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.