsKCJ6YfnBvsQCgPaK5n1YInNhiaxxg_HjQMlIQWj8l1cI9NEjOXvwyMsDwzLQnPfSI08AQUpHu5gMf2bEJ4sTLW6ZPX1VVw/s320/DSCN1515.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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What does this say about me? About the place? The gravitational pull is clearly impossible to resist, and for all of my misgivings, this place has some sort of hold on me. Could it be the singletrack, so sweet and easily accessible? Is it the locality--close to Portland, in the mountains, rivers, lakes abound? How about the agricultural bounty--all manner of fruit and veggies, and truth be told, the BEST chips and salsa in the world? What about the breweries and wineries, and all of the amazing restaurants? If I were a wind-junkie, I'd say it is the world-class kiteboarding and windsurfing.<br />
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At the end of the day, it always boils down to just making sense. It makes sense to go back there, to the mossy creeks, to the snowy volcanoes, and the firs. I can't say it's a perfect place, but it's pretty close (believe me, I've looked!)--at least for part of the year. I'm more than excited to hit the farm stands, go wine tasting, boating on the Columbia, have backyard happy hours and of course, shred all my home trails.<br />
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Look out, Gorge! Here we come.Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-77163492386128978752010-06-15T09:20:00.000-07:002010-12-03T10:04:05.862-08:00Hamacas.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Perfecting the art of hammock hanging in a pitchy, messy set of Douglas fir trees. Their shade is what I crave, on this 90-degree day.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-s-own1tsOOOWDBzxtpAx8OpLamDvVKdR4OZKKu-D5GOYTPEB8EDb1gCFO1MzUglRWnzImH2JvriINcWF8OZh9Om2e3R6ru_Nl5bZYCT1CJfHl6iHbIKXQH-4zBPbyWpGho9ONg/s1600/flayita+sepia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-s-own1tsOOOWDBzxtpAx8OpLamDvVKdR4OZKKu-D5GOYTPEB8EDb1gCFO1MzUglRWnzImH2JvriINcWF8OZh9Om2e3R6ru_Nl5bZYCT1CJfHl6iHbIKXQH-4zBPbyWpGho9ONg/s320/flayita+sepia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hammocks remind me of other times, other places, and certainly of other people. Much of my stay in Mexico was spent swinging in the comforting weave, held safely in their net. I watched countless sets of waves, played cards, and held hands. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When not <span style="font-style: normal;">in</span> a hammock, I watched the people who made them sell their woven creations to tourists like me on the beach. Angela was the most prolific and most memorable vendor. Balancing an impossibly heavy bundle of hammocks wrapped in a square of fabric on top her head, she worked the beach, scanning for potential customers and calling out her perfected sales pitch: “Hamacaaaaas. Hamacaaaaaaaaaas baratas, como carne de gata. Hamacaaaaas, amiga?”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Angela was everywhere, the colorful fabric of her long skirt swishing side to side as she walked, the load balanced on her head not moving an inch. Long black braids woven with satin ribbon trailed down her back. Two braids signified that she was a member of the Zapotec tribe indigenous to Oaxaca. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdu0QNef3mpAUu28QVIZ6PNbN0PhOJxUGYknqDhohnoVQTpd-GFwI_c52OPyeoR5O32YsFNr5P2reb4R68YO73U5yZqHi3dLnS6y9eDP1QXvA4S_sRFMdHdkq68_aN1OyFoIbWfA/s1600/CIMG0178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdu0QNef3mpAUu28QVIZ6PNbN0PhOJxUGYknqDhohnoVQTpd-GFwI_c52OPyeoR5O32YsFNr5P2reb4R68YO73U5yZqHi3dLnS6y9eDP1QXvA4S_sRFMdHdkq68_aN1OyFoIbWfA/s320/CIMG0178.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sometimes I slept in hammocks, but that was mostly in the beginning. Twenty-five pesos a night bought me a hammock on the deck of a very loud and obnoxious hostel. I lasted about a week alongside two Canadians and a Brit, with whom I also shared my first tandem skydive. We all signed up together, a few of us rather begrudgingly, but only one of us would get hooked enough to trade the hammock for a bed and mosquito netting, and stay far longer than we intended to.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My rental palapa had a hammock on the patio, but there was no view of the sea. The beach was a short trip down some stone steps and across the street. After learning how to skydive solo, one week after my first tandem, I learned what it was like to work in Mexico. In exchange for my time, I got all of the free skydives, including equipment rental, I wanted. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A day of work meant reporting to the dropzone, stationed under a white tent and some palm trees on the lawn of Hotel Arco Iris, sometime around 10 am at the earliest, to see if any tandems had been booked the night before. If not, it was my duty to comb the beach looking for potential tandem skydive customers, most of whom were foreign tourists. My English came in handy; reassuring the fearfully curious was easier for me than for my Spanish-speaking counterparts. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I went up on every flight we booked, and made it a point to jump out with the tandem customers who were the most afraid, because the nervousness I felt during my first jump was still so fresh it made me weak in the knees. Sharing the freefall toward the beach, over the water and the sand, with a familiar face can transform a memorable experience into a magical one. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Swinging in my red, blue and yellow hammock, trading palm fronds for fir boughs, I can still feel Puerto’s sun, hear the waves crashing, and see parachutes opening thousands of feet above, filling the crystal blue sky. I can’t place a smell anymore, but it would certainly come from one of the many open-air street or beachside cafes, with chairs and tables spilling out onto the sidewalk or shamelessly onto the sand. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">His face is clear to me, as though I saw him just yesterday. I feel him guiding me by the hand down the sandy brick sidewalk, leading me to countless dinners, followed by late evenings looking at the stars from Barfly’s open rooftop deck. Or watching the world pass by Casa Babylon, beach culture at its finest, viewed from the windowsill, or the bench on the street, quintessential mojito in hand. His laugh still echoes in my ears, years later, whether for me alone, or for friends. That sound is as much a part of me as the hamacas in Puerto Escondido.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Every week, we commuted by skydiving plane an hour and a half north to our parent dropzone Skydive Cuautla, where we worked for the weekend. Every Saturday at the crack of dawn, we boarded the Twin Otter, bleary-eyed and not yet caffeinated. With no oxygen on board, and virtually no insulation, the thin, cold atmosphere was enough to wake even the sleepiest of passengers.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Our arrival in Cuautla marked the start of the chaotic two days that lie ahead. The dropzone would be buzzing with anticipation of a weekend of skydiving, and there were typically anywhere from 40-100 sport jumpers, and a number of booked tandems arriving throughout the weekend. The majority of the skydivers and tandem students came from Mexico City, nearly two hours to the north. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My job was a bit like herding cats. Getting all of the skydivers, instructors, camera flyers and videographers, and tandem customers in one place, at the same time and ready for the flight was no easy task. I was the subject of many jokes, and often the source of a good laugh, as I orchestrated the process over a microphone. In Spanish. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCuXv0S0VzHVvyYHYYtoeL1KT0WxrFu2Tfuc4LpmMe_8yXLihhAmuTsw5IVmoxMNHDiUfNi5p-2YuOVL_JN78LkQkT6IEs4a3gLcFJtXI-9VonJWm9fnssH_kDu088eX5NJZzOg/s1600/mexico+2006+-+57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCuXv0S0VzHVvyYHYYtoeL1KT0WxrFu2Tfuc4LpmMe_8yXLihhAmuTsw5IVmoxMNHDiUfNi5p-2YuOVL_JN78LkQkT6IEs4a3gLcFJtXI-9VonJWm9fnssH_kDu088eX5NJZzOg/s320/mexico+2006+-+57.jpg" width="320" /></a>Every five minutes, I gave the flight number, a countdown until takeoff, and then list every passenger on the plane with respective tandem master. It took numerous proddings to actually get the people on the plane. Vaaaaamaaanossss! Did you come here to eat and socialize, or did you come here to skydive?, I'd say to the sport jumpers lingering at the tables in the shade of the palapa, or lounging in hammocks strung along the edges. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">More than once, I commanded the American pilot to leave the stragglers, because if I waited until every person had boarded, we wouldn't have flown more than a couple of flights the entire day. My gringo work ethic and ability to stick to a rigid schedule earned me the nickname “Sargento”, or Sargent, something I abhorred initially but learned to accept once I realized the skydivers were grateful for more flights in the air, which meant more skydiving for them.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Monday mornings, exhausted from twelve-hour work days over the weekend, we boarded the plane, and landed ten minutes away in Cuernavaca, where we filed flight plans to Puerto, and loaded up on fuel. Because this took at least an hour, we would wait at the taqueria adjacent to the airport. On a wood-fired griddle, hand pressed blue corn tortillas were grilled up into perfect quesadillas, gorditas and tacos, an unconventional but satisfying breakfast.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Approaching the beach, our pilot Woody gave the flight call. Fifteen minutes, he'd say, and we would start preparing the plane for our evacuation. If given the choice, a skydiver will never choose to land with the plane; jumping out is regarded as not only safer, but a lot more fun. We tied down everything that could blow out, as the door would remain open until the plane landed. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">These jumps were the most memorable, because they were not 'work'. Staff who rarely got to jump for fun would plan elaborate jumps with their friends, and include amateurs like me in their 'hybrid' jumps. Someone would hang from my parachute's chest strap, as I flew on my belly; others would freefly around us, sitting, on their heads, or in any number of other creative flight poses. Another time, in freefall, I sat on someone's back for a 'rodeo jump', while all of my friends freeflew all around me, reaching for my hands and head as they orbited.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Landing on the beach was like breathing a giant sigh of relief. While I loved other parts of Mexico, including Mexico City, it was Puerto Escondido that felt like home. Dropping in over the beach, where the tourists sat, looking perplexed because they had neither seen nor heard our plane, the sight of the waves and surfboards and the feel of the hot white sand on our feet warranted the customary 'woo-hoo' shouted upon landing.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedsbHhluvJNXwG3j0DV2kJfjEkovlcdovYtPGwm3Gw2dauGVDTTcLmfc16d6SgKkyJJz4HQ4nLIcsJCjziiSci75LJVYQlWi83xBvyXPFOoKW5o9SB0DRNbITNm0KPyUq7gIhTA/s1600/IMG_8913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedsbHhluvJNXwG3j0DV2kJfjEkovlcdovYtPGwm3Gw2dauGVDTTcLmfc16d6SgKkyJJz4HQ4nLIcsJCjziiSci75LJVYQlWi83xBvyXPFOoKW5o9SB0DRNbITNm0KPyUq7gIhTA/s320/IMG_8913.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Some days, when the skydiving was slow, we lounged at La Flayita, the Pepto-Bismol pink beachside cafe, or we retreated to Cipriano's, an Italian joint on the sand. Brightly colored hammocks swung from a thatched arbor, seven in a row, with an enveloping view of the sea. After exhausting all efforts to sell tandem skydives to the few tourists left on the beach, we settled into the hammock's relaxing cradle, and waited for something to happen.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">These carefree moments solidified my bond with the hammock. They represented a laziness not acceptable in American culture, especially in the context of a work day. In Mexico, however, and even more so on the beach, it is perfectly normal to just relax when you feel like it and watch the world go by.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgUtUDRN7mKKZk3u5DC0n7x_lzcLTdpyjsAWwPyntZHc37B9aGzp4OgQH153po20IpNNU-vbBycLEzGLyKDMsMhI9rmUKtpqwtXCsLvtjsZBKOPKNIZjAn3tfu0s9V9v3u1ltZw/s1600/down+the+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgUtUDRN7mKKZk3u5DC0n7x_lzcLTdpyjsAWwPyntZHc37B9aGzp4OgQH153po20IpNNU-vbBycLEzGLyKDMsMhI9rmUKtpqwtXCsLvtjsZBKOPKNIZjAn3tfu0s9V9v3u1ltZw/s320/down+the+face.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sometime in April, a huge storm off the coast of Chile produced a near record-breaking swell. Thunderous surf pounded the beach, pushed by a wall of water 40 feet high. The beach, which doubled as our landing zone, all but disappeared, and the winds shifted from their normal, predictable patterns, leaving the idea of skydiving completely out of the question. On the second day, film crews and cameras showed up; not long after, world-class surf pros came out of the woodwork. Dwarfed by the enormity of the swell, brave souls made gliding through glassy tubes seem effortless. But the look on their faces after a successful exit told a different story; the visible sigh of relief conveyed a real, palpable fear. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When the sand finally showed again, and the surfers and cameras left with the abating surf, a heat turned on like I had never quite experienced. Tourists opted for the mountains, and we knew our weeks at the beach would soon come to an end. In what should have been the most relaxing weeks of all, I pondered life with a heavy heart. A denied work visa meant one would go north, while the other went south. The season was coming to a close; the plane would leave in early May, leaving only a small Cessna to power the dropzone until the late fall return of the Twin Otter.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Years later, I reflect on this decision, held by the comforting embrace of my hammock, swinging beneath the firs in the shadow of Mount Hood, far away from Mexico's sandy shores. I wonder what might have happened should we have chosen to stay. I revel in the memories of an experience that was so extraordinary, I am to this day affected to my very core, by thoughts of Puerto, of him, and the girl I was back then. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-34424574673004073472010-06-09T16:14:00.001-07:002010-06-13T15:25:06.972-07:00A brief interlude.My two favorite pastimes are delightfully complementary: Mountain Biking and Food. If either of these are experienced in mutual exclusion, there is likely to be big trouble.<br />
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I've definitely tested the limits on either end of the spectrum. Oh, the many winters void of biking, but overflowing with vats of eggnog, stacks of buttery cookies, countless holiday parties, spent languishing over huge breakfasts. Or months spent in Mexico, surviving on the popular tourist diet of guacamole and pina coladas. The waistline suffers, and every year it seems to become a little more elusive.<br />
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When spring rolls around, and the bikes are pulled from the dusty reaches of the garage, the burden of winter is felt, literally and figuratively. It's so painful at first, and every year I cuss myself for not keeping up with training, not doing more to stay in shape, and for eating and drinking so much of X, Y, and Z.<br />
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But, it just so happens that I love food as much as I love biking, and it's a hard habit to break. I love everything about it. Food is my focus—growing it, preparing it, sharing it, reading about it, taking photos of it, and writing about it. My nerdy side takes over on a regular basis, ranting about farming practices, analyzing food chemistry and preparation techniques, and rambling endlessly about the merits of a good Brie.<br />
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I recently learned the dangers of underconsumption and activity level when I completely bonked during a mountain bike race. About halfway through, my blood sugar levels dropped so low that I couldn't recover. I ate, and I ate, but my legs and my brain would have nothing of it. They rejected it. I couldn't walk, and I couldn't ride—an awful predicament to be in, stuck on a ridgetop with no efficient means of getting down. Especially during a race!<br />
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All because I hadn't eaten enough calories. In that moment, in the throes of near-delirium, I wanted to go back in time and strangle my post-winter, figure criticizing self for not appreciating the bounty when she had it. For not relishing times of abundance and health when she had them.<br />
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Weak and dejected, I made it down, but I learned a good lesson. Food and mountain biking are a natural pairing. A perfect union, their whole is far better than the sum of their parts. Like Brie and a crispy baguette, like a warm spring day and a favorite trail. Chocolate and a fine wine, a cushy bike and a rock garden.<br />
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Separate them, and you're just asking for trouble.<br />
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</div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-61941899638256151402010-06-08T10:23:00.000-07:002010-06-14T21:02:55.362-07:00Roller coaster.<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The twists and turns of life, the ups and downs - I'm not sure, really, how much more I can take. I can't divulge all the details right now, but my oh my, things have taken a turn. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">In the meantime, I have to say that this mountain retreat in Durango, Colorado is making it all a little easier to digest. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevaEYvaHzDmH54LueZqO9ifFHD4F4gcJ_Bmpx1UyXtqhxREv1-fcRpZUzKdyN40GIpcCbS_yWirIv8jLSCsLHJbeKdC-_bIX5npRNhluVSoecojgkhhv4SPdaL7jJQsjh56ysjw/s1600/IMG_0669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevaEYvaHzDmH54LueZqO9ifFHD4F4gcJ_Bmpx1UyXtqhxREv1-fcRpZUzKdyN40GIpcCbS_yWirIv8jLSCsLHJbeKdC-_bIX5npRNhluVSoecojgkhhv4SPdaL7jJQsjh56ysjw/s320/IMG_0669.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">Sunny skies, good food, wine, fun drinks, roasted garlic, hot tub, Food Network, yoga mat. Amazing vistas, new friends (Thanks Matt and Lisa, for all the fun rides, and for sharing the McFee Manor with us!) and lots of furry friends.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1090cszXnJzXbEN-J-TxA4aAG9ibTkEioqgJpU9-ODJdZWgJMN0j4kuX7UgjQ5Tc-T0fGyDcMbSwGMdN9ppVouZt70oZi9PWoiRq6esuezKkziuPyDBO30YAXYmTNvEjwxnrCGA/s1600/IMG_0682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1090cszXnJzXbEN-J-TxA4aAG9ibTkEioqgJpU9-ODJdZWgJMN0j4kuX7UgjQ5Tc-T0fGyDcMbSwGMdN9ppVouZt70oZi9PWoiRq6esuezKkziuPyDBO30YAXYmTNvEjwxnrCGA/s320/IMG_0682.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"> A day at the lake, with Paddleboards, Scrabble, Extreme Bocce, and lots of laughing.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It was just what I needed. </div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-90969657748534191282010-05-26T14:34:00.000-07:002010-06-13T15:27:01.774-07:00back to basics.This is going to sound funny, but I want to go camping. Sure, I live in a van, and certainly spend a lot of time outside. But, I assure you, the kind of camping we're doing is <i>very </i>different from the camping that many will be doing this Memorial Day weekend. Let me explain.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXpebb_FiLJye84tpU4cq18HBFpiV6NfpIXkbkdkuM-pZS26Ek2WQGodNgEYp75q_tJUZBYTljtHVTl1r1eYPC6H9Z08sJql-ws4HAZ2fbzXF3TpW1aSsKE0fGxIdLtuitrapvQ/s1600/CIMG0656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXpebb_FiLJye84tpU4cq18HBFpiV6NfpIXkbkdkuM-pZS26Ek2WQGodNgEYp75q_tJUZBYTljtHVTl1r1eYPC6H9Z08sJql-ws4HAZ2fbzXF3TpW1aSsKE0fGxIdLtuitrapvQ/s320/CIMG0656.JPG" /></a></div>For one, we are rarely at a picturesque, serene creekside site in the mountains. We do our share of urban camping, and by this I mean we RV Park it. Not romantic and usually not beautiful, but when you don't have a house, you need amenities. Internet, power, laundry, shower: these resorts have everything we need. I used to drive by these types of places and shudder at the thought of 'camping' at one of them, with their concrete pads, hookups and views of neighboring behemoth RVs. Now, I'm a regular, right alongside the Snowbirds, satellite dishes, and Fluffy the lap dog. Even scarier, there are times I want a behemoth of my very own.<br />
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We almost always need to be near a town. Bike shops need to be visited, work has to get done. Errands to be run, conference calls to be made. It's real life. As footloose and fancy-free as it seems, the same nitty gritty still applies to what we're doing on the road, arguably to a greater extent than it does for house dwellers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFq4EJ2FD6NT2hiXg8akm-CiPcXnKok55dAfOfZWSslzaUTGuy63Y7w9WmBUizw6WhOkAVXt8TbuIf7bd-hiNpfdUZCNtVfyOclkTR7XBuMNWJMbkRFp0U5-G4TCUuJ345YFJ5g/s1600/IMG_0630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFq4EJ2FD6NT2hiXg8akm-CiPcXnKok55dAfOfZWSslzaUTGuy63Y7w9WmBUizw6WhOkAVXt8TbuIf7bd-hiNpfdUZCNtVfyOclkTR7XBuMNWJMbkRFp0U5-G4TCUuJ345YFJ5g/s320/IMG_0630.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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This is because roaming the West requires a lot of planning. Logistics: where to camp, where to eat, which coffee shop to park myself in for the day. Where to do laundry, grocery shop, make copies, mail something. I'm becoming a specialist at finding good spots to loiter, and Yelp and Google Maps are my most loyal travel buddies.<br />
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I'm also becoming a pro-packer. Loading and unloading, constantly organizing. It takes about three seconds for the 'house' to be a mess once you've cleaned--but the upside is that it only takes about 15 minutes to clean everything, including the fridge.<br />
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I want to set up a tent and sleep on the ground. Turn off the glowing rectangles and stare only at bright stars and the flicker of campfire flames, without a worry in the world. Wade in a cold creek, sit on a mountaintop and take in the view. To get a good tree fix.<br />
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In the beginning, I thought that what I would crave as a respite from van living would be a hotel stay, with plush robes and a spa. A bit of civilization and all of it's comforts. But because we log many hours behind the wheel, hitting the streets, and on the go, go, go, I long for the solitude and simplicity of an old-fashioned camping trip.<br />
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It may be time for a vacation!Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-26010950970001240152010-05-24T15:50:00.000-07:002010-05-24T15:50:24.671-07:00Words come, words go.Sometimes this blank screen is too much to take. Sip of wine, maybe the words will flow. I want to bathe in words, to soak in inspiration long enough to write it down. From adjectives to adverbs, nouns to verbs, there are infinite ways to tell the story. Then, why is it so difficult sometimes?<br />
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Because we don't always hear the words as they come and go. The trick is to catch them, mid-flight and put them to work, but recognizing the good, helpful ones isn't always so easy. The wine helps, sometimes. Just as when you're learning a foreign language—a drink or two, and you're suddenly fluent. A matter of perception.<br />
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There's always a story, locked up deep inside, or lying in wait on the surface. Stories, stories everywhere—but am I listening? Every moment is a potential plot, every person a character to be developed, every detail important in some way.<br />
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I like to think back to <a href="http://valsventures.blogspot.com/2007/03/signs-of-life.html">other times</a> when I wanted to tell a story, but couldn't find the words. What did I do, how did I handle it? The act of writing whatever comes to mind is sometimes enough. Other times, I write in a poetic format, snippets of thought, related or not. These ramblings are fun to read later because they often make no sense at all, but there's usually a good deal of emotion behind them.<br />
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Still other times, I run the other way and do something else--a strategy that is far too easy to employ. I'm working on that, because when I'm running from a blank page, I'm probably running from other things in life.<br />
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There. That's better. Write, and you'll feel like writing.Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-58832250198691885602010-05-15T09:22:00.000-07:002010-05-15T09:22:40.283-07:00Places, pit stops, and people along the way.With all this talk about here and there, you might be wondering where exactly I'm referring to. It's a long list -- so long, in fact, that I can scarcely believe we've been able to cover so much ground.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyicc793bQnUj5MB9qCbY2vWZ5hQw3K2LHgH-vWelec7Muag0PbI-PAttiTu8eaAbgEQjW_iMvPKmPzMzEAU7Y7D6sPmFXqr7RCZRdPSdfcbjLt32b29JBGfhejI29ZS_Z7XTBFA/s1600/IMG_0368.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyicc793bQnUj5MB9qCbY2vWZ5hQw3K2LHgH-vWelec7Muag0PbI-PAttiTu8eaAbgEQjW_iMvPKmPzMzEAU7Y7D6sPmFXqr7RCZRdPSdfcbjLt32b29JBGfhejI29ZS_Z7XTBFA/s200/IMG_0368.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We've toured a good chunk of California, starting with the Southern Sierra and Kernville, where Bionicon USA is located. The Kern River Valley a spectacular place, and for Southern Cali, way off the beaten path. It's an outdoor mecca, with world-class kayaking, mountain biking, rock climbing, skiing and whatever else you want to do outside. It's like Hood River, but with better winter weather. Highlights: Kern River Brewing Company, Keyesville Classic, and the Cannell Trail. I also love the people there - we've made quite a few good friends there in a short period of time. I like that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZsa3WGtzHcxkB-NqA-iyGSYeH1y89PqGHpB9AUPQTgU20EUE_guYkHVe6kHQMVeuNSgWBfFCWe1Z9x-TWEt8yikunwMTrlxK6Kwr7TfSq-9DaHzIUaOofrF14u6BQipQwWIwHQ/s1600/IMG_0381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZsa3WGtzHcxkB-NqA-iyGSYeH1y89PqGHpB9AUPQTgU20EUE_guYkHVe6kHQMVeuNSgWBfFCWe1Z9x-TWEt8yikunwMTrlxK6Kwr7TfSq-9DaHzIUaOofrF14u6BQipQwWIwHQ/s200/IMG_0381.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Somehow, and not surprisingly, we've managed to completely avoid LA and stay on the periphery. So far, we've completely circumnavigated the city, to get to other places. Our first event was the CORBA Fat Tire Fest in late October, just north of LA at Castaic Lake. We were travel-lagged and exhausted, but managed to have a good time and spread the Bionicon gospel.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmKiC18yL5AWKAYvT6HTB_Jk4YrlohBF7Zpgv2_GuOczU-_FeYbzhy15Vvs_tFXxV9kQiufOX6A7sK0S-4A-G6DcQOSSRzs_5VyWuyHpHgJ6h3mFTELaxpC1ADbDLNEp7iSNl0Q/s1600/IMG_0389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmKiC18yL5AWKAYvT6HTB_Jk4YrlohBF7Zpgv2_GuOczU-_FeYbzhy15Vvs_tFXxV9kQiufOX6A7sK0S-4A-G6DcQOSSRzs_5VyWuyHpHgJ6h3mFTELaxpC1ADbDLNEp7iSNl0Q/s200/IMG_0389.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>From there, we decided we wanted beach, so we went to Ventura county, and ended up in the Santa Monica mountains, with the beach just across the 101. A beach with internet, mind you. Trails left from our campsite, so we found it difficult to extract ourselves from this ideal setting.<br />
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From Ventura, we made our way north to San Luis Obispo. What a place! It's in my top five of the trip so far. The town is ultra cool, has plenty good food, bike-friendly and surrounded by trails. Need I say more?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGE7fMdwC-EoGFjTzTNIpuvepy364b8It4UsRf3Wemw1HUxD2lVCofxb_k2dqd6lwhWTCYcxzDjwo15XK5-yY8q_KuDjrLyfbp9BbfCLl6Au6XdF_QSJOLLCraywOZBXiEhcWfA/s1600/CIMG0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGE7fMdwC-EoGFjTzTNIpuvepy364b8It4UsRf3Wemw1HUxD2lVCofxb_k2dqd6lwhWTCYcxzDjwo15XK5-yY8q_KuDjrLyfbp9BbfCLl6Au6XdF_QSJOLLCraywOZBXiEhcWfA/s200/CIMG0064.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Back to the Kern, then on to San Diego--specifically, Encinitas. We've been there three times, which should say it all. Highlights: SD Beer Week with KRBC and the Giddens, San Elijo State Beach, Bull Tacos, Seaside Market, and hanging out with the Fonniers for a few days (can you say Bloody Marys?). More highlights: Bike Demos at North of the Border in SD, midnight swim on Christmas Eve, surfing on Christmas.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ONFnYx2Kpsfk_0U2Yy6WjcfvQG797NYESTLuYfa12gk3YuEMUqOgKeFbrkUycTbTYCF_ybyTr2CfIho6FGWcZIECH8KvBwTddIo_il4WHuZroiU2BUMVSDaYksp-vKeVkP_W3g/s1600/CIMG1391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ONFnYx2Kpsfk_0U2Yy6WjcfvQG797NYESTLuYfa12gk3YuEMUqOgKeFbrkUycTbTYCF_ybyTr2CfIho6FGWcZIECH8KvBwTddIo_il4WHuZroiU2BUMVSDaYksp-vKeVkP_W3g/s200/CIMG1391.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Boulder City and Bootleg Canyon, oh my. We've been there twice, for races and demos. The riding there is incredible--technical and intimidating, because everything is sharp. Sharp rock with sandpaper grit and unforgiving spiny plants that don't make for soft landings. Highlights: Bart coming for an impromptu visit, Ginger trail (yikes!), skills area near parking lot, and bighorn sheep. Seeing skydivers - that was fun too!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfYLXrPru3ByC07OjyOrSR45BXzBbojpRKNhY8bengcG9VVDIL3LZx4gxoCQtl14OR7pXDacqnt8cLWovLgZ8_IvfL0_h63k5VUi6hG8DuKUiVGM5g6bONczxRuOmFWzeLuWh1IA/s1600/IMG_0560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfYLXrPru3ByC07OjyOrSR45BXzBbojpRKNhY8bengcG9VVDIL3LZx4gxoCQtl14OR7pXDacqnt8cLWovLgZ8_IvfL0_h63k5VUi6hG8DuKUiVGM5g6bONczxRuOmFWzeLuWh1IA/s200/IMG_0560.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Kernville for New Year's Eve. Kept it real by riding the Whiskey Flat trail at midnight on the Blue Moon NYE. It was freezing cold, but a little vodka and some toffee took care of that. Additional highlights: 'training' rides with Allison on the Boulder Trail - sick!, and cross-fit with the Giddens - brutal!<br />
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I can't believe I almost forgot that we went 'home' for 2 weeks. We drove north to Bend to set up a new dealer, then on to Hood River for a week. What I remember most about that trip was a whirlwind of socializing, squeezing in time with just about all of our friends, and a lot of work on the newly acquired Keyesville Classic MTB race. Those race planning weeks are a blur--I don't think I got on the bike more than once per week, and spent more hours than I'd like to admit in front of the computer.<br />
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Heading south, we stayed in Corvallis for a night, then onto Sacramento where we found this super funky motel, reno'd to a mid-century modern. We spent a day with WTB in Marin County, and they showed us some of their local trails. We poached their parking lot, and the next day, crossed the Golden Gate and explored San Fran on our Urban bikes, which was amazing! I could have done with a few more days of that, especially checking out all the food.<br />
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At some point around this time, we headed East to Sedona, land of red rocks and sweet trails. After several good rides, we made our way to Tempe, land of the best croissants outside of France, and burly South Mountain trails. Highlights: Hangover trail, rainy demo at Bike and Bean, Essence Bakery, and Gabe's scary pool-lapping-pump track.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-sjc1/hs399.snc3/24264_379792466559_176483151559_4412828_319130_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-sjc1/hs399.snc3/24264_379792466559_176483151559_4412828_319130_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>March brought us three weeks of grueling work and the Keyesville Classic--the details of which I will share in a later post. After the Classic, we made our way to Fontana for my first-ever downhill race. Ryan and I represented on the Bionicons, snagging 3rds in our classes. Then, we went back to Sedona, then Phoenix for the Squealer, and on to Tucson for the Lemon Drop the day after. Highlights: Finishing the Squealer (barely), the Retreat at Helm's house--pool, hot tub, and good food, and Ryan finally seeing the light and buying a Mac.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6KCiTQxyH0nBdX2s5JuOO7-P_xKwaYfYXODwb9bzBhnl4pGb0ZYDP_FF6zCFow_sufcHNXphMn0p6fHaCR8vQBT0Q9acM9HkFpUfPCUAxyjSBxEZmISqrNiY6Y5lMBwuF2Yjcew/s1600/IMG_0577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6KCiTQxyH0nBdX2s5JuOO7-P_xKwaYfYXODwb9bzBhnl4pGb0ZYDP_FF6zCFow_sufcHNXphMn0p6fHaCR8vQBT0Q9acM9HkFpUfPCUAxyjSBxEZmISqrNiY6Y5lMBwuF2Yjcew/s200/IMG_0577.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>April was chock-a-block with events like Sea Otter, a demo day in Marin County and the Fruita Fat Tire Festival. We had a few days respite at the Diller property in Santa Cruz (thanks again Dave and Alli!), just in time to celebrate my birthday. The day itself was dreary and gross, but we countered that with an RV beach cruise with Dave and Laurel (fellow road buddies!) of Joshua Tree Products and a drink at every beach. Highlights: Camping with Dee and James at the Otter, Fairfax in Marin County and a kickin' yoga class, GREAT Puerto Rican food in Marin, and Fruita (just in general).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLj0YGNWlROXQtfJWR0tqeQC1TkGNiEoxRjzYkxo80zyR71424vPtOgZyz54QluxQhD7uw114fFQQjcTeO8KdttZn80Rz4__n7IKRxNOGOQV-ioDqsn7Bi4YUFqmGUIwNyAav9g/s1600/CIMG1577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLj0YGNWlROXQtfJWR0tqeQC1TkGNiEoxRjzYkxo80zyR71424vPtOgZyz54QluxQhD7uw114fFQQjcTeO8KdttZn80Rz4__n7IKRxNOGOQV-ioDqsn7Bi4YUFqmGUIwNyAav9g/s200/CIMG1577.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>That leads us to now. We spent a few days in Moab last week, and decided to return after a quick trip back to Fruita. Highlights: great riding with Joe, Chris, Mic, Gravity Dropper Wayne, and Avid Wayne, the Hot Tomato in Fruita and our cursedly messy table (many spills, including a whole pizza!), a sunrise ride on Horsethief, and many rides with Jackie and Dante. So many new friends - we've met so many wonderful people along the way, truly the highlight of this journey!<br />
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The adventure continues!Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-87991358146960234912010-05-09T11:30:00.000-07:002010-05-09T11:30:13.400-07:00The Space Between.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7KYXeW5KrlRzIgXdaecxacY49yUpxWVt9V89R3hsF7AH9twOHH2B_9ftneETLctK4XwITjF8JAvJqbRmJ7xLhWMjBtBm8drGgri1GpFS5Y6gavt7o5KXN-gg7M4rs7S8sdt24g/s1600/IMG_0573.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7KYXeW5KrlRzIgXdaecxacY49yUpxWVt9V89R3hsF7AH9twOHH2B_9ftneETLctK4XwITjF8JAvJqbRmJ7xLhWMjBtBm8drGgri1GpFS5Y6gavt7o5KXN-gg7M4rs7S8sdt24g/s200/IMG_0573.jpg" width="150" /></a>Here, there and everywhere. To and fro, back and forth. Point A to Point B. Unpack, re-pack...pack, pack, pack. It's not always easy to keep a level head. There's always somewhere to go, somewhere to be and lots of things to see.<br />
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It's not always easy to see the forest for the trees. I get so caught up in getting to the destination that I forget to enjoy the journey -- and that's a shame because when you're traveling all over tarnation, that adds up to a lot to miss out on. Like the beauty of the red rock desert, sprinkled with patches of green and splotches of blooming color. Or the snow-capped peaks illuminated by a setting sun. Taking time to talk to a stranger on the street, finding time for myself during a hectic week.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oyK8QycxMMQw5u0eAzRx7nNaApyqw7W85jZYLV_0t9xBfjJQi5lv_4xE7TKVF7xAdAxh78xNZhVMpkf4zOATL-EvIsu445RNct1XiNHShLycwiqpb8LgPuyssNVRwZEFQnzbFg/s1600/IMG_0569.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oyK8QycxMMQw5u0eAzRx7nNaApyqw7W85jZYLV_0t9xBfjJQi5lv_4xE7TKVF7xAdAxh78xNZhVMpkf4zOATL-EvIsu445RNct1XiNHShLycwiqpb8LgPuyssNVRwZEFQnzbFg/s200/IMG_0569.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>I'm a process person - not just in the sense of creating, but I need time to process what's going on around me, or I start losing my place and how I fit in. Some days, it might mean taking a step back, observing and listening. Others call for time all alone, on a trail, by a river, on a yoga mat, away from people and gadgets. Sometimes, I just need to make a meal in silence, and enjoy the monotony of chopping, slicing and dicing. And still others, I just need to write.<br />
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That's where I've been going wrong. I miss writing, and on this adventure, I've kind of lost myself a little along the way. Some days, I hardly know myself, and to be honest, I kind of miss hanging out with me. It's been too easy to get caught up in the travel to enjoy and process my journey. I also need to talk about it, and I've been neglecting this space and the opportunity to share.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTeMJw8yPWeFX2BH5P7x7g0jSNude_6_KK_GkH4I5IrkOP-qrFGBNPpuv0CY8WWiA1Xzx_Jlo86grNPwIs74e0lhOXwihanp8clgDsziAS94Vi4uT6vpRK60bfY9U_fCyK64Nt6A/s1600/moab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTeMJw8yPWeFX2BH5P7x7g0jSNude_6_KK_GkH4I5IrkOP-qrFGBNPpuv0CY8WWiA1Xzx_Jlo86grNPwIs74e0lhOXwihanp8clgDsziAS94Vi4uT6vpRK60bfY9U_fCyK64Nt6A/s200/moab.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
This week in Moab, I'm going to geek out with my laptop, my yoga mat and probably the campstove. I need to catch up and check in with myself. I'll be on the bike plenty, but I'll also be paying attention to other things, too.Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-90977464454705498272009-11-28T12:34:00.000-08:002009-11-28T13:12:57.263-08:00Learning to Live Without an Oven, and Other Lessons From the Road.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-NeEdx8_n586nl8hNGlZhIwKB4qRyUK6vXcVNMaq9BDki4Ge05GGOx0kclX_9ctD255oZxjvlt8kUUtv-o9PHzvcjh4nE-WHxnO8KLN1cTK27tICughj8dg_he1FPbqjgMnOqQ/s1600/kitchen+sink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-NeEdx8_n586nl8hNGlZhIwKB4qRyUK6vXcVNMaq9BDki4Ge05GGOx0kclX_9ctD255oZxjvlt8kUUtv-o9PHzvcjh4nE-WHxnO8KLN1cTK27tICughj8dg_he1FPbqjgMnOqQ/s200/kitchen+sink.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>I'm lucky to have a sink--two, actually. A foot pump makes it possible for <i>running water (!) </i>to flow from the tiny plastic faucet, and when the dishes are done, the waste water drains into a bucket. I don't know if it's because of the scenery, or the novelty of having a sink outside, but doing dishes has never been more enjoyable.<br />
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<div>Because we are sharing a sub-20' van, there is no room for the kitchen inside the living quarters. There is a top-entry refrigerator inside, thank goodness, but all other kitchen accoutrements slide into a cabinet, to be used outside. A fold-up rafting kitchen houses two sinks that can be covered up with two plastic cutting boards--<i>genius!--</i>a wire rack for storage, and little side table for the stove. There is also a place to hang utensils, towels, what have you, above the sink area. To be honest, it's not that much of a reduction in counter space from the cabin kitchen--to which I am grateful for all of the lessons in small space cooking.<br />
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</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgetaJiXdjlbNdZr7Y5EW9JWMQCCBjFIKOeDTpKh_uyzO3fSq3Z8N5GWdxN6bLAybOxAUeB4KOy5r12oaiJdKoeJMWoQSiesi2eAIErKKe1W6PAWhzTFNe8shXzwT2KrWJcH2h9YQ/s1600/stove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgetaJiXdjlbNdZr7Y5EW9JWMQCCBjFIKOeDTpKh_uyzO3fSq3Z8N5GWdxN6bLAybOxAUeB4KOy5r12oaiJdKoeJMWoQSiesi2eAIErKKe1W6PAWhzTFNe8shXzwT2KrWJcH2h9YQ/s200/stove.jpg" /></a>A two-burner camp stove and a small propane grill is where it all happens. The grill and the lantern share a big propane tank, and we recently put the lantern on a post, making it much more efficient. We despised those evil little green bottles; expensive and wasteful, we were burning through those way too quickly.<br />
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</div><div>I'm no stranger to camp stove cooking, which has made this adventure much easier, and tastier. I have lived out of a backpack in the wilderness for weeks on end, with a dreadful MSR one burner stove that regularly tested the upper limits of my mechanical and culinary skills. Rice and pancakes were a no-no; in those days, it was a lot of Annie's mac and cheese and just-add water dehydrated black beans.<br />
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</div><div>Later, it was weeks of car camping, followed by months of living in a tent and cooking with the very same two-burner Coleman I'm using now. The menu that summer evolved to include a lot of stir-frys and Asian noodle dishes, vegetarian and -non. I also got heavy into bean salads, and when I was cooking for one, quesadillas.<br />
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</div><div>While more or less camping in an Ecuadorian apartment, I found myself using a tiny little gas stove, again with no oven. This was the Lentil Phase--for some reason, when in the jungle, I made a lot of Indian-spiced lentils and vegetables, always with rice and flatbreads. When the right produce was available, I would make salsa fresca, guacamole and tortillas from scratch for tacos, or for a real treat, a green salad with lemon vinaigrette. But what I really lived off of was mangoes, sweet and sticky, right from the tree.<br />
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</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LE7-dO4kInTrlDyQcDxC9VME5Cx1XbXPtM3v3kJ1aLe79_KXQoPE2cDO3CrhsoEfzOvS3AI_NpZN72GBiq9nyTNmgGq8jma-3_0P-a9tq0Sg6R_6g8LvK067aGwuGo9xPZ-LIg/s1600/karla+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LE7-dO4kInTrlDyQcDxC9VME5Cx1XbXPtM3v3kJ1aLe79_KXQoPE2cDO3CrhsoEfzOvS3AI_NpZN72GBiq9nyTNmgGq8jma-3_0P-a9tq0Sg6R_6g8LvK067aGwuGo9xPZ-LIg/s200/karla+and+me.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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I also spent time living in a fire lookout, which was a big step up from the outdoor kitchen, because I had an oven. What I didn't have, though, was a grocery store to keep the larder full. Everything had to be rationed and carefully portioned, lest I run out of cheese, coffee, or wine. Fresh veggies--besides carrots and other root vegetables were gone in the first two weeks, but I did have a serious huckleberry crop just down the mountain. What was also a half-mile down the mountain was the spring: all water on the lookout had to be hauled uphill, on my back, making doing dishes doubly hard.<br />
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</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQdAQXrYc3hlcl0jwyh-UGEh592UmRjgociLNkhjxGjKpDLxoZE92eS2hq9wiZldLLczSWqOs9xdAvvEAckWeljI6BIERobafuFZnpY6ACwSZjKFlKk421rmN3usNfkIIG3ZXdxw/s1600/5128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQdAQXrYc3hlcl0jwyh-UGEh592UmRjgociLNkhjxGjKpDLxoZE92eS2hq9wiZldLLczSWqOs9xdAvvEAckWeljI6BIERobafuFZnpY6ACwSZjKFlKk421rmN3usNfkIIG3ZXdxw/s320/5128.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>I made a lot of cornbread, ate a lot of popcorn (why did it taste so good up there?), and drank loads of chai tea on Sheep Hill. Two very special recipes I still use on a regular basis came from that lookout, thanks to gifted chef Karla who lived there before me and happened to leave the recipe cards: red enchilada sauce and the balsamic vinaigrette I make almost daily.<br />
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</div><div><div>When I look back on the years spent cooking on the Coleman, I realize that this is somewhat of a learned art, so I can understand why food tends to be simple when camping. With limited space, no oven, and no assortment of fancy appliances, utensils or spice rack, the camp cook tends to shy away from complicated recipes. Besides, camping is supposed to be a bit of a break from domestic chores and everyday routines, so mac and cheese and brats might be a real treat.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqQXxW8E4UsmzfePlJwhb380DXCmF-LjnDWWy8gJnj9Y3ef-2gcPsbtkWV6dpqOU2C5LzxPf16E0v-rYqOzpo7LnKha5CqRXfgOgGg9lE0ZxC57XhqVr4qtt3i0G3nonv2MJJvw/s1600/IMG_0442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqQXxW8E4UsmzfePlJwhb380DXCmF-LjnDWWy8gJnj9Y3ef-2gcPsbtkWV6dpqOU2C5LzxPf16E0v-rYqOzpo7LnKha5CqRXfgOgGg9lE0ZxC57XhqVr4qtt3i0G3nonv2MJJvw/s200/IMG_0442.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>But that is where this differs--we aren't camping, we live here. Cooking on a camp stove, boiling water for dishes, and raking leaves off the kitchen floor are all part of this new everyday routine. There are moments when I long for hot water to come out of the tap, to preheat the oven to make a big pan of lasagna, or to put leftovers in the freezer. Despite not having some of the luxuries of the average home cook, it's still possible to craft very fine meals out here, and I try my hardest to keep good food on the table.<br />
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What's also different is the menu. Baked wintery dishes are no longer an option, and some of my favorites--roasted cauliflower, squash, enchiladas, and of course, cakes and treats of all kinds--are to be saved for those special occasions when I get to takeover someone's kitchen. But gone too are the days of standard camp fare--simple pastas, burritos, and burgers. While they all have their time and place, when you are a from-scratch kind of cook, there is bound to be plenty of experimentation happening on those tiny little burners.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uF9yulihTz6J_0BNKZMIvjocCcQuBbtdOgO99Y9SMsyqNBk2vMqWAmlbFck_J9ndbkDjttRY8lxYZX8K9p8BuFBO1kpID8P4C0IyM7bHNQGuxP2BKOnWwfTuJi-_qO6NXp_q3Q/s1600/dal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uF9yulihTz6J_0BNKZMIvjocCcQuBbtdOgO99Y9SMsyqNBk2vMqWAmlbFck_J9ndbkDjttRY8lxYZX8K9p8BuFBO1kpID8P4C0IyM7bHNQGuxP2BKOnWwfTuJi-_qO6NXp_q3Q/s200/dal.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>This time of year, I'm making a lot of soup, and I just brought back the flatbreads last night to go with the yellow split pea Dal I made. I've adapted my garlic bread recipe to work just as well--if not better--on the grill. I'm itching to make grilled pizza, and after the garlic bread success, am very willing to experiment using the table-top grill as an oven. I also just learned how to make Dutch-oven brownies (those raft guides are talented!), so may need to invest in one of those as well.<br />
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While I may miss my oven, my food processor, and my stand mixer, and my stomach gets knotty when I think of all of that holiday baking I'm going to miss, in some ways, I'm getting just as much pleasure scheming up new ways to keep us well fed. And I'm so grateful that I at least have a kitchen sink!<br />
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</div></div></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-30303075520823279102009-11-09T15:07:00.000-08:002009-11-09T15:57:40.440-08:00Through the Belly of the Beast<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGn6jAEVNec_MFvk4HvEHSrcEDIt0dbNQOw3r3t_6JynDVC8QO3JEZ8ysPW868ZqRK__qJnojlyKZuyyYRPcOf6cqclB76IJYLSYWFuhepVDyd0CrA1Swgwz-6GcDxrwfksNvU3w/s1600-h/Olympic_Rainforest_Hiker.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGn6jAEVNec_MFvk4HvEHSrcEDIt0dbNQOw3r3t_6JynDVC8QO3JEZ8ysPW868ZqRK__qJnojlyKZuyyYRPcOf6cqclB76IJYLSYWFuhepVDyd0CrA1Swgwz-6GcDxrwfksNvU3w/s200/Olympic_Rainforest_Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402250397112294274" /></a>Rolling through the southern Cascades, the horizon enshrouded by a thick gray fog, that lifted just in time to get a peek at snow-capped Mt. Shasta in the distance. We were getting close.<div><br /></div><div>Curve after curve, weaving through saddle after saddle, we crossed the border under deep blue autumn skies and rays of sunlight that warmed body and spirit. Goodbye, Oregon. Goodbye damp old-growth and moss covered logs, gushing mountain streams and fern-lined banks, mushroom pockets and orchid patches.<div><br /></div><div>Hello, California. The inspection station a few miles past the border, a different country indeed. No passports required, but maybe someday. <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">South of Redding, I-5 straightens out again, just as the Valley begins to widen. Flatland is bordered by mountain ranges on either side, but instead of fog, they are choked by a layer of dust and smog. However undesirable the air quality is, this is prime agricultural land, with all manner of produce and feed cultivated in the temperate, Meditterranean climate. </p><p style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 91px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:PGImZEOrm5jDNM:http://blog.wholefoodsmarket.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/navelorchard1.jpg" border="0" alt="" />From olives to almonds, cows to goats, tomatoes to corn, California's Central Valley grows it all. Typically 50-60 miles wide, 450 miles long, this huge valley accounts for 62,000 square miles of California's land mass, and is home to more than five million residents.<p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Much of the valley is used for growing crops, irrigating crops, transporting crops or processing crops. Productive land requires productive hands: towns and cities, large and small, dot the landscape. The Central Valley supplies fully one-quarter of the food America eats, and is the most dynamic and diverse agricultural region in the world. No one crop dominates California's output, and more than 350 commodities are grown here. Products grown exclusively (99% or more) in California include almonds, artichokes, dates, figs, kiwi, olives, persimmons, pistachios, prunes, raisins and walnuts. The state accounts for 90% or more of all US grown apricots, grapes, and avocados, and grows more than half of the nations fruits, nuts and vegetables, including three-quarters of the lettuce crop—an agricultural cornucopia indeed.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqoH94wq1m3RS80zs2gN4otP7NNFuw0kEqzJR4xVHPmAYnPaePj07k_g-exs7JB96PNi_piniixIxrxCk4DuqZQuzijy-JsWWk_i7NTLVkzaIDxrEuF1opn7kEyLeXIkZ7OOA6BA/s200/IMG_0368.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402249445342646370" /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Crop after crop blurs in the periphery as you speed down I-5 (later the 99); sometimes signs tell you what they are, other times, it's anyone's guess—especially with the fruit trees. Equally elated by orange grove sightings and the prospect of getting off the 99 and heading east to the Sierras, Bakersfield loomed in the distance, one of the bigger towns in the Valley. Bakersfield's economy is based on both agriculture and oil (rigs are scattered in fields west of the city), making for an interesting socio-cultural dynamic. Turning off the 99, we cruised through urban sprawl and citrus trees heavy with ripe fruit, and finally got a decent view of the western slopes of the Sierras. Arid, rocky and rugged were the first impressions—turns out we had no idea just how so.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="http://www.turnto23.com/2008/0521/16356252_240X180.jpg" border="0" alt="" />Until we entered the Kern River Canyon. The straight-as-an-arrow highway suddenly hits a wall—right about where the sign alerting you of how many deaths have occurred in the Kern River since 1968 (246, by the way; this photo is dated!), the road funnels traffic into two impossibly narrow lanes, and winds itself between rocky cliffs and a class 5+ river. If there is such a thing as topography shock, this would be it.<p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Through the belly of the beast, we have entered some of California's most pristine river canyon country—steep hillsides rising above remote drainages, backdrops dotted with granite boulders, blanketed by manzanita and pine forests, giant sequoias and other untold treasures that are loudly calling my name.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYh5RNUAsurO-sBK3rmOUxQ38bqmPNfxvtT54DS3uBOGI_geQKDfWQZ_51y_ClTrOBnxdlje8_K2Qp-bu77uNlyKU0k6Ltf4u00DYXKVTpAsarkna8aaCfMI6TZxtKLyyIHR59Q/s200/sequoia.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402254969107547570" /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> </div></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-26622733640062543442009-11-06T09:56:00.001-08:002009-11-06T12:16:17.611-08:00Down By the River<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gooQV4bLeVgSrsJiMBaHvwRdh8Z6c9JCyWvKrT_TcgtEKtG5Sl7wM3lDKYiwLFgPH2Cu5KxUA75HcKooJ_IBumxX2-GjhIs2o4FZd5HNXK16s1MUW4tTAENn4OLUCjQc6YAYEA/s1600-h/IMG_0403.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gooQV4bLeVgSrsJiMBaHvwRdh8Z6c9JCyWvKrT_TcgtEKtG5Sl7wM3lDKYiwLFgPH2Cu5KxUA75HcKooJ_IBumxX2-GjhIs2o4FZd5HNXK16s1MUW4tTAENn4OLUCjQc6YAYEA/s200/IMG_0403.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401075244395904530" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZnzIc6Ot1i2XMPXLIE3tf6Mhc6iqYWstyAkLsqsoVFVawR-rgeW9dAoz3Mi1WNNDR8Al1QcIE_gtudDkiItfFTrV80F8unAhHD78PPYOuMYHQcJnpn3cF79JoEc-Kta0sPy_CQ/s1600-h/IMG_0403.JPG"></a>New ventures call for celebrations! New ventures beg for recognition! New ventures deserve shameless self-promotion!<div><br /><div>What, you might ask, after such an extended hiatus from this blog, warrants such loud horn-tooting?</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSqqaGZRsC872u6I7CgL-Vac-bIW9BR8x0BGS50RmjUI64dJMV3Zsnv0L5cIu3Q7Lo-wWhhZYZkxpu1LUZsmbsgcQ1oHt84RZPRXUJ-hDryRTFYlYemxNyXwrZXoua6M4a-K5FA/s200/IMG_0442.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401073971889397106" />Living in a van, down by the river, of course. To be fair, a river <i>and</i> a creek, with ducks, raccoons, skunks and other vermin. With deer and birds. Sometimes it's by a beach, sometimes it's in the mountains, and other times, it might be by a lake. </div><div><br /></div><div>But before you question my sanity, imagine: a beachfront office, 85 degrees, ocean breeze. Early morning mountain bike rides, right from camp. Making dinner by moonlight, washing dishes by starlight. Rock climbs at dusk a short drive upriver, hiking down in the dark. Creekside yoga, leaves falling on the mat. Fresh air, new scenery and inspiring people and places every day.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLn8Bn3vgTmfzOD2Fqw8-7k5Z_F61tYMqL4_Cgp2J3URanBwEN6vFMjRh4_yPlRjYMOveDW_vHO9TVktyixztoIzNUOlwq9yOT72mZkbjNCN0vh6J-Vjflx-yEscEWHp7DYhQ2Q/s200/IMG_0365.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401075900923254146" /></div><div>There are challenges too, no doubt. Cold mornings, the sun low in the sky. Finding basic utilities when we need them, the same ones we take for granted when living in a house (water, electric, internet). Critter camp raids, food pilfered and eaten on the spot. Tight living quarters, limited storage space. Cabinets left unlocked, before a trip on the twistiest road around, contents strewn about. Only one car for two people means planning ahead and sacrifice on occasion. Sketchy laundromats, dryers that don't work so well. Try as we might, things sometimes never really feel clean.</div><div><br /></div><div>The trade-off is worth it: a sense freedom I've never known. Sure, I've traveled extensively, lived in a tent, a fire lookout, all liberating experiences that probably helped prepare me for this mother-of-all nomadic adventure. The difference this time, it's indefinite--there is no timeframe, no dwindling bank account that will dictate when we must return home. This is no vacation, no job with a layoff date. This is life--this is living the dream, every day.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8ZqJ48Z4W7OcQDLV8HNjClojUt763PC6dThfrg8-9okVGNzX6TjcQsqvVG5t3x7G1T6QQEwbgn1oKKyk74U3JyaQarKcu3M-8cwAtJQWVwUFERiLAu0mLDqSEa3kv008Jr5SMg/s200/IMG_0418.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401077761042575330" /></div><div>Sans white picket fence--or roof over my head for that matter--this isn't your typical American dream. My version doesn't include children playing in the yard, PTA meetings, or sleepovers. It doesn't include a house full of nice furniture, closets stuffed with clothes, or a TV in every room. No two-car garage, no satellite dish, and no daily commute. These are things I've never pictured having, nor that I can ever remember really wanting. Society's voice rang in my ears a time or two, telling me that my life's purpose should be to attain these things, but it seems I am not a very good listener.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZWNBHKUBv7pFCn00QWFl4_iLZuj8lfVwPzi50yqfYtOTyhlbAvC4LiryQoETGY5wCpSMb7vi0nQvAvPCWS7_EBV1oMq0G_XaweTjtJD9TuCwXiWLwR0GF1f_Dpb1LMeR-tWMTg/s200/IMG_0455.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401078548073279458" /></div><div>And so here I sit, contemplating endless possibilities, lulled by the sound of the creek, and waiting for the sun. I have everything I need. I have time to write, time to ride, and time to dream. Clothes on my back, good food in my belly, and a healthy body to make it all possible. Dogs bathing in the rays of sunlight that finally just peeked through the trees. Simplicity is something that is too often overlooked, but once you strip away the clutter, it turns out we really don't need much to lead a fulfilled and happy life.</div><div><br /></div><div>For now, this is enough. My purpose might be different from yours, and what I need to survive and thrive might not be enough for you. Or it may be too much. Either way, it feels good to slow down long enough to listen--really listen--and trust that if we follow our hearts, we'll eventually end up on the right path.</div><div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieg2n-RO-Qv81BUyVPKBjXYVQDqmfLpe9oEs8mx-69Dznhi0eBtOMoXQM0_B8mOQLBUBF5tLRa-xaHSvU4gaWtr54KmOBy4ODVk5ni7FnYVKxD5g7T_C4tz6rciOSxWMyUaCBDgA/s200/shredding.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401083279605824482" /></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-29429332195479131382008-01-08T08:01:00.000-08:002008-01-22T10:20:06.262-08:00Chimichurri<p>Accompanying nearly every meal I've eaten the past few weeks--yes, even breakfast--has been this humble little green sauce known as Chimichurri.</p><p>I first experienced it's highly addictive properties at the Flor de Cafe in Puerto Escondido. In Mexico, mind you, not in Argentina where it comes from, served up with a world-class grass fed beef steak, but on the beach in Mexico where there is no fresh beef or parrillas in sight. I was drawn to the cafe in the beginning by its <em>paquetes</em>, or dinner specials that consisted of grilled Mahi-Mahi, rice and a simple salad, AND a beer for 40 pesos: all of that for <em>under</em> $4.00. But after the first dinner there, I returned at least twice a week, not for the fish, which was very delicious, but for the green sauce that sat so unassumingly on the table, served with fresh tortilla chips. Not your average Mexican appetizer, to say the least. </p><p>I put it to work with every course, not just with the chips, smearing it on my fish, eating it with my rice. If I went there for breakfast, I would ask for it with my eggs, which the server always thought a little strange. But it wasn't, it was delightful. Refreshing, light, and full of flavor. If they were out of chimichurri--I am serious here--I would not eat there. The meal just wasn't the same without the little condiment that could.</p><p>One year later, in a snowstorm, I am making South American style empanadas, trying to replicate a vegetarian version I once ate in Argentina. Since I was going to a potluck with these little beauties, I thought they needed some sort of dipping sauce or something to bathe them in upon serving. Then I remembered it--oh, how could I have <em>ever</em> forgotten you--CHIMICHURRI. </p><p>I let out a little squeal, <em>Of course</em>, my dears, it was perfect. I literally ran to the computer, and hail Mary, the first search I did on Epicurious gave me this recipe I am sharing with you today. I couldn't believe it. I didn't have to change a thing, it was so authentic, and brought back so many memories of Puerto and fresh fish and vibrant flavors, salty air and sand between my toes. I was jumping up and down, grinning from ear to ear. This all transpired in 10 short minutes, start to finish, from conception to completion. Ryan watched in amazement.</p><p>I still cannot get enough of this green goodness. Picture a pesto made with parsley and cilantro, sans cheese or nuts. It is tart and little salty at first, but the flavors mellow by day two.</p><p>This recipe easily doubles, and is so good with just about anything, including tortilla chips, eggs of any kind, chicken, fish, beef, and of course, empanadas. You can ramp up the red pepper flakes for a little more kick, but I encourage you to try it on the mild side so you don't mask the flavors of the parsley and cilantro.</p><p><strong>Chimichurri, </strong><em>from Bon Apetit, October 2002</em></p><p><em>Makes about 1 cup</em></p><p>1 cup (packed) fresh Italian Parsley (flat-leaf, not curly)</p><p>1/2 cup olive oil</p><p>1/3 cup red wine vinegar</p><p>1/4 cup (packed) fresh cilantro</p><p>2 garlic cloves, peeled</p><p>1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes</p><p>1/2 teaspoon ground cumin</p><p>1/2 teaspoon sea salt</p><p></p><p>Puree all ingredients in a food processor. Transfer to bowl. Will keep for several days covered tightly in the fridge. I like it best at room temp though, so take it out a bit before serving.</p><p>I am going to have some right now with a leftover frittata burrito!</p><p>Buen Provecho.</p><p><br /></p>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-37826518695220156792008-01-04T11:58:00.000-08:002008-01-05T17:27:14.545-08:00Mass Production...and, er, ConsumptionWhew. That was tiring. The year ended with a bang, and left me exhausted. For the past, well, month I guess, my Kitchen-Aid mixer and my oven have been working overtime. Several--countless, actually--pounds of butter and chocolate later, I am pleased to share with you all of my gastronomical endeavors this Holiday Season.<br /><br />Here is a list--by no means comprehensive--of what was turned out of my humble, yet functional kitchen at the cabin, in no particular order:<br /><br /><a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2004/12/with-my-own-two-hands.html">Coffee Walnut Toffee</a>: Indeed, "slightly less addictive than crack". A winner!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/233424">Gingerbread Truffles</a><br /><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/103024">Milk Chocolate-Espresso Truffles</a><br /><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/10993">Chocolate Caramel Truffles</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/portal/site/mslo/menuitem.fc77a0dbc44dd1611e3bf410b5900aa0/?vgnextoid=9cfccf06cd80f010VgnVCM1000003d370a0aRCRD&autonomy_kw=cranberry&rsc=rf_result7">Cranberry Noels</a><br /><a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/lime-meltaways?autonomy_kw=lime%20meltaways&rsc=header_1">Lime Meltaways</a><br />Homemade Oreos (very convincing!)<br /><a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/candies-cakes-and-cookies-mexican-wedding-cookies?autonomy_kw=mexican%20wedding%20cakes&rsc=header_3">Mexican Wedding Cakes</a><br /><a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2005/01/odysseus-and-macaroons.html">Chocolate-Covered Coconut Macaroons</a><br /><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/103156">Ginger Spice Cookies</a><br /><br /><a href="http://splendidtable.publicradio.org/recipes/starters_brietoast.shtml">Brie Toast with Chardonnay-Soaked Golden Raisins</a> that could pass for dessert<br /><br /><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/241136">Cheesy Sweet Potato Crisps</a> with <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/241137">Rosemary-Balsamic Cream</a><br /><br /><a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2007/11/refilled-and-refueled.html">Pasta with Hashed Brussels Sprouts and Pine Nuts</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/105911">Butternut Squash and Hazelnut Lasgna</a><br /><br /><a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2005/12/seattlests-best-egg-nog.html">J.P. Hartt's Egg Nog</a>, Four--yes I mean <strong>4</strong>--<em>Gallons</em> worth!<br /><br /><br />Sour Cream Coffee Cake, <em>Cook's Illustrated</em>, Nov. and Dec., 2002<br /><br />Country Bread, loaf upon loaf. I haven't bought bread in weeks! Recipe is from my dear friend <a href="http://www.corkandbottlecatering.com/">Talia</a>. Someday I will share the recipe with you!<br /><br /><br />Some of the delectables above were sent out as gifts, packaged up and shared. Some were just cozy dinners or office party fare. Some were even skied into a <a href="http://www.wingski.com/hutsystem.php">Backcountry Hut </a>in the Wallowa Mountains--including 2 whole roast Lemon Chickens!--where we spent four momentous days in glorious powder, each day a marked occasion in it's own right: Winter Solstice, Full Moon, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day. Delicious, not to mention the fine food we shared.<br /><br />This year, the baking extravaganza will go on, as dreary winter days persist. I can't think of a better way to spend them, as I peruse food blogs and cookbooks looking for little bits of inspiration. I'll continue to experiment and create, and share the results with you as often as possible.<br /><br />Cheers to a fun-filled New Year!Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-1163711373741196692007-12-21T07:40:00.000-08:002008-01-05T17:33:05.089-08:00Hairpin Curve, RedefinedLa Cordillera de la Costa cuts through the northern part of Venezuela, separating Caracas and other cities from the sea and reaching 2700 meters at its high point. Climbing and descending the Cordillera (considered to be an extension of the Andes) to the sea, you cross at least four different ecological zones: semi-arid deciduous woods, subtropical rainforest, cloudforest, and arid coastal scrub, all in a time of about two hours by car.<br /><br />The road from Maracay winds north through Henri Pittier National Park. Despite its small size, it is home to 43% of Venezuela´s bird population, and 7% of the world´s bird species, as well as to a host of other animals and countless--many probably uncatalogued--species of plants.<br /><br />It is a steep ascent on a one-lane road, switchbacking continuously and tightly to the pass, then descending in the same fashion. From the outskirts of Maracay, there are no signs of inhabitation, just dense forest as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the road that is perched on the steep hillside. And even the road seems barely able to co-exist with the jungle: huge groves of 5" diameter bamboo grow on what shoulder there is, bending under their own weight, creating an archway over the road, stems hacked back here and there to keep it under control. Pavement cracks, giving into the strength of tree roots and the force of water in the drainages. In every drainage of size, there is evidence of previous washout or landslides, successfully carving away at man´s attempt to tame and civilize.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ufi0CjjwbhIUT9umAoXuAysvcQ0iYG4JxqwgpX9oy7PIubghdnIHb8jOkTXUSPJv3VnsTm365iYcXKJUl0BzWaW4-xrOSaGJaln17kqlA2O-IdWMtvMevalzT-tq7Dwmgadn7g/s1600-h/DSCN1506.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142765586024780882" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ufi0CjjwbhIUT9umAoXuAysvcQ0iYG4JxqwgpX9oy7PIubghdnIHb8jOkTXUSPJv3VnsTm365iYcXKJUl0BzWaW4-xrOSaGJaln17kqlA2O-IdWMtvMevalzT-tq7Dwmgadn7g/s320/DSCN1506.JPG" border="0" /></a>Being on the road to Choroni made me think of a statistic a friend once told me. If civilization as we know it were to end, it would only take about 50 years for nature to reclaim her roadways: plants would re-colonize, tree and shrub roots cracking the pavement, inviting smaller plants to grow in the space. It all seems possible in a place like the rainforest; indeed, there is an abundance of life here, larger than we might ever realize.<br /><br />Climbing up, up, up in the big baby blue painted Bluebird schoolbus, I was seated in a row of ladies in the very back of the bus. I felt strangely comforted by their presence, a warmth seemed to envelope me, the only foreigner on the bus, and I felt safe. And it turned out to be a good thing: I was completely ignorant to what lie ahead, the guidebook said nothing about the road we were setting out on.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142765074923672610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8ZlijTviVU7FcG-N0G9y0P4tEs8CkcvlSeq_s65sMdoj-j3DDsne6jQK2fHBFDZezSoTa-mBwfLZu_Yz7f56eCq5NorebqqY0KHM1-NAtMkYmVE24f3OQi3I-EzGIEk8r_0rnQ/s320/DSCN1524.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />The engine roared and groaned, churning as it pulled the bus up the road, curve after curve, the driver laying on the horn on every corner to warn oncoming traffic of our approach. It was loud and bellowing, like a train´s horn, impossible to ignore. On more than one curve, the driver had to back up and then go forward around the curve: we were just too long to make it on the first go. It was like nothing I have ever seen. Maui´s road to Hana or Glacier Park´s Going to the Sun Highway ain´t got nothing on Venezuela´s Road to Choroni!<br /><br />It grew dark somwhere near the top of the pass. I could see the lights of Maracay, at the bottom of the steep drainage we had just traveled up. Thinking the worst was over, I let myself relax for a brief moment. Until the back end of the bus swung around yet another hairpin curve. Turns out the road is equally, if not more so, windy on the way down to the coast.<br /><br />One of the ladies I was sitting next to had lugged an enormous mattress onto the bus, placing it in the aisle pretty much smack in front of me. There was more than one moment when I felt somewhat comforted knowing that I might have a soft landing if the driver overshot one of the gazillion hairpin curves.<br /><br />Slowly the bus emptied as we descended down the mountain to the coast. I wanted to ask all of these people what they did, here in this seemingly isolated and remote community. Did they farm? I couldn't tell in the dark. I wasn't sure, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say that, like so many I had met here, they eeked out a living in whatever way they could.<br /><br />It was two weeks until the Election. Signs plastered every vertical surface in Caracas and Maracay, for or against Chavez. But not in Choroni. Choroni, the tranquil beach town seemed far removed from the political--and even the social--quagmire in the rest of the country. Catering to tourists, countless hotels, restaurants, and retail shops seemed to thrive. The mood in Choroni was light and laid back. Laughter could be heard in the streets, the comical Venezuelan sense of humor and way with words reverberating, enveloping and inspiring me to talk to as many locals as possible. Entertained by the slang, I set out to learn as much of it as I could.<br /><br />When I left for Venezuela, more than one of my level-headed friends questioned my judgement. Knowing Venezuela only for its politics, corruption, crazy President (yes, we all know what he thinks of our own president) and oil, people were pretty certain that as an American I would probably be a prime target for robbery and kidnapping. "And how is that different from being an American in any other country?", I would quip, sarcastically. In the moment, humor deflected the fear, but I have to admit, deep down I really was nervous to go there alone.<br /><br />But like going anywhere, if you open your mind you won't be alone. If you smile and make an effort to connect with people, you'll almost always feel like you are safe. Sure there are bad apples, you just have to watch your back and use good judgement.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.topics-mag.com/edition7/arepas.htm">arepas</a> in Choroni were delightful. I have to admit that upon introduction, arepas were something I could live without. It is a somewhat bland white corn disk that is fried (in butter), split open and filled with a variety of ingredients: ham, cheese, sausage, mushrooms to name a few. Many Venezuelans eat arepas at every meal, making it by far the most popular national food. By the end of my trip, I had found the arepa to be quite agreeable. Cheap, and fast, it makes a perfect traveller's meal.<br /><br />And they taste pretty good with a beer. Polar, the national brew, is served ice cold. The bottles are small, so they don't have time to get warm. Perfect for a lightweight like me! As much as Venezuelans love their beer, they love whiskey even more. They consume as much whiskey as the Irish per capita. A group of college kids showed up at Skydive Venezuela as part of a class project. Besides interviewing us (me in English so they could practice), they proceeded to imbibe numerous bottles of whiskey that evening, mixed with Coca-Cola (the other national beverage). It was my last night at the <a href="http://www.skydivevenezuela.com/">drop zone </a>in Higuerote.<br /><br />Choroni was settled 385 years ago, 2 km inland from the sea, for protection from the pirates that ravaged the coastline. Puerto Columbia lies north of Choroni, the original port serving the area. Now it is a backpacker's mecca, full of hip restaurants, posadas, and young crowds. Playa Grande lies to the east, a 10 minute walk from town.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142764258879886354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNe0Y3qLqtxXHVa4MV7emnyb6FHjT7TYMLa4V7nOLDepkJlTBY6VPmg-C2K40SN1mRu_3aoN18aT91K3cVmGALAysC-dUo-iJE_ur10iY6-gJjt-0JHogr8K8AnEPXFvCgEVb8Q/s320/DSCN1515.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><em>Playa Grande, big and empty.</em><br /></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142765083513607234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4GgwGZFyG-rcHRvGI5ZYLAXt8r2C1TVhoNGiYXYcBjWXesQhvVklDSfNUZGVwkq2gXYFGniplwU32SNh_SPgipPVORUISRgKVVZN7fSvB0887GxFuPzi0XcRVE0aeY195whZBQ/s320/DSCN1523.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><em>One of the many fishing boats in Puerto Colombia</em></p><br /><br /><p align="left">Other more secluded beaches are accessible by boat, which <a href="http://valsventures.blogspot.com/2006/11/blue-malibu.html">can be hired </a>for $30 or so roundtrip, the fare split among passengers. A few can also be reached by trail from Choroni.</p><br /><p align="left">I decided that I wanted to see the Road to Choroni in the daylight this time, so I caught the first bus I could up the mountain. In classical Latin American fashion, both the timetable for the bus, and the clarity of where the bus stop was actually located was sketchy at best. In typical American fashion, I found myself pacing, wondering if I was waiting in the right spot, on the right street. Asking a local for help didn't really help to clarify matters, which was my cue to take the lead of the residents of Choroni and just chill out. Really, could I possibly miss the groaning engine and bellowing horn of that giant blue bus? </p><p align="left">I sat in the back, but not amongst the group of ladies this time. Instead, my co-passenger was a nine year old girl who boarded the bus about 3 miles outside of Choroni. She held in her tiny arms an enormous birthday cake with yellow and sky blue icing. It nearly dwarfed her as it balanced precariously on her lap. It was for her brother and she was taking it to school where there would be a fiesta for him. I kept smiling at her, and she hid behind thick, black hair: she was my polar opposite. I couldn't have been more different to her in outward appearance, really to anyone on that bus. </p><p align="left">But instead of feeling out of place and uncomfortable and retreating to my iPod, I met the stares with eyes full of curiosity and admiration. In some strange way, I felt connected and like I could see a common tie between us, as people, the human race. That we are not so different; regardless of appearance or heritage, social class or culture, we are all striving for the same things in life, all wanting to fulfill the same basic needs. I felt such energy from everyone on that bus, it was invigorating. I had this strange sense that all the layers that hide our true, loving and kind selves had been peeled away, like the layers of an onion. I felt that I was in a place where I could be open and unaffected by society's pretenses, by pressures and expectations. For the first time ever travelling in Latin America, I was unashamed of where I came from because in that brief moment, the disparities no longer existed. We were all just people, living and breathing humans all here for the same purpose.</p><p align="left">The road snaked south up the steep slope, back to Maracay, and my mind was quieted and contented by the amazing rainforest view out of the Bluebird's window. The little girl with the cake has disembarked long ago, and I was left to stare and observe on my own. </p><p align="left">Knowing what lie ahead of me, on this adventure, for the winter, and for the rest of my days to come, I felt open to possibility and was instilled with a newfound faith and confidence--both in myself and in the world. Without a doubt in my mind, I would survive this bus journey on this crazy road, and the madness of Caracas. I would be safe <a href="http://valsventures.blogspot.com/2006/02/perfectly-good-airplane-part-ii.html">skydiving</a>, and I would try to recognize and live by the <a href="http://valsventures.blogspot.com/2006/12/feeling-froggy-jump.html">lessons</a> it could teach me--just as all things in life have the potential to do. If we are open to it, even the smallest things can show us something new. Even this old creaky bus barreling down a backroad in the jungle brought me a level understanding I hadn't previously known.</p><p align="left">Indeed, it is often the seemingly insignificant experiences that have the ability to repair, reshape, and ultimately redefine our point of view and freshen our perspective, like this simple trip to the coast did for me. I stepped off the bus in Maracay feeling alive and I reveled in the satisfaction of knowing that, for now, I was definitely travelling down the right road.<br /></p><p align="left"></p>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19442241.post-4290092367093123212007-12-08T07:49:00.000-08:002007-12-10T14:08:11.700-08:00All in the Fly-mily<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTpw_YshRk2n89-NIsdoxXKL5Gddpj6XnrR49XFvygFFUNOzJNhEg0QsUfGTuXJ_RU7AktmQcayNy7efZlU_JGRfOxG_QGFQYjJr59vqC5lHX2HR4vavIgU2zZIipZUr-_bVLwA/s1600-h/IMG_4430.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141627604374934482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTpw_YshRk2n89-NIsdoxXKL5Gddpj6XnrR49XFvygFFUNOzJNhEg0QsUfGTuXJ_RU7AktmQcayNy7efZlU_JGRfOxG_QGFQYjJr59vqC5lHX2HR4vavIgU2zZIipZUr-_bVLwA/s320/IMG_4430.JPG" border="0" /></a> Thirteen years ago, George Aldana flew to Puerto Escondido on a skydiving plane, and never left: it was a classic case of being “Puerto’ed”. His car sat at the drop zone in Cuautla, some 12 hours north, for four months before his mother came to terms with the fact that her son really wasn’t going to be on the next bus back to Mexico City, and finally went to retrieve the car herself.<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><br /><div></div><div>With wild dreadlocks almost reaching his lower back, and a content, Buddha-like grin on his face at all times, George could be the poster boy for la vida tranquila at the beach in Mexico. Surf shorts, a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and flip-flops--mandatory beach attire--don't do much to set George apart from the local surf scene, but everyone in Puerto knows who George is. He'll make you the best Tamarind Drug in Mexico. </div><div><br /> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1uzWM8VY0WwZ-V7JKrf9oqIWQhODe7YkBSIzU7zOkv52SqWjlQHTw0QcgsKMAoOucrqqNbZpQGfKpekzKN87WWD3XGzXFJd-69a-X5wazHdXdRT1z7iZewujvLE4iwJ5B3D7zA/s1600-h/img006.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142469263346127874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1uzWM8VY0WwZ-V7JKrf9oqIWQhODe7YkBSIzU7zOkv52SqWjlQHTw0QcgsKMAoOucrqqNbZpQGfKpekzKN87WWD3XGzXFJd-69a-X5wazHdXdRT1z7iZewujvLE4iwJ5B3D7zA/s320/img006.jpg" border="0" /></a>Bar Fly is located at the east end of Zicatela Beach, just where the main street curves slightly toward the beach, right past Carmen’s famous “Cafecito”. Bar Fly has bright red metal doors that open to the stairs; the familiar smiley face logo is painted in white, drawn with a trembling hand, x’s for eyes and a crumpled mouth. You climb the stairs to the open-air and breezy bar that overlooks the ocean; looking up, you will almost always have a good view of the stars. Poured-in-place concrete furniture lines the perimeter, and a row of high tables and stools fills the space between the bar and these comfy benches. On any given night, you can expect to see surfing or skydiving videos projected on the white wall toward the back of the room.<br /><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141457502195176242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1cInWC5rafJ2J3qm0eCOdUJqxes-THwNskbdcHkRbdR62kSziADpi99KFjJgjNGSjPct_YhcDKJIXWQ6Z6HjHVFbYHMSO4iQUL_1eSrZcNR-5980sANpQnOMEzy0v6BkFCmDqw/s320/CIMG0221.JPG" border="0" /><br />The Bar Fly owners are 3 friends: George, Julio, and Beto.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141462145054823314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSqNf3yLs78tL55FbG6Yu52345VFLQ5_CmhVAO8UxdF7QvXCwgHpJCcoxgtjpRSCoBZacgV1zcG35Yh6iaZwlzu95_Ur0IFRz4ioGlTQQdyOKPaZo1gG50bX0vuCvSvzy2SbqqOQ/s320/IMG_8960.JPG" border="0" />Recently a new father, Beto spends part of his year in Austria, with his wife Katarina. Beto was the owner of the original Bar Fly, back when it was located in the Adoquin, the brick paved street just west of Playa Principal. In it’s first location, Bar Fly was tremendously successful, but closed 2 years ago when Beto couldn't renew his lease. The building owner's son wanted to open his own bar, the fledgling "Blue Station" that is still there today.<br /><br />After the 2 years hiatus, Bar Fly is back, and better than ever; in a prominent location on Playa Zicatela, you can expect it to be hopping even during low season.<br /><br />Julio has been in Puerto for 10 years, also a transplant from Mexico City. He worked for the original Bar Fly in the adoquin, playing music and mixing drinks. When Beto wanted to reopen at the beach, Julio took the opportunity to be part owner. He also jumped--literally--at the chance to learn how to skydive on the beach.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdu0QNef3mpAUu28QVIZ6PNbN0PhOJxUGYknqDhohnoVQTpd-GFwI_c52OPyeoR5O32YsFNr5P2reb4R68YO73U5yZqHi3dLnS6y9eDP1QXvA4S_sRFMdHdkq68_aN1OyFoIbWfA/s1600-h/CIMG0178.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141627161993302978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdu0QNef3mpAUu28QVIZ6PNbN0PhOJxUGYknqDhohnoVQTpd-GFwI_c52OPyeoR5O32YsFNr5P2reb4R68YO73U5yZqHi3dLnS6y9eDP1QXvA4S_sRFMdHdkq68_aN1OyFoIbWfA/s320/CIMG0178.JPG" border="0" /></a>On any given weekday, after last night's business is taken care of, you might find the three loading up into the <a href="http://valsventures.blogspot.com/2006/02/perfectly-good-airplane.html">skydiving</a> truck and heading to the airport to make a jump. One by one, Skydive Cuautla/Puerto Escondido nabbed and trained the three friends how to solo skydive, each one taking the Accelerated Freefall Course and now jumping on their own.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxFlq8tnY5Hs2QW14PDxU32ZVWGXg49UQyX8lfVpBsqx51uTgF2FgLi_gGaedBlDUj6dD69P1yc0CiWoiphR_-cYQQaEyhTw9ddJC8VMW1GHD88FkxpyDLCu2fWyJAI0KXYwPLQ/s1600-h/IMG_4419.JPG"></a><br />A lawyer by training, Monique was also Puerto’d 3 years ago when she came for the Christmas holiday season. “I was at a point where I knew I didn’t want to be a lawyer, shortly after finishing school I knew it wasn’t for me,” she says. “I came to Puerto to figure out what I really wanted.” It wasn’t her first trip to the Oaxaquenan Coast, but it was the first time she considered staying. She stayed for one month, working for Beto at the original Bar Fly, but then ended up returning to Mexico to work and save some money so she could relocate to Puerto. After one month she came back to Puerto, and hasn’t looked back. She says her life in Puerto is simple, but very happy. “What more could a girl want?” she says. ”I have it all here; it’s beautiful and I am enjoying every moment.” </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGbUCHRch8yXCAmeJEk3UW7KBgmGSDlsyPgQW6d56cOMmMFc35jHszhwDAhPyQI48tnWYXqMCPzCdFVmJXRJFjw8lWsPPdDYz17xMqw_iVNXGM0IQkpYn6_8qF6N0JDg6uEbGqg/s1600-h/flayita+sepia.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076329345726973970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGbUCHRch8yXCAmeJEk3UW7KBgmGSDlsyPgQW6d56cOMmMFc35jHszhwDAhPyQI48tnWYXqMCPzCdFVmJXRJFjw8lWsPPdDYz17xMqw_iVNXGM0IQkpYn6_8qF6N0JDg6uEbGqg/s320/flayita+sepia.jpg" border="0" /></a>Many of these moments are spent running La Flayita (pronounced Fly-ita, a Spanglish word translating as "little Fly"), a joint venture between Beto, Katarina and Monique. It is a pink palapa bar, commonly referred to as the “little sister of Bar Fly”, with woven mats and funky floor furniture, including bean bag chairs and inflatable cushions covered in printed canvas, laid out on a brick floor. Wooden platforms sit right in front of the bar on the beach, with u-shaped rocking beds that are shaded by big umbrellas. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedsbHhluvJNXwG3j0DV2kJfjEkovlcdovYtPGwm3Gw2dauGVDTTcLmfc16d6SgKkyJJz4HQ4nLIcsJCjziiSci75LJVYQlWi83xBvyXPFOoKW5o9SB0DRNbITNm0KPyUq7gIhTA/s1600-h/IMG_8913.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141460044815815522" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedsbHhluvJNXwG3j0DV2kJfjEkovlcdovYtPGwm3Gw2dauGVDTTcLmfc16d6SgKkyJJz4HQ4nLIcsJCjziiSci75LJVYQlWi83xBvyXPFOoKW5o9SB0DRNbITNm0KPyUq7gIhTA/s320/IMG_8913.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div>Closer to the water, chaise lounges can be rented for the day, with beachside service of food and drink. Serving up smoothies, juices, snacks, beers and cocktails in a chill atmosphere, La Flayita is by far the hippest bar on the sand.<br /><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2ll1QFtDruE5MJnEvlr366bOk4nfAUrWRqYcJ7q1bMA14yyKS30_4an-vsNOyZvyua1wJ_at5vAxn7YnzvY3F__e0T2BxCq8Kw6U2GnDzV2ZzGhPr4CTWp2jBE3NQGmiQjWWWw/s1600-h/IMG_8909.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141628639462052834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2ll1QFtDruE5MJnEvlr366bOk4nfAUrWRqYcJ7q1bMA14yyKS30_4an-vsNOyZvyua1wJ_at5vAxn7YnzvY3F__e0T2BxCq8Kw6U2GnDzV2ZzGhPr4CTWp2jBE3NQGmiQjWWWw/s320/IMG_8909.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div></div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141458142145303362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9GrMMkl0Y95HafwRzt60IwBbe8_InpDpLNS8p79nDBqfYNFR6RpJv86SHTFip-jziXdSSMNrQspI6EkXW3JdhUVl6oP3kKwf4FYgOZCeVcl8FWFbS0AEGrLOnN752_gUrqi3hmg/s320/P1000128.JPG" border="0" /></div><br /><div>They refer to themselves as the “Fly-mily”, and there really does seem to be a genuine sense of family, both in how they interact with each other, and in general how they intercept and in a way adopt their clientele. The vibe goes well with Puerto, which is described by many as “magical”. There is one thing for sure, while being served your fruity “Ticket to Fly”, or your famous “Tamarind Drug”, made with Tamarind pulp, mescal, and crushed ice, and always 2 for 1, you can expect to feel right at home while away from home. The Fly-mily wouldn’t have it any other way.</div><br /><div><br /><strong>Photos, courtesy of Daniel "Pana" Angulo, Top to Bottom</strong>:<em> George Aldana; Bar Fly; Beto's Family; Skydive Puerto Escondido; La Flayita, Sepia; La Flayita's Pink Exterior; La Flayita from the beach; The Fly-mily with Bar Fly-esque drawing of Beto and Katarina's baby the day it was born (in Austria).</em></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Valhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04003280683171130760noreply@blogger.com2