Southern Oregon

Returning to Shenanigans for the latest edition of Last Band Standing, we basked in the metallic guitar-slinging glory of Major Jones and the White-Stripes-ish garage stompings of the Idle Threats. A spectacularly amusing time complete with free "Menergy" drinks and the opening of bar #6 or 7 in the joint. No, we did not show up for work in the morning, and no, we had no regrets.

After six weeks of moving big piles onto small piles and then onto other big piles, we have made something that resembles a structure worthy to live in. It may last two months or 200,000 years, but the "transformational process" of living and working with a diverse group of hard-core free-thinkers will last the rest of my lifetime. A final meal of cob oven pizzas, beer, and "fortified" brownies was taken in a singularly amusing talent show followed by a jollifaction session at the hut. The Rumford was fired up, as was the rest of us to do something with the skills/contacts/inspiration received as a blessing.

Next stop: Bend. Wait a minute, somebody of excellent reputation just said that I'd be a fool not to drive up the Oregon coast. Thus, to Highway 101 I go.

Southern Oregon

Theme of the week: plastered. Ceilings, floors, walls, and (most importantly) ourselves. As much fun as it may be to trowel up black goo over your head only to drop the majority of it on your face, it really can't compare to spreading boiled linseed oil on a earthern floor. What is a "lin" anyway, and what do their seeds look like?

Took a mid-week intermission to look for a good time in Medford, which has been understood to be hard to find. We were able to find it at Shenanigan's, where the weekly battle of the bands was in full swing. The establishment was so huge the employees weren't quite sure how many bars it had...somewhere between 5 and 8. It's one of those joints packed with tough guys in TapOut shirts downing Jager Bombs...so be ready for a good throw down or two!

Tired of tedious finish work, the weekend was given up to grueling labor. On the practical side, we voluntarily hauled a couple of tons of concrete up a steep hill to help out a pro skateboarder realize his dream of being 13 years old forever. Who can't get behind that? But then there was the weekly exercise in pointless masochism, with Mount McLaughlin being the target of opportunity. A gentle path through woodlands eventually gives way to an intimidating talus slog that takes one to 9400 feet in short order. At the summit you are rewarded with impressive views and graffiti courtesy of high school seniors. I'm glad to see the youth of today are still into vigorous physical activity.

Southern Oregon

As my high school shop teacher once said, slivers are free. A week of amateur lumberjacking and pole polishing to complement our mighty little monolithic mud shack. Finally, after weeks of anticipation, the power tools were unleashed (granted they were humble orbital sanders, but a great leap nevertheless...). In addition, we were given the opportunity to haul loads of heavy unwieldy materials up a steep hill to a neighbor's hardcore anarchist subversive off-the-grid sauna in the middle of the boondocks. The Cro-Magnons amongst us became so infused with testosterone we had no recourse but to sneak out to Roscoe's BBQ shack in the lovely little hovel of Phoenix, Oregon for a meaty feast. Yes, it may have been mediocre BBQ by any real standards, but at least it was fleshy and saucy. A nightcap at the local NASCAR bar (daily Busch draft specials!) was the perfect ending to a masculine day.

Not once, but twice were Stout floats the order of the day. Not quite as good as you'd think, but when it's 11:30 at night on a farm, amusements are few and far between.

Spent two inspiring hours gawking at a house made of concrete, steel, and cubic yards of maniacal ingenuity. Once you sit in Bjorn's cavernous yet serene living room, you no longer care about high and mighty concepts like embedded energy, carbon footprints, or sustainability. The only thing on your mind is "Damn! I gotta build me a castle too! With battleaxes on the walls, gun turrets on the roof, and secret passageways to the guest bedrooms!"

It's may be raining in Southern Oregon, but it's high and dry in the Red Butte Wilderness in extreme Northern California. All fears that our mild Sunday hike would be lame were shattered when we ventured off the beaten path for an immersion into machete-thick bushwhacking, talus scrambling, super slick stream crossings, and even a few routefinding challenges for good measure. A few victory pints made it all worth it.

Southern Oregon

Thoroughly locked into a routine of mixing cob and then slapping said cob on top of other cob. Hours on end of tedium (with another week to go before more exciting, or at least different, things begin to happen) preceded a very welcome opportunity to escape our practical projects and the inevitable communal drama (Sartre's "No Exit" is looking rather accurate these days.).

Unfortunately, wickedly high temperatures rendered any attempts at outdoor physical activity completely absurd. Thus, Independence Day was given up to a case of PBR and old DVDs (Cool Hand Luke a particular hit), unintentionally all-American except for the morale-crushing lack of meat around these parts (but Vegan dental floss is abundant).

Attempted to realize some Matterhorn fantasies at Mount Thielson, a 9000' volcanic spire north of Crater Lake. Greeted by ravenous mosquitoes at the outset, but all in all a terrific talus slog up to an imposing summit that was a bit too intense for my liking. Fabulous buttes and hoodoo-ish formations peppered this region of the Cascades, nicely contrasting to the rolling hills and lush greenery down in civilization, where RVs and motorboats clogged Highway 62 like some sort of downtrodden military convoy.

Since the ascent was spoiled by a lack of guts, the best morale boost seemed to be piles of unheroically slaughtered animals. The lone acceptable barbecue joint was rumored to be in Phoenix, which was impossible to get to thanks to nonsensical traffic jams. Thus, I had to settle for hearty chunk of Bison meatloaf in one of those fake authentic steakhouses where peanut shells are on the floor, the menus are laminated up real pretty, and everyone who works there seems real intent on getting the hell out of there ASAP. As bad as that may seem, listening to GNR's "My Michelle" on the PA a few pints down completely justified everything, fortifying a return to the commune for more mud piling and anthropological forays into the world of eastern mysticism, energy healing, fad diets, and the rest of the trimmings. Meanwhile, while we hold hands and ask the trees whether or not they'd like to be cut down, some poor chump from East Bumblefuck Ohio is pulling a 16-hour shift guarding a flightline in Iraq roasting his balls off so we have the luxury of pursuing such silliness. At least he will be given Salisbury steak for his efforts.