Can’t tell you how many years I’ve been wanting to go to Steep Ravine…

Not so hard to guess why.  It’s a pretty damn magical place, perched on the bluffs overlooking the sea, with rustic cabins and woodstoves and tide pools. Wait for the tide to go out and you have a beach the size of a football field with pebbles to stack, driftwood to toss and tide pools to sift through. Play your cards (and tides) right and you might get water low enough to encounter some natural hot springs (and accompanying hippies). Even if it’s not a minus tide you can find pockets of warmth along the shore and dig out little foot baths while bright orange and purple starfish cling to the rocks. Meanwhile, tadpoles push their way through the inland pond and Calla Lilies are currently blooming on the hills.

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And where did all this magic come from? Historically speaking, it’s kind of a fascinating story, mostly because it’s ridiculously hard to find facts that all fit together (seriously, you’d think there’d be a succinct history somewhere, but no, it’s like another Mullholland-land-shenanigan). From what I could gather, it all started when congressman and conservationist William Kent willed 200 acres of his Marin property (including Steep Ravine Canyon) to help create the Mount Tamalpais State Park upon his death in 1928. (For reference, Kent is the same gentleman who nearly 21 years earlier donated another large piece of property which became Muir Woods.)  Prior to his death, the land had been privately owned by Kent and either the parcel at the base of Steep Ravine had special rights still left to the Kent family or they retained ownership of that bit, because in the mid-1940s (or late 1930′s depending on the source) one of Kent’s sons, William Kent Jr. built the cabins and started leasing them to local families. (It appears Kent, Jr. was a bit of a family outcast due to his parcelling up of various Kent estates.) One of these lessees was Dorothea Lange, who spent a great deal of time there communing with (and photographing) her family from the mid-1950′s until her death in 1965. Somewhere in there the cabins must’ve become State Park property because in the 70′s a San Francisco newspaper ran a scandal story about how friends with friends in higher places were getting first dibs on staying at the cabins. The California State Parks Department decided to avert the crisis by simply tearing the cabins down and returning the area to it’s natural state—lucky for us there was a public outcry and the cabins remained. Of course while everyone was deciding what to do with them, the structures fell into various states of disrepair and by the time it was deemed they should be restored and made fully public 3 (or 4, again depending on the source) were so far gone they had to be demolished.  Finally, on April 1, 1984, 10 of the original cabins (each with a new roof, woodstove, table and sleeping platform) were included in the state environmental campground system (for a whopping $12 a night).  These days, reserving the cabins is no small feat, but if you’re flexible you’ll almost always find something. And sometimes you can catch the moon and tides just right and really dig your toes in.

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Forget it Jake? Revisited one of my favorite spots in the city. Here’s a hint: It might be in Chinatown but you best not ask for tea.

I’ve just returned from a  magical place. A place where vines tangle around telephone poles, housepaint fades from indigo to aquamarine and the sound of waves never ceases. Or maybe I’ve just been reading too much Garcia Marquez. In either case, I give you small a glimpse of the incredibly good time that was, and is, Isla Bastimentos, Panama.

From a big plane to a small plane to a water taxi to an island with only a concrete walkway from one end to the other and a host of muddy paths to everywhere else.

While the island is about 20 square miles, the town of Bastimentos takes up only a tiny fraction at the western tip and the rest makes up part of the Bastimentos Island National Marine Park.

I am smitten by the Balboas, which replaced the Columbian peso as currency when Panama became independent in 1904 (with a little help from the U.S. who desired the building of a small canal).

To the right of the house we were staying at lay this concrete shell, abandoned at some point in the past and now sprouting 4-foot palm trees in roofless rooms where coconuts had fallen and taken root.

View from our deck of the fisherwomen and their handlines, mastering the art of throwing a rock tied to a fishing line with two cockle-baited hooks and a chunk of wood for a handle. Feel a bite and you pull that line up as fast as you can.

Success (with the help of a boat and a couple other fishermen) and the makings of a damn fine dinner.

Warm nights and jetlag always make for interesting antics.

Morning walks through the jungle.

Giant fire ants and incredible flora.

Especially as the path winds higher in elevation, in this case culminating with a visit to Up in the Hill, an incredible little hideout with coffee, the best egg salad sandwich ever (no joke, I’m now a lover of Katuk leaves) and an assortment of coconut oils they press themselves.

They also rent out a beautiful little cabin remniscent of a ship’s quarters.

With this for a view.

Back down by the sea and through the cemetery.

The occasional lazing afternoon of arts and crafts.

And guitar playing. And book reading. And all that good stuff.

Found ourselves a real dead pufferfish floating in the sea and lured him to shore, whereupon we named him Spike and gave him a true Central American burial.

For some reason this kid kept waking up looking like a slot machine. Which, oddly, wasn’t too far off as we found the island’s “casino” one night and lost a cumulative $3.

A wise man once said “Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes it rains.”

And sometimes you you contemplate your good fortune with rum and pineapple on the deck of the Caribbean View Hotel while winning a few hands of Cruddy Slippa’ (hint: it’s a card game).

Made a new friend with a boat and went out for a few hours of fishing.

And swimming. The water must’ve been warmer than the air here in the city.

Satya dropped anchor, Vera dropped a line and immediately this guy was hooked. A breakdown in communication left Heidi and I staring blindly as she tried to pull the hook out of it’s manically flipping body until I attempted to brain it with a flip-flop. Which of course didn’t work, but probably stunned it into an indignant stupor.

I want to go everywhere by boat.

Another day trip to the other side of the island.

Red Frog Beach, a place of white sand and ridiculously clear water (and riptides).

Harvesting the local bounty.

Back on the dock in time for some dusky fishing.

Into the night with more rum, dinner at Roots, boat rides under the stars and some very drunk Nebraskans at Aqua Lounge in Bocas. The latter was everything you’d imagine with a spring break on spring break vibe and plenty of terrible jams, but somehow all of that seems more amusing than offensive when the air is 72 degrees at 10pm. Still, I’d take the The Point on our side over Aqua any day, with its basketball-court-by-day-and-ridiculously-big-sound-system-and-even-bigger-ladies-setup-by-night. I love it when you realize the lady giving you a $1 rum and coke is the same lady who helped you play the leprechaun game at the casino two nights ago and you’re right smack in the middle of a small town good time.

Spent our last day on an expedition further afield, snorkeling at Coral Cay, where we found Pina Coladas to be excellent fish bait.

Matt, our fearless leader for the day  (far left), moments before he sped us through the mangroves in his boat  and barely dodged a manta ray leaping out of the water and trying to land in his lap. No joke.

Walked back along Red Frog so Relish could hit his favorite jumping log one more time, then hiked through the jungle back to our side of the island.

Our gang. Best last day ever.

So long, Panama. As that other wise man said “In Dreams, in dreams, in dreams”.

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Fantasy Island? It may not be for everyone, but it’s near to heaven in my heart (and I think I’m not alone in that sentiment). It was 6 years ago that I first went to Panama and there’s no way I’m waiting that long to return. In fact if those ladies never come home I may be there sooner than you think. Til then there’s a coconut ring on my finger to remind me and a new year to look forward to.

We did it. Again. Not only did we win the pennant and make it to the Series, we won it all in a sweep over the Tigers. Pretty damn good if you ask me. (And if you needed to ask me, you’d have found me glued to the same spot , drinking the same damn thing, every single game. That’s superstition for you.)

And then we got a little crazy.

And then the sky rained black and orange and Halloween came just in time.

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What, me worry? Never the overconfident here, but something this year felt different. Perhaps it was simply the unbelievability of our making it again so soon. Whereas 2010 had so much at stake, 2012 was just that added amazement that makes life so unpredictably fantastic. It kind of felt like just getting to the Series again was an incredible accomplishment and we’d be happy whatever the outcome, so much so that there was a sense of relaxed glee watching what came next and even the post-win chaos didn’t have quite the same aggression as the first time around. Of course I’m neglecting all the games of silent nail-biting and tears leading up to all that, so maybe I’m just full of sentiment. Either way, we burned it down, cleaned it up and played a damn fine game.

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Welcome to North Bend, Wa.

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And on to George. Washington, that is.

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Rural Quincy to follow. 4th of July fireworks and warm summer air.

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Greetings from Twin Peaks? If you know me, you know this should have happened nearly 20 years ago. My mother hardly ever let me watch television growing up, but she must’ve sensed something in Lynch’s masterpiece (or at least had a wicked sense of cinema, which in fact she does) because after a similarly bizarre beginning—watching them place Laura Palmer’s body in the ground the summer before my first year of middle school, bundled in blankets with my great aunt Betsy while on a trip to our homestead in New Holstein, Wisconsin—she kindly brought the portable 8-inch TV out of the closet every week so that I could follow Agent Cooper et al. in their quest for Laura’s killer and beyond. She even indulged my newfound penchant for plaid skirts, sweater sets and moody jazz. Sound familiar? It’s strange then, to remind oneself that a place that seemed so real is actually just barely there in reality—there’s no checked tile in the “RR” diner nor is that even its name, there’s construction at Snoqualmie Falls and the Great Northern plainly isn’t. But it’s still a thrill, hunting down that which doesn’t really exist, I mean why else would we do it? So keep doing it. And if you do, there’s an amazing place in North Bend, Wa. called the Log Cabin Bed and Breakfast where you can stay in a teepee for the night, build a fire inside and cook breakfast by a river. From there, Snoqaulmie Falls is just up the road a ways and continues falling, falling, falling. Don’t forget to stop by Twede’s for pie, while the interior may rate nothing special the pie is still damn fine. Our trip continued east from Lynch-land through George, Washington and on to Quincy, home to industrial agriculture and a wonderful hill that overlooked the town and its celebratory explosions of light for miles around. Who knows what yours will bring.

Back in May we took the adventure that started it all this summer: 3 days and 2 nights on the Colorado River, hot springs and camping and the birth of the Tough Canyon Crew. It was one of those trips that happens only once or twice in your life—friendships cemented, people falling in love, endless laughter and an amazing sense of camaraderie that only really occurs when you’re isolated from the rest of the world. And when it ends there’s this empty, bus-home-from-summer-camp feeling where you know life will go on and you’ll see those people again and you’ll still have laughter and more adventures to come, but somehow that one just hit the spot unlike anything else. And then you’re home and nothing is quite the same again and you wish with all your might that it wasn’t just a memory, but a feeling you could hold onto, a life you could keep living. Maybe someday I’ll write about it, tell the stories and share the jokes, but right now it still kind of aches even to think about. It was just that good. If I could go back and put my boat in under the bridge another time, start that adventure again and keep returning to the beginning to do it all over time after time, I think I’d be in heaven. And maybe I’m not the only one.

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A River Runs Through It? Ask me and I’ll tell you all about it. Just not tonight.

A few weeks after Sugar Pine, summer fever continued with an impromptu trip to the Yuba River—or more accurately it continued with someone else’s trip to the Yuba that I managed to weasel my way into, thus it was impromptu for me. And how lucky I was, as not only was the weather amazing and the swimming spot fantastic, but you know that moment at the end of an epic day when everyone gets a little hangdog and says “Man, I wish we didn’t have to go back to work tomorrow”? But you all climb into the car and head for home because being the responsible adults that you are, you do have to go to work tomorrow? Well, what if you just said to hell with work and went to Nevada City instead and got a giant room at The National Hotel and ran into your old roommate at Cirino’s and didn’t make it to that rock show across the street because you were sitting on your veranda in shirtsleeves til 2 a.m. watching people spill out of The Mine Shaft (where you’d already dropped back a few earlier in the evening) and woke up the next day and went right back to that river again? Well then, you would know what this trip was like.

Like every good trip, there were teacups involved. This time it’s a little homemade Ponderosa Limoncello, a birthday gift courtesy of that Tucker kid.

Speaking of kids, this one wasn’t too bummed about the swimming conditions.

Krista managed to lose her straps, yet keep her top on through sheer willpower (her willpower that is, I was voting for a different outcome).

Josh never stopped moving long enough for me to get a decent photo. It being his birthday, I don’t blame him, I mean who wants to sit still for pictures when you could be perfecting your Smurf Dive or yodeling at wildlife? I don’t know what I’ll be doing for my own birthday next year, but if I can reciprocate this dude will definitely be invited.

Speaking of dives, here we have Nate Murray demonstrating the art of The Flying Squirrel.

Happy days are ours.

Start with a teacup and end with a teacup. Or three, depending on how much tequila you imbibed the night before. Either way, it’s nothing a little river time can’t fix. But really, is there anything a little river time can’t fix?

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Birds fly high, you know how I feel? Call in sick, run away, forget all the things you were going to do and go jump in a river. I promise it’ll change everything. Hop on I-80 and when you hit Hwy 49, head north towards Nevada City. Find North Bloomfield Road and wind your way down to the bottom of the canyon. When you hit the old wooden bridge, stop. That’s all I’m allowed to say lest I get reprimanded for blowing up everyone’s favorite spot, but there will probably be a handful of cars parked by the side of the road so you’ll know you’re in the right area. Of course, you’ll have to come back sometime, but why not cross that antiquated trestle bridge when you come to it?

Last month we returned to one of my favorite camp spots, Sugar Pine Reservoir. Tucked up in the mountains near Foresthill it’s got everything a summer heart could desire: warm piney air, water to swim in and a thousand stars to try and peek behind. It’s also a great place to stage a 3-day tin can massacre if you happen to have an arsenal of Red Ryders…

(This summer brought to you by the advice of Will Rogers.)

Said advice is also being helped along by a golden jambox emitting the perfect sounds for fleeing the city with the windows down, drinking micheladas around a campfire and pontificating suicide vs. Suicide (and it’s impact on Springsteen’s Nebraska). In accordance with Camp Rules, there was most definitely no fucking (comma) complaining.

There was, however, a great deal of this throughout the weekend.

And a not insubstantial amount of this as well.

Sugar Pine even has a little island you can swim out to. It’s like heaven for the simple pleasures.

One of those pleasures being a campsite remote enough that you can have 3 Red Ryders, a handgun and pump action rifle all throwing BBs at the same time.

By the second night our set up was amazing. Shatterblast disks, tin can pyramids, water bottles in the trees and a camp skillet way off on a branch. There is no sound quite so rewarding as the glorious metallic “ping” of a BB hitting its target.

BB guns may have consumed most of our energy, but no good trip is complete without a bit of knife or hatchet action.

Lest we should forget, there was also a crazy huge fire raging in the area. Every time the wind would shift, a haze of smoke would cross the sky and give everything an unreal amber sort of filter. Coupled with the incredible lack of people for a summer weekend (much of the area having been evacuated) and the occasional chopper grabbing water from the reservoir, it was a bit like our own personal Apocalypse Now. Not to mention that we arrived on Friday the 13th and probably only staved off a full scale Zombie Apocalypse Now through our continuous shooting and a healthy dose of chair flinging.

We also consistently killed it at dinner making. Somewhere in there I bet Alanna’s got the pictures to prove it. She’s also got photos showing that there were in fact women on this trip, something I managed not to document. Go figure.

Then all of a sudden it’s time to pack it all up and head for the city. The trip home is never without a tinge of sadness but a sandwich at Worton’s in Foresthill helps ease the suffering.

Their parking lot also claims one of the best views in Northern California, hands down.

Even when viewed through a lens of wildfire smoke.

There’s also a secret spot I keep tucked away for just those times when the traffic starts to grind and you wish all that golden daylight wasn’t being wasted on a return to civilization.

A few more beers, another hour of bare feet on grass and crickets singing in the air.

Just don’t let your heart burst while the sun goes down and the warm breeze plays over your face and you can’t help but think if things ended right then and there, it’d be kind of perfect. Or maybe you just have on keep on running til you catch that feeling one more time.

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Gotta get out while we’re young? Its been a summer of yearning for perpetual adventure and this gem only made it worse, in the best way possible. One of these days we’ll get back up there but in the meantime, you should go see for yourself what I’m always rambling about. It’s a 3 hour drive to Giant Gap campground but with good company and ample tunes the pavement flies right on by and if the going gets really rough you can take a detour off to Plainfield Station. All I’ll say about that particular roadhouse is that it’s on County Road 98 in Woodland and if you make the effort to find it, you deserve every magical moment you spend there.

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But..it’s been a while. There were travels and heartaches and reconciliations and somewhere in there I turned the golden age of 33. Life is amazing like that.

Photo courtesy of Mr. Jesse Pollock

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Running on empty? Sometimes instead of dodging bullets it’s best to get out of Dodge altogether. See you in a few weeks…