It's been a while since I've walked the streets at night. I do miss the semi-quiet embrace of the dark. It's almost like a velvet blanket, wrapping me close. But oh how it makes me feel even more lost.

The rows of houses seem so comforting, but it reaches the uncanny valley quite quickly. It rolls down the mountainside, ever destined to that floor where embrace becomes envelopment.

Yet I sigh. One cannot let these kind of things get too close to the soul. I like to think of this place as a cartographic maze; a labyrinth which spirals into its self, but cannot seem to find a way out. The identity of the suburban town does not retreat after completing its journey to its core. It simply keeps looping in circles unable to make its final, defining connection.

And so I am stuck here, listless, wandering and observing. I know there is more for the eye to see, but it is difficult trying to live in the happy medium. A friend told me quite quaintly: "It's a strange town. There is no access to life as in the urban area, nor is there the solitude of a rural area. It truly is a 'sub'-urban area, with a happy medium for many, but an off-kilter balance that cannot swing in either direction for us."

The Map of Trees and Fields Through the Houses

Today I wandered.

I found the blurry boundary between county and city. The spot where the suburbs are slowly creeping outward, through the remaining fields, slowly popping up, and colonizing with its shaped topiaries and curved lanes. Planned everything. Sidewalks. Roads. Lots. Playgrounds. The monotonous houses only broken by a reversed room or a bend in the road.

Yet, I felt more at home here then I have within the city. It reminded me of Pickerington. A new growth on the land, not quite realizing how to fit in, but not unwelcomed either.

Spread. Radials. Loops and Twists. I guess that is what living in a suburb is like? I never have, but I've seen them enough to guess.

Beside the houses were fields of clover and alfalfa. Nearby was a dairy barn, with an active sign warning against cows crossing the road. The sun shone, and for a second I glimpsed the hills of Southern Ohio. I went into an autopilot for my car, instinctively rolling with the well known curves, only to be interrupted by another development, which I wound around.

Eventually I hit the end of the road at a private gate to what amounted to a super mansion in the valley below. That is the thing here, the roads always end. There is no wrapping around to take a left at another T in the road. No curves winding down the old canal route. The only roads that don't end are the Interstates. But those are no fun to drive on.

See, in Ohio, you can take one road, and it will keep going until it T's into another road. You can then take that road forever, until it T's with another road. And if you drive around enough, you will loop (albeit it takes about an hour or so in the country).

Here in Washington, the roads just.

There are no convenient roads to take you through the pastures here. There are no "T" signs, only Dead Ends. One road goes on, and on, and on, but no loop to get back. No easy to see grid with county and township roads going on forever. Its a "come back the way you went in" situation, seeing everything twice.

I take large loops whenever I can. I get out whenever I can. But I've been out everywhere my little car can go. I've covered all of the roads that actually continue, and don't just. end. The only loops you can make are in the city blocks cluttered with houses and buildings.

The murky lines marauding around county and city are one of the few reminders. The sliver of agriculture still shining in the narrowing valley of the Columbia is the closest I can get to home.

Settling In.

These past two weeks have felt like a whirlwind which would never end. I've traveled more places, and seen more things, than I ever had expected. I was able to be a kid again, and enjoy the wonders of the natural world with my family; responsibility free.

My grammar let loose, and my silliness resurfaced, and it felt like a true "vacation" for me. I taught and showed, and participated with no previous judgment or anticipation or preparation.

It felt like we were on our summer vacation again, in the tradition of the days when I was a kid.

I don't know exactly what to call my feelings right now. It isn't "normalcy" because this wasn't "normal" but it was content. Enjoyment? Comfort? Familiarity?

Whatever it was, it was so... Unconscious. I was living without realizing it. With no worry or fear. I never realized how quickly two weeks could go by.

Me showing off my feminine side.

Seaside Beach

Mt. St. Helens from an overlook.

St. Helens from the Johnston Ridge Observatory

A nifty Auto-Awesome photo added by Google. I think it looks pretty cool for a kayak shot.

I choose the "Indecisive- Wavering" on the menu, and this is what I got. Classy Vancouver. Classy.

I now am back to the grown-up life, working the 8-5 job, making the money, to pay the rent, to live in the house, to go back to work, to try to make the world a better place. Its a weird thing, being a "grown-up". So many people tell me they haven't grown up, but I think many people's lives fall outside my basic definition of being "grown-up". Being an adult, to me at least, means having to do things all by myself. I wash the dishes, do the laundry, clean the room, buy food, keep up with my well being, all by myself. I never seem to do all that unconsciously. I am always struggling to do those everyday things.

When my family visited, I didn't have to worry about the everyday laborious tasks. They were taken care of for me (thankfully! My mother could have easily had me do laundry, cook dinner, and clean, but she didn't.) I didn't have to worry about the essentials, therefore I could focus on the auxiliaries. The having fun, the running around, the enjoying time with my family. It really brought me back...

Thoughts From a Micro-place

It's amazing how much a spiritual place can rejuvenate the soul.

Today I visited and attended the Unitarian Universalist church here in Vancouver. It's a nice congregation, a bit bigger than the one in Reynoldsburg I use to go to, but the people are just as welcoming, which was a wonderful relief from all the xenophobia I've been experiencing elsewhere.

Being in the church and participating in the ceremonies really brought me back to a happy reality. One where people were so glad to have a new face in the crowd, and a new person to introduce themselves to. And the singing, and the service; it all brought a sense of camaraderie to the faith we all struggle with.

Finding myself renewed when I got back, I proceeded to clean and try to get my computer to work. I spent much of the afternoon with little effort, but because my morning was so great, I really had no reason to be upset.

While I was crawling around on the floor organizing the many crazy cable systems just strewn out about the case, I noticed the bottom of my desk, with its strange dimples on the bottom.

It got me thinking. What if there existed such a thing as a micro-place?

I think that there are such places in the "micro" form. Little areas which have the same categories as "place", and can easily be described using simplified versions of different " place " based ideas.

Take for under my desk for instance. It is a place which I never thought of being anywhere special, but when I was working on my computer, I caught myself thinking: "Huh. Never been here before."

A lot of people have micro-places at their desks or area where they work. Things must be in order and perfect in order to work. (Or not, but still, you can describe the desk using the same terms you may describe a city or neighborhood.)

I feel as though the mind can be a micro-place. You can be out of your mind, or in the right mindset. All these words describing a "place" and how you interact with that place.

And maybe that is what I got out of church last Sunday. A rebalancing of the micro-place we like to call the "mind".

No Place Is Perfect

Place is a funny word. It can mean a state of mind, a physical location, a region. A planet, a person, an emotion.

The sun is setting, and its amazing how much chillier it is getting in the building where I am. The warm radiant blanket begins to slip away under the horizon. It makes the mountains in the distance clearer though, as the particulates no longer have to reflect as much of the rays as they go beneath the land.

This is a place. A place full of rain, and green, one with snow capped mountains, and quirky settlements.

The places you visit in your lifetime are worth thousands of words. But not nearly enough to satisfy the urge to see more. There is something beautiful in every place. Something to be appreciated, sought out and acknowledged, even in the "worst" of cases.

A mountain top removal mine shows our amazing ability to manipulate our environment and technology to adapt. A natural preserve shows our respect for what exists, and our desire to keep some part of the world stable in the ever changing landscape. Deserts may look empty, but under all that dust and shrub lie an entire ecosystem of plants, animals and microbes. Yet the very basis of forests rest upon the solid yet ever changing rock, only a recollection of ages past long ago.

There are infinite places. Geography dictates that something is a part of something else, until you get to the elementary particles and the outer limits of the observable universe. Yet even those are made of "things", even if it is only colorful descriptors and the hypothetical unknowns.

Yet, I always long for the base. For those rolling hills of the heartland, ripe with crops and a sky horizon so great that it beckons you onward. That indescribable patchwork of farms, forests, and houses. The iconic Americana picture. Flags lining a street of a small town with no stoplights. Kids playing out and about in the yards, as the tractors roll through digging the fertile earth. There is no place like it.

Then there are the people you love in those places too. Some of them you get sick of being around, but you love them none the less. And some of your best friends, they hail from those mountains and fields as well. And you can't get it out of your mind the time you went back for Christmas, and how that made you realize how much you missed the place where you grew up, and the place where your loved ones resided.

How I miss that landscape so. The adventures, the craziness, the great times. It's amazing how strong this urge can be sometimes.

Backwoods and Beaches (Dunes Added for Good Measure)

There is something inherently romantic (as in nostalgia and fascination/relaxing, not person to person romantic, although for some that is true) about the idea of a vacation at the beach. The sand and the ocean just signal relaxation; it's like a fundamental quality of the objects themselves. And it doesn't even have to be sunny and seventy-five. Sixty and overcast still works just as well.

It's amazing; the coastal mountains. They remind me so much of the Appalachians back east. Covered with trees, rolling forever. They have a sort of tightness about them, but they don't tower like the Cascades.

Driving through them, there is one thing that the Appalachians do not have: An ocean on the other side.

Coming upon it, you don't quite get it at first. There is a huge river, and it just keeps going, and going, and eventually it just widens out to the endless sea.

I would say I have a love/hate relationship with the sea, but in the Northwest you get the best of both worlds. Usually, or at least in the East, you pick either ocean, or mountains. But here they run right into each other, creating some of the most stunning scenery. Little sections of beach, coves hiding countless wonders, with cliffs to be scaled, and water so cold it creates the exhilarating release of worries and life, and brings you back to the present, while letting go of all of your past troubles.

At the same time, the hike to get to the beach, the emptiness of it all, it demands reflection. That is what purpose the dunes serve.

Imagine you set up your camp, settle in, and for the first half of the next day you run around, not knowing a damn thing about these "dunes" everyone raves about. After hiking a quarter of a mile through the woods, all of a sudden, you come upon the first dune, kids scaling it. Instantly I got the feeling of driving through the open and unknown terrain of the west, with its large mountains and extending plains:

I couldn't believe my eyes. I quickly, although with much strain, climbed the first one, only to be greeted by a completely awesome (using the literal meaning of the word) landscape.

Amazing. Simply amazing. I instantly fell in love. I had to explore more. I simply took off, through the sand, and towards the looming ocean in the distance. Armed with only my bare feet and my water bottle, by god, I would get there.

After trekking across the sand, and through the forest, and over more dunes, I came upon it. The Pacific Ocean. I had been here before, but this time, it was different.

I tried explaining to a friend on the way back the whole idea (albeit messed up) of Easterners and our gratification from Manifest Destiny. I experienced it when I visited Seaside and Astoria last summer, but it was more pronounced this time. I literally was trekking with bare feet through a forest with pine cones and splinters littering the ground, before I could get to the ocean. There was more of a conquest feeling about it. I fought my way to that ocean, and when I reached it, it was beautiful.

But those dunes were calling again. The endless expanse of sand and wind, ever shifting in the most unique landscape I have ever seen. The sun began to set, and it was time to trudge back into the shifting hills.

Once found by friends, I camped on top of a dune for a bit, and caught the sunset. Caught the freaking sunset. Pictures can't do it justice:

Finally, I have seen the sunset over the Pacific, and completed that great feat of watching the sunrise over the Atlantic, and watching the sunset over the Pacific. Again, the Manifest Destiny kicking in.

The long ride home consisted of wobbling around for the first hour of the trip in the passenger seat, then slamming a Dutch Bros. coffee which consisted of six shots of espresso and drudging through two traffic backups around Portland. I am still exhausted, especially from swimming in the frigid ocean for an hour and a half yesterday, but it was all well worth it. Oh god, it was so cold, but so fun.

I guess I am becoming quite the world traveler now. I've swam in the Atlantic & Gulf, the Pacific, and the Mediterranean. What a place we live in. Where to in the next couple of years? Who knows? I'd like to travel to Alaska, or the Southwest to experience the desert, and I would kill to go abroad more. I guess the only problem is I'm getting tired of doing it all on my own, and this weekend showed me that travel with friends can be one of the best experiences in the world. Who wants to join?

The Ultras & Their Surroundings

So lately I have been out and about, hiking, tromping around in the woods, and taking pictures. So I figured I would share a couple of my photos with you all, and show how beautiful the Pacific Northwest can be when the sun comes out.

We begin the journey at a trail right along the bus line called Burnt Bridge Creek:

So here is the end of the trail, where it forms a small pond
just east of Vancouver Lake. Fruit Valley Road creates the
impediment, along with some railroad tracks.

A small bridge which crosses Burnt Bridge Creek.

The best part about the Burnt Bridge Creek Greenway is that it has these
great open spaces, where people can play with their dogs, relax in the sun, or play baseball or frisbee.

Next we head to Frenchman's Bar Park. Frenchman's bar is not located on a bus line, so I had to drive out to it, but it is a wonderful beach on the Columbia river where the tidal influence from the ocean creates every so slight waves across the river and onto the shore. The park itself links up with Vancouver Lake Park via a 5 mile bike and pedestrian trail, and it is relatively easy to reach by bike. Maybe when I invest in a bike I will take some trips out to both parks.

A cool shell design in the sand at the park.

The part of the park where the beach sand slowly turns into mud and wetlands.

One of the coolest things about Frenchman's Bar Park is that you can regularly
watch large shipping rigs float by on their way to the Port of Vancouver.
You can also see a pretty good shot of the Coastal Mountains there too.

Another cool part about the park is that it offers great views of Mt. Hood, Mount St. Helens, and Mt. Jefferson.
Mt. Jefferson is all the way to the far right, with a small white summit just visible over the horizon.
The reason this blog post is called the Ultras is because Mt. Hood, St. Helens, Rainier, Adams, and Jefferson
are all considered "Ultras", as in their summits and vertical relief is at least 1000 feet above the nearest mountains.

A general overview of the park. The beach and river are also really great places to
windsurf because the geography of the river usually produces really great wind.

Sometimes you just need to step back and enjoy your very own neighborhood during sunset.

Finally, I pushed my little car on Friday into the Cascade Mountains. Once up high enough, my little car provided me with some of the best views of Mount St. Helens, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, and Mt. Jefferson.

A shot of Mount St. Helens off in the distance. I eventually found a good place
to see Mt. Rainier, but I couldn't get a good picture of it.

A view of Mt. Hood and Mt. Jefferson. Mt. Jefferson is in the middle/right of the picture.
You can see its small white summit just barely over the horizon.

At this point the road got a little too rocky and dangerous for my car, so I decided to turn back and call it a night.

Finally, I will end up this post with a shot I see all too often. The glorious bus stop, and its ability to allow me to travel all across Vancouver.

I have now learned why people love this place. During the spring and summer, when there is no rain, and the sun comes out, the entire place comes to life. Its an amazing spectacle. The days get longer, the people go outside, and life is just that much more enjoyable. I really see why suffering through a couple of dreary months of winter rain can lead to such a magical, natural, and rugged slice of America.