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.