What I did on my summer vacation

I went to the ocean this week. Left Boise Monday morning, returned home Wednesday night. The drive was exhausting, but it was so worth it. I realized this immediately upon arriving in Crescent City, California. I really missed the water.

But first I had to get there.

Probably my favorite part of the drive was along U.S. 395 from Burns to Lakeview. Open country where I could see for miles. The road meandered along the east side of Lake Abert.

After beginning to sink in the flats during my walk out to shore, I backtracked up to my car to resume the drive south.

It took a little over 11 hours and 600 miles to reach Hiouchi, California, my home for two nights. To reach the cool, damp weather, I first had to drive through blazing heat. It was 105 degrees in Medford. And there was a fire near Grants Pass.

After checking in at the motel, I drove down the hill to Crescent City for dinner. Afterward, I went for a walk along the jetty.

Tuesday was sightseeing day. First, though, I wanted to go for a run. (Of course.) It might just be me, but "Coastal Trail" evokes an image of a relatively level trail along the sea. I was wrong. The trail began climbing after just a half mile. I don't mind hills, but this one long hill was too steep for running, requiring fits and spurts of power walking. And because the plan was to run out to a certain point and return, I had to descend this monstrosity. (My poor knees.) Don't get me wrong, the relatively flat sections of the trail were fantastic. And it felt great to just be running in the misty forest. But that hill was hell.

The trailhead was located at a beautiful overlook of Crescent Beach. This scene is why I made the trip. (Crescent City is off to the left in the fog.)

I went back to the motel to get cleaned up and returned to Crescent City for breakfast. Then, I headed south on U.S. 101. First stop, the Klamath River's outlet into the Pacific Ocean.

The great part about this photo is I received a job offer at this spot after returning from a hike down to the overlook. It was such a pleasant surprise since I had interviewed for the position months ago while still in South Dakota and had written off the possibility of ever hearing from them again after the "Thanks, but no thanks" letter. Funny how things work out.

Just a bit further south on 101 was the Tour-Thru Tree in Klamath.

Thank you to the kind motorcyclist who took my photo. Quick, funny story: Later in the evening, I drove up to Brookings, Oregon. While at the Dairy Queen, two motorcyclists walked in and asked me, "Were you down in California earlier today?" It was the same biker who took my photo and his buddy. Small world.

What I later learned was this is not the only tree you can drive through in Redwood Country. There are similar trees in Leggett and Myers Flat.

The southernmost point of my journey was Fern Canyon in Humboldt County. The road to get there was just awful. Terrible! Fern Canyon is part of Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. State park = entrance fee. I never carry much cash, so I asked the ranger if she accepted credit cards. "Nope. No electricity."

I looked in my wallet to discover I was a dollar short of the eight-dollar entry fee. I would have had enough cash if I hadn't just shelled out five bucks to drive through that damn tree. Since the ranger station was three miles into the park along that God-awful road, I was faced with the prospect of driving through six miles of hell without seeing the canyon. I really didn't want to turn around.

I'm sure I sounded whiney and looked pathetic when I told the ranger, with wallet open for her to see, "I only have seven dollars." She looked at me for a couple seconds before replying, "We'll just make you a senior today." And how much was the senior admission fee? Seven dollars!

There were two at-grade stream crossings past the ranger station. I had asked a couple folks beforehand if my little car would make it. "Oh yeah, won't be a problem." Well, the car didn't have a problem, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. I mean, the Weather Channel's mantra is practically "Turn around, don't drown."

After a short hike, I arrived in Fern Canyon. Supposedly, scenes from the second Jurassic Park movie were filmed there.

Heading back north, I stopped at the Trees of Mystery. There was no need to go inside when Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox were available for photos for free in the parking lot. And it's not like I had any cash left on me anyway! Paul's right hand waved and right eye blinked.

I wrapped up my day of sightseeing back in Crescent City. Here's a shot looking south toward Battery Point Lighthouse.

Wednesday was the loooooong drive home, including a stop at Crater Lake National Park. However, since I still live in the 1980s world of 35mm film and I haven't finished the roll, those photos will have to wait. And I've already mentioned my gas station story in Brothers and getting pulled over.

Great trip, but no more road trips for awhile. My life of leisure is exhausting.

Beats a bowl of Cheerios at home

One of the decidedly decadent benefits of befriending a pilot is flying to breakfast in the mountains. This morning, I was treated to a flight up to Stanley in the Sawtooth Mountains. I had to fight back the turbulence-induced urge to vomit on the hour-long flight home, but it was a beautiful ride.

Looking down at Stanley from the bluff on which the airport sits:

Me, the plane, and the Sawtooths:

Don't do anything stupid!

The approach into Boise:

I managed to make it through the trip without throwing up. But it was close.

Travels along Highway 20

Brothers

I know I should have gassed up in Bend. But the traffic there was awful. I don't understand the hype about that town. I couldn't have located Highway 20 soon enough.

It didn't take long before the mental math revealed I wouldn't have enough gas to get to Burns, the next sizable town down the road. Brothers was the next dot on the map to the east, so I pegged my hopes that there would be gas available.

There wasn't much to Brothers. But there was a gas station/post office/cafe/convenience store. It thought it was one of those places where you'd expect taxidermy services as well (or a bait shop, if near a body of water instead). So, I got a good laugh when I passed the taxidermist stand just east of Brothers. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I pulled up to the old-time gas pumps, got out of the car, and headed inside. Because, of course, you can't pump your own damn gas in the state of Oregon. The gentleman behind the counter couldn't have moved any slower. He was old, but not that old. The sun had probably aged him prematurely. (Note to self: Must wear sunscreen.)

I was passed over for customers who had arrived after me. I would have made a fuss, but I felt the old man could have refused to fill my tank. When you've literally got the key to the only gas pump in a 100-mile stretch of high desert, you can do that. You can also charge $3.42/gallon. Oh, the power.

With the other customers paid up, the old man grabbed the keys and shuffled out the door behind me. Arriving at my car, he randomly remarked, "Well, you're well-muscled." Only the "you're" came out more like "yuuuuuuuuuuuur." I don't respond well to compliments about my appearance as it is. Throw in the fact that this one came from an aging gas jockey in the middle of nowhere and you've got the recipe for awkwardness.

I did manage to politely say thank you and tell him I was a runner. (I assumed he was referencing my legs.) He added that he used to look like me, which sounded more like sad reminiscing than anything else. But I also thought he was warning me. "One day, you will be me." Some sage advice from a desert rat.

Somewhere between Brothers and Burns

The speed limit on the two-lane highways in Oregon is no more than 55 MPH. Ridiculous. I drove through some pretty desolate (and beautiful) country. There's no way 55 is doable on those roads for hundreds of miles. Most of the other drivers felt the same way.

After my encounter with the old man in Brothers, I continued east toward Boise. I was tired and just wanted to get home. So, when the flashing lights appeared in my rear-view mirror, I resigned myself to my fate. I had just passed a couple of parked sheriff's vehicles. I know I wasn't speeding then, because I had slowed when the truck in front of me turned off the highway at that same spot. Maybe someone was hidden a bit further back?

I pulled over and the officer comes up. "I'm Officer So-and-So from the Sheriff's Office and I clocked you... Well, you're well-muscled." Okay, he didn't say that. What a coincidence that would have been! No, he said got me going 73 in a 55. I had no argument. I was certainly going 73 at some point. When he asked if that sounded about right, I couldn't say no.

"License, insurance, and registration, please." Okay, license? Check. Insurance card? Check. I open the glove compartment to locate the registration ... and I can't find it. He goes back to his vehicle to run my information while I continue to rummage through the few documents in the glove box. Oh, I found my expired South Dakota registration and some old insurance cards. But no Idaho registration. Lovely.

When the officer returned, I said (or maybe pleaded), "I swear, the car is registered. I just moved to Idaho and had the car titled." I still have my South Dakota driver's license, after all. He had noted that fact when I had handed it over earlier, to which I replied that I was a grad student at Boise State. ("You see, sir, I'm a studious young man...") Actually, this would have been the perfect time to pull out the poor-grad-student line. ("Officer, as a poor grad student, I really can't afford the exorbitant, yet deserved, ticket you're about to write.")

Anyway, I was a bit flustered (and pissed off at myself) when he got back to the car:

Officer: You know you shouldn't be driving through Oregon, right?

Me: Uhhh...

Officer: Because I went to the University of Oregon.

Me: Oh yeah. I heard about what happened last year.

Just splendid. I'm pulled over going 18 over the limit without my registration by a Duck. Great. But all he did was hand back my license and insurance card and told me to keep it under 65. And I'm still ticket-free since the age of 17.

Yesterday, I went through my files and quickly located my registration. For whatever reason, I had stupidly filed the damn thing instead of putting it in the glove box. Lesson learned.

Ride 'em cowboy!

Mom sent me some photos from my family's visit to South Dakota. Included is the long-promised jackalope photo:

I love South Dakota.

From my beard to the rodeo - and everything in between!

I don't know what it is about the month of August the past several years, but it has been the month where I've decided to shake up (i.e. become lazy with) my shaving routine. And that means it's beard season! I finally got around to shaving my neck tonight, so I no longer look like I've been living in the woods. We'll see how long the facial hair lasts this time.

***

There has (finally) been some weather here in Boise lately to break the California-like monotony. Storms rolled through last night. Not much rain, but a good amount of lightning. And a quick shower fell this afternoon, just enough for that damp smell to blow in through the windows. Very, very nice. If one is to believe the forecast, the temperature won't reach 80 tomorrow. Hot, sunny weather returns this weekend, however.

***

I've had the strangest urge this week to visit the ocean. A very strong urge that won't go away. Maybe the sun is getting to me, who knows. I never felt like this in South Dakota, where I was about as far away from an ocean as one can get in North America. My summer class ends this week, with a week off before fall semester starts. A trip may be in the works.

***

The last week of class means it is final exam time. It was a quick five weeks and I have loved it. The two things I have going for me as the curriculum progresses are 1.) I write well, thank goodness, and 2.) I'm in the right program at the right school for me. The class has definitely been a lot work though. So much work, in fact, that I'm glad I'm not employed at the moment. I've been able to devote all of my energy to this introductory course. Well, and to running too.

***

Turkey jerky is like crack for me. It. Is. So. Delicious. But loaded in sodium, unfortunately. So, since I can't refrain from buying the two-bag pack from Costco and I'm freaked out about hereditary high blood pressure, I'm going cold turkey (jerky, haha). But what to do with the two bags I have left in the cabinet...

***

I've been listening to the new Arcade Fire album, "The Suburbs." Not bad. It can't compare to "Funeral" (What will?), but is superior to "Neon Bible."

***

And break out the western wear, it's rodeo time! The Owyhee County Fair and Rodeo begins tomorrow in Homedale. I'll head out there Saturday night for the final night of rodeo. That's typically when you see the best of the best. Steer wrestling is my favorite event. But it's also fun to watch the youngsters mutton bustin'. Really, it's all a blast.

You're simply the best (of the rest)

I had my race this morning. First, do you know how hard it is to wake up before 7:00 when you haven't done it in six weeks? Quite. But I was pumped and bolted out of bed. It also helped that I keep the alarm clock on the other side of the room, necessitating that I actually get up to turn it off.

When the race started, a group of about 20 runners absolutely bolted from the line. These people turned out to be of two groups: 1.) The elite runners who were not my competition, and 2.) The poor souls who didn't realize how much of an elevation gain awaited them, poor things. I have to say, though, that the runners (at least those toward the front at the start) did a good job of lining up based on projected finishing time. I've complained on here before about that. There's no shame in finishing toward the back of the back, especially in a race like this. Just don't start right up front so everyone has to pass you.

So, yes, a bunch of folks sprinted from start. I tried to stick to my mantra of "Run your race, Bri," but it is a competition after all. I went out a little faster than I would have otherwise; however, it turned out to be a good thing. I hit the summit faster than I ever had. Just prior to that point, I found myself separated from the other racers, with the fast group way ahead and the rest of the pack behind me. This almost always happens to me. Due to the course's winding nature, I had glimpses of a runner or two ahead of and behind me at times; mostly, however, it was me racing against myself. Good thing I usually run alone.

During the mostly downhill, last half of the race, I did quickly make up a ton of ground on a runner. "Dead meat!" I thought. But no, it was just some random guy out for his Saturday morning jog. Damn it.

After the final climb, I sprinted the final 10 minutes downhill. There was no way for me to figure out where I was place-wise, both overall and in my age group. So, I just ran hard. And it felt so good! I crossed the finish line strong, relatively free of bugs, and comfortably ahead of the next finisher.

But where did I place? My time was something like 56:45, a personal best for sure, but I knew that it probably wasn't good enough for top-three in the 30-39 age group based on last year's times. As it turned out, the third-place guy finished in 53-something, which just wasn't going to happen for me. (And it won't ever happen unless I lose about 30 pounds. Seriously. You should have seen the twigs that finished ahead of me. And it's not like I have weight to spare.)

If the color-coded tags were any indication, I came in fourth in the 30-39 age group. Not bad, methinks. According to the race website, there were 31 entrants in this group alone. Overall, I finished somewhere around 20th out of around 200. Also not bad. Okay, I did very well. In fact, I did so well, it took two naps this afternoon to recover.

There are a couple half marathons on my tentative agenda in October. And I have a mud run through an obstacle course scheduled in September. That should be something. I'll try to get pictures of that one.

Update: The results have been posted: 56:37, 21/136 overall, 5/26 age group.

human flypaper

Since moving to Boise a month ago, I've developed a nice rotation of trails on which to run in the mornings. Lately, though, I've been a regular up at the Military Reserve, site of a trail race this Saturday. I haven't raced since May, so I'm itching for the competition. It's a challenging course, but it's totally doable, about eight miles in length - four up, four back down. Based on my training runs, I'm going to really have to haul ass coming down from the summit to make the top-three in my age group. But I gotta have a goal.

Bugs really aren't a problem around here, which I'm thankful for. But the Military Reserve has swarms of black bugs of some sort. By the time I make it back down the hill to the parking lot, my entire torso and arms are totally covered in them. It's quite disgusting, if I say so myself. I should look so pretty when I cross the finish line Saturday morning.