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            Flying is something I dread.  It does not matter if my destination is a tropical island or a frozen tundra; the fact is I dread the wasted day on each end of the trip.  One may suspect I live in ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Oregon because my chosen destinations involve 2 – 3 hour treks over mountain passes or through the gorge.  Living in Portland allows for relaxing weekend trips to Bend, Hood River, or the coast.    My ride time in a flimsy pressurized tube is normally limited to the Christmas holiday, where I join my family in Wisconsin.

 

            On a good day, the flight from Portland to Minneapolis is a relatively pain free three hour ride.  I could easily rent a car from Minneapolis and drive to my dad’s place within 3.5 hours.  Dad, of course, would prefer to greet me at the airport.  When there are no air delays, I can get to central Wisconsin within the 3.5 hour time frame.  Add any long layovers or delays, and I am fuming, because I could have been at my destination instead of some airport bar chatting it up with another unlucky stranger.

 

            Dad suggested I fly into Madison for Christmas in 2007.  Madison is only ninety minutes from Stevens Point, it is a larger airport, and Dad was convinced that I would have few problems flying in and out of Madison.  To humor him, I ordered a ticket to fly me into Madison via Minneapolis, without the words "renting a car" exiting my lips. 

 

            As expected, air travel during the holidays is hectic, and that Saturday morning before Christmas was no different.  Despite arriving at the airport two hours before my flight was to take off, I was standing in one line or another until I sat in my seat on the plane.  Since I booked the flight many months earlier, I had the luxury of sitting in the very back of the plane.  There was no luck in finding a seat closer to the front (thus allowing me to deplane sooner).  The middle seat was empty until close to departure time, when I looked up to see a rather large man, reeking of body odor, smirking with an all knowing Cheshire cat grin.  The odor was overpowering.  The woman at the window seat was pinching her nose against the window avoiding the stench.  I had my nose out in the aisle, like a dog sniffing the fresh air.  It did not help that I was feeling slightly under the weather in the first place.  The three hours dragged on as I made frequent trips to the lavatory to get gulps of fresh air.  By the time we descended into Minneapolis, my body was trembling with agitation from being on an airplane while enduring overpowering body odor.  The flight attendants were aware of the situation, and kept my cup of soda water filled.  As soon as people were allowed off the plane, I was immediately fast tracked off the plane.  Nevertheless, as soon as I reached the gate, I raced to the nearest outdoor smoking kiosk for some fresh air.

 

            My dad called as I was walking towards my gate to tell me he was on his way to the airport and "everything was on time."  This seemed too good to be true, since a winter storm warning was imminent.  As that adage goes, it was.  Shortly after that phone call, I arrived at my gate to learn that my flight was delayed by a half hour.  I took advantage of the short delay to get food at the food court.  Twenty minutes later, I arrive at my gate to see people boarding the plane to Omaha, NE.  "What the hell!"  The monitors showed my flight was cancelled, and no direction was given as to where the nearest customer service agent was.

 

            Trying to rent a car was futile.  With it being the holiday season, the car rentals were booked and the only thing available was a 16 person passenger van requiring a return trip to Minneapolis.  Having worked in lawsuits involving large passenger vans, I had no interest in the responsibility of driving that van. Since I was already beyond the security gate, I tried my luck at the ticket counter in hopes of catching another plane out.  By not yelling at the ticket agent, I was secured a 7:30 p.m. ticket to Minneapolis and $20.00 in vouchers.  It was not over yet.  While standing in the security line, I cavalierly told the person behind me, "I need to kill some time."  The next thing I knew, I was being whisked to the increased security lane, to insure that the only thing I was going to kill was time.

 

            By this time, the intercoms were announcing bus service into the regional airports.  One look at the Doppler radar, and I had this gut feeling that I should try to get on a bus.  I still had four hours until my flight, with no guarantee of the plane actually taking off.  As I got closer to the gate, I felt the frenetic buzz of confused travelers.  I had it pretty easy, compared to what others were going through.  There were groups of people who had been stranded from the previous night in Minneapolis.   Sign up sheets for the busses were hastily taped onto the desks of the flight counters.  I had arrived in time to sign up for the 6:00 bus, with a chance of getting on sooner.  Shortly thereafter, another flight to Madison was cancelled, and the restlessness was apparent.  An irate traveler attempted to storm through the gate to get on a bus, demanding a seat immediately.  Like the rest of us, he was given inaccurate information.  We could do nothing but gawk at his tirades, as he was saying what we all were thinking.  A ticket agent got on the microphone, in attempt to drown out the f-bombs from the man’s tirade, announcing open seats for a bus to Madison.  I was 40^th on the waiting list, and carried little hope that I might get on that bus.  I heard my name called during the pingponging of gate announcements and obscene threats by the angry passenger.  People were getting visibly agitated and I was eager to have the opportunity to exit the situation.  I sprung out of my seat and leapt towards the bus.

 

            The bus was in no hurry to depart.  Ironically, the same people who wanted to get the heck out of the airport were taking their time boarding the bus.  I stayed quiet, since I was not one of the unlucky travelers who had been stuck overnight.  Forty minutes after my name was called, the bus slowly pulled out of the terminal.  From Highway 35, it did not look like there was any fog danger nearby.  The sun was trying to peak through the high clouds and the bus was traveling near the speed limit of 70 mph.  My seat mate was another young professional, so we able to converse beyond the polite "Hello".  I learned he was just starting in his career path in marketing down in Memphis, Tennessee.  I told him I was a personal injury paralegal, as if on cue, an ambulance careened by.  Both of us smirked.

 

            The sun set as we approached LaCrosse, Wisconsin, and heavy snowflakes began to fall.  There was an inaudible groan as the bus slowed down.   I attended undergrad at the University of Wisconsin-LaCrosse, and by this time I had wished I could get off the bus with the other LaCrosse travelers.  Normally, I relish warm recirculated air, but the stuffiness of the bus had dried my throat.  The only drink we were given was a sugary soda, which does nothing to quench thirst.  I leapt out of the bus with the people whose final destination was LaCrosse, just for five minutes of refreshing cold winter air.  We were a little over two hours away from Madison, and everybody was antsy to move forward. 

 

            It was pitch dark and snowing heavily when we returned to the freeway.  The temperature was ripe for slick roads and black ice.  We had barely left LaCrosse when somebody screamed "OH MY GOD, WATCH OUT!"  I looked ahead to see a whirlwind of headlights and taillights spinning ahead of us.  A crash was imminent; no sooner did that thought run through my head did I hear a sickening "THUD"  Out of my window, I could see the hatchback spin its way near the side of the bus before it was stopped in the median.  The sound of the crash and the sight of the car made me worry that it may have been a fatality.  Fortunately, that was not the case; still we had to spend an hour filling out paperwork for the police.  My seat mate looked at me and said, "Why don’t you give them your business card."

 

            "Because I am not affiliated with any Wisconsin attorneys."  I replied.

 

            We spent an hour outside Top Foods exchanging information.  Despite the fact that we did not have to stay on the bus, nobody took advantage of getting food and water at the store.  Perhaps people thought this stop would only take a few minutes.  Denial.  I called my dad to explain the situation, only to hear what could be best described as a sigh.  I had to remind him that he was the one who told me to keep my sense of humor and to be patient. 

 

            After what seemed like an eternity, we rolled out of LaCrosse.  People no longer wanted to sit quietly and wait, so we began to engage in conversation.  We soon learned that an older man on the bus was having a diabetic issue, and if he could get dropped off at his home in Mauston, it would be of great help.  Cell phone service worked wonders, because we were able to call the person who was supposed to pick him up in Madison to explain the situation.  The man was obviously confused as to where he was and why he was not at home.  Given his condition, we may have had to stop at a hospital before we arrived to Madison.  Arrangements were made to drop him off at a gas station in Mauston, about sixty miles away from Madison.  What was once quiet restlessness became visible agitation.  There was a married couple, sitting ahead of me, with their infant son asleep, loudly grousing about the number of stops.  When they were not grousing, they were telling everybody else to be quiet so their baby could sleep.  While the husband was gamely attempting to be mild mannered, the wife was continually berating the bus driver for not having adequate food and water for people on the bus.  True, but we were stopped for an hour at Top Foods.  Surely, she could have picked up some emergency food for her family.  Like everybody else, she did not want to delay the trip any longer.  In hindsight, a food run at Top Foods may have made the remainder of the ride just a bit more pleasant.  Everybody was hungry and thirsty at this time, and Coca Cola does nothing to quench hunger or thirst. 

 

            We were barely 10 miles away from Mauston when the bus slowed to a stop, for no reason.  The hot air inside and the cold, damp air outside joined forces to fog up the front window.  Despite an auto mechanic on the bus explaining that the air conditioner could defog the window, the bus driver refused to turn it on.  For fifteen minutes, an auto mechanic and the bus driver argued the merits of air conditioning.  The woman with the baby handed her infant son off to her husband and launched into a tirade with the bus driver about how Northwest Airlines was mistreating her infant son by depriving him food and water.  Her husband had to pull her away to prevent further delay.  It did not even seem like we were moving forward when we had to stop in Mauston to drop off the elderly gentleman.  He was grateful for the assistance from strangers.  Others were not so grateful.  Several passengers took advantage of the stop to grab food and water.  The couple ahead of us ran to the door to blockade it, shrieking "NO, WE CAN’T STOP.  WE HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF MY BABY!"

 

            "Look!" said the other woman.  "I have a three year old and a five year old back there, and they are also hungry and thirsty."  Indignantly she brushed aside the young mother to get bottled water and snacks. 

 

            My phone rang again.  Of course, it was my dad on the other line, telling me he heard the bus would be coming in the next five minutes.

 

            "Well, Dad, we’re in Mauston.  We had a mechanical problem, and we just had to drop off a man who was having a diabetic emergency."

 

            "Well,  the people at the counter said that the buses were on their way from Minneapolis, and there were no delays."

 

            "That’s a load of bull"  Shortly after I hung up, I heard the tail of a sentence of "stopping in Wisconsin Dells" to drop some kids off.   Near the back were two perfectly healthy kids in their twenties, happily making plans with their friends.  Any patience that was preserved throughout the day had just been snapped.  The couple with the infant no longer demanded that people be quiet, while the wife yelled, "Hey, I need to stop in Sauk Prairie, can we go there next." 

 

As the punks got up to exit the bus, I leapt out of my seat, looked at one of them one inch from his face, and said, "Where did you get this idea that this is Greyhound!"

 

They slunk to the front of the bus; knowing full well if there was rotten food on the bus, it would have been flung at them. The stop in Wisconsin Dells was quick, as the bus driver pulled off at the exit ramp, opened the door, and the two boys darted off into the snowy prairie.

 

            "RUN FOREST RUN!" yelled an agitated passenger.

 

            Two seats behind me, I heard a woman chatting on her cell phone about not being able to rent a car to get to Wausau, and that she would probably be sleeping at the airport.  I overheard her tell her daughter, "No, you can’t drive down from Stevens Point."  I picked up my phone, and dialed Dad.

 

            "Where are you?"

            "Outside Wisconsin Dells…hey, did you bring the Cadillac?"

            "Why?

            "We might have a stowaway to take.  There is a woman here who needs to get up to Stevens Point, and her ride can’t come down to Madison."  There was an audible pause before my dad said yes. 

            "Dad, what if it was me stranded and somebody offered a ride?"

            "Ugh, well it is Christmas.  Can I get you anything?"

            "WATER!!!"

 

            What was normally a 4.5 hour trip became a seven hour trek across snow covered icy road.  The sight of the Dane County Regional Airport was almost surreal.  Did the events of the bus ride just happen, or were we in a bad movie?  The bus stopped for one last time, and every passenger gave the bus driver a standing ovation.  Before the doors opened, I took a moment to turn on my mock smile and say, "I hope your trip with Northwest Airlines was pleasant, and we hope you chose to fly with us again."  People burst into giggles just as the doors opened and everybody flooded out of the bus.  There was a small crowd outside, cheering as if they were at a Pep rally.  I ended up in the arms of some stranger wearing a Chicago Bears hat.  I pulled away from him and yelled, "Bears Still Suck!  Don’t touch me." 

 

            Dad appeared with two bottles of water for me and Kathy.  After all of the hassles of the trip, I was delighted to see that my luggage had arrived before me.  I was not looking forward to more time on the road, but those two hours passed quickly as the three us drove north, grumbling about the airlines.

 

            We got to Stevens Point after 1 a.m.  Fortunately, Kathy was staying at a hotel only a mile away from Dad’s house, so it was not out of our way to drop her off.  Dad was not quite in the mood to hear, "So, I should fly into Madison, since there are fewer hassles."

 

            A good portion of the conversation over Christmas involved my flight.  Everybody remarked that they hoped I would have a better return trip.  All I can say was it was only slightly better.  I flew out on Christmas Day.  Dad wanted to get back home before dark, so he dropped me off at the airport with three hours to spare.  Since I missed my flight to Madison days earlier, I was selected for additional screening.  I normally treat this as a part of flying, except for I was standing in a glass cage in the middle of all of the travelers.  Some middle aged guy looked at me, pointed, and laughed.  Oh, grow up already.   If any place in the Midwest had a bar open on Christmas day, it would be at an airport.  The bartender at Great Dane Brewing was sympathetic to my Portland tastes, and allowed me a sampler tray before I picked my beer.  After each beer, I checked the flight status.  Surprisingly, my flight out of Madison was delayed.  After calculating the time, I knew chances of catching my connecting flight to Portland were slim. 

 

            I approached the ticket agent, and said in my nicest voice, "I am concerned that I will not make my 6:30 flight out of Portland.  I had a horrible flight here, and I really want to go home."  Fortunately, fewer people fly on Christmas Day, so I was given a boarding pass for the 9:20 flight along with ten dollars in coupons to use at Minneapolis.

 

            After a ninety minute delay, we departed Madison.  There was a sliver of time left for me to catch my connecting flight.  That sliver was quickly disappearing as the plane circled the airport several times before getting clearance to land.  It was a small plane, and I was near the front, so as soon as the door opened, I immediately bolted out of my seat and did the Lindberg Terminal Sprint.  By just walking, it is forty minutes between gates.  I do not know how long I sprinted, but I reached the ticket counter just to see the Portland sign flash "Departed."  Dejected, I looked at the ticket agent, but the plane had already left for the tarmac. 

 

            I spent Christmas Dinner at the Rock Bottom with another stranded couple.  At least I was not alone.  Beer, appetizers, and conversation made the four hours go by a little faster.  By 9:30, I was collapsed in my seat on the plane, exhausted from the hassles of Christmas.  I woke up an hour later, and saw that we were on the runway.  Had we already arrived in Portland?  No such luck, as I saw the same scene I had seen before falling asleep.  Angrily, I lowered my head and fell back to sleep.  This time, I did not wake up until we descended into Portland. 

 

            Confused and agitated, I woke up with a numb feeling in my right hand.  It must have fallen asleep, so I kept shaking it for that familiar tingling sensation.  "Weird." I thought as I walked down to the baggage carousal.  My right arm hung limp to my side, as I tried to negotiate three bags with my left hand.  That was child’s play compared to loading my truck and driving home.  I had to cross my left hand over the wheel to start my truck. At least I was driving an automatic, so I did not have to concentrate on shifting.  It was 1:30 when I got home, and I had a long day of work ahead of me.  After plunking my luggage in my room, I picked up my phone.  I did not have my dad on speed dial, so I negotiated the numbers with my tired left hand.

 

            "Dad, I’m home."

            "Jill, I’m sorry I mentioned flying into Madison.  I hope your not mad at me."

            "No, just the airline.  I am NEVER taking a puddle jumper in."

 

            My right hand slowly regained its feeling over the next ten days.  However, to this day, I have not regained my desire to board an airplane again.  I am thankful to live in Oregon, where I can take exciting vacations within driving distance of Portland. 

 

           

Throughout the 2007 NFL season, I have not heard a peep about the beloved (?) local Seahawks.  I was aware that Seattle did have a team, but I knew nothing of their schedule, their record, or where their fans go to watch the game.    Things became interesting last week when several of my co-workers began announcing their allegiences to the Seahawks.  Had I not been so busy working, I may have noticed the "Packers are gonna lose" jeers.  I teased my boss about jumping on the bandwagon, and his reply was "I only hang out with winners, Jill."
 
Jud and I had plans to go skiing in Bend over the weekend, however the rainy forecast in the mountains derailed those pleans.  Jud was leaning towards cancelling our trip when I said "It's ok if we don't go; I can watch the Packer game instead."  Jud snickered and said, "It's probably not raining that hard ;) "  In the end, we decided to postpone a trip to Central Oregon for a weekend when the snow was a bit more desirable. 
 
Jud humored me by watching the first quarter of the game with me.  However, the emotions I was exhibiting throughout the quarter seemed to be a bit much for Jud.  It was recommended that I go down to a sports bar to be with "my people."  Donning my pink Brett Favre jersey, I drove down to Squirrels, expecting only to see a couple of possible Seattle fans watching the game.
 
I was right about the "couple" of Seattle fans.  The rest of the bar was a sea of Green, Gold, and foam cheeseheads.  Green Bay had just taken the lead when I took a barstool next to an outspoken Bears fan and a loud Packer fan.  The Bears fan continued to remind us that we lost, twice, to them.  He also mentioned that if I like Obama, I should consider rooting for Chicago, since the Senator is from Illinois.  I turned and said "I'm rooting for a team who is playing this weekend."
 
"Oh my god!" yelled out a guy, wearing Seahawk Green and Silver. "A PINK PACKER Jersey."
"The jersey is in support of breast cancer research."  I responded.  Perhaps the Seattle fan would have enough class to end the jousting there, but past experience shows that Seahawk fans are poor winners and poor losers.  Green Bay had just scored again, when the Seattle fan grabbed the remote control and muted the TV.
 
"What!" I yelled.  Are you trying to make it as quiet as Quest Field!"  Roars of laughter throughout, as I explained the MYTH of the Twelfth Man.  I have been to two Seahawks games, both times it was so quiet I could place a phone call and not ask "Can you hear me now?" 
 
"How 'bout dem FUDGEPACKERS.!" as he made the crude gesture.
"Hey crowd...raise your hands if you NEVER HEARD that one before!" was my response.  More giggles throughout.   Eventually, I was asked to join  the Corvallis Packer Fans mailing list.   Seattle guy was reduced to making 'pink' comments, none of which generated laughter.  His companion, also wearing a Seahawk cap, was giving me the thumbs up.   All was quiet until late in the fourth quarter, with the victory sealed and we heard, "Hey! you in the CANCER JERSEY.  Come here!"   Trash talking is one thing, demeaning a serious cause is another.  A barricade of Seahawks and Packers fans lined up between us, to prevent any sort of altercation.  I heard the comment, but I was in the midst of explaining to the Bears fan that the Bears still suck.  His jaw dropped on the comment, but soon, the obnoxious fan was outside, enjoying a cigarette.
 
The final seconds faded away, and there was near bedlam at the bar.  "Attention Seattle Fans!  The Bandwagon will be dropping you off at the next stop!"
 
Monday morning, I approach my boss and say, "Hang out with winners, eh?"
"GO PACKERS" he shouted.

The irony never escapes Jud. He grew up in California, where he learned to cross country ski with his dad. I was raised (notice I did not say 'grew up') in Wisconsin, and I had not put on a pair of cross country skis until several years after I moved to Oregon. My experience was limited to drawing the short straw for my Pole Pedal Paddle teams, and huffing and puffing myself across the 5 mile sticky-snow groomed track in Bend in late May. Cross Country skiing had always been a strenuous, frustrating ordeal for me. The uphill climbs made my thighs and arms scream in pain since I was using a different muscle group; the downhill was not much easier. I was not used to having a boot threaded to the toe of my binding while my heels were free to go any which direction they chose. Most times, I just kept accelerating until I somersaulted out of control. By the end of the day, I would be exhausted and sore after only a couple of hours of pushing and falling in the snow. I did not want to give up though. After the local ski resort raised their daily ticket prices to close to $60 per day, I knew I had to find another hobby involving snow. fter spending the Christmas holidays with our respective family members, Jud and I made plans to rendezvous in Bend for New Years. The rain that had pelted Portland all winter brought in a thick snowpack throughout the Cascades. The dry air of Central Oregon would be a welcome relief from the rains of the Willamette Valley. With Bend being only a three hour drive away, we decided to check out the Santiam Pass snow parks for some Cross Country skiing en route. Lodging in Bend is also affordable and convenient year round. We did pack our downhill skis to do a day at Mt. Bachelor, but at $58 per day we were going to hold out for good snow.

On Friday afternoon, Jud drove while I read a Cross Country ski guide in Oregon. Since we only had 1-2 hours of daylight to work with, we chose a short, four mile trail off of Tombstone Pass. It had been months since I had been on cross country skis and I was crossing my fingers that I would have a good experience on this short trip. Since last year, I did buy new boots. For Christmas, Jud gave me a new set of poles which can be used for XC skiing, backcountry skiing and (gasp) snowshoeing. He assured me that the better equipment would give me a positive experience. I was still hesitant to thread my boots on a pair of skis that felt like the size of toothpicks. As we geared up at Tombstone Pass, I tightened my boots to give myself the illusion that my ankles were on solid ground. Jud showed me how to adjust my poles, and we soon shussed downhill on the trail. I believe the Tombstone trail does connect to other trails near the pass, but given the time we were limited to a four mile out and back trip. The first two miles of the trail was downhill, so I jammed my heel down to the ski and used my arms to push myself forward. Unlike previous experiences, I was not wobbling like a fawn standing up for the first time. Still hesitant, I lifted a heel to push my skis, but I did little to actually glide myself forward. With the new boots and poles, I felt very comfortable on our warm up run down and up Tombstone. This trail was appropriate for the quick warm up run, however I would not recommend it as a day trip trail. The Santiam network has a number of trails with much more expansive views and longer runs.

Jud suggested we do a long tour on Saturday. While I felt comfortable on my skis on Friday evening, I was unsure how I would handle ten extra miles and 1000 feet extra elevation gain. The last time we did a 14 mile tour it was a disaster. My poles (at the time) were the wrong length, the snow on the trail was soft enough to grab my skis, and not a moment went by where I was not out of breath, aching and miserable. While Jud was able to gracefully ascend the gradual incline of McKenzie Pass, I was struggling to keep my knees intact while my skis kept getting snagged on the snow. My poles were of little help, and within the first hour, my arms protested at every push on the pole. Trying to be encouraging Jud would tell me we were "almost" there, yet we were only halfway up the trail. Needless to say, it was not the most pleasant memory I had of cross country skiing. I cringed when I read that we would be doing even more climbing on Paulina Peak.

We got a later start than we would have liked at Paulina, but Jud was confident we would be able to climb the seven miles up and be back at the truck by sunset. I was skeptical, remembering how long it took for us to cover 14 miles at McKenzie Pass. Earlier this winter, two groups of people had died in Oregon winter conditions. Both were unlucky, unprepared, and had underestimated how brutal Oregon winter conditions could be. Jud and I had provisions for a day trip, but if we were to be stuck overnight it would have been uncomfortable and unpleasant. Of course, I was being overly cautious. Jud, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned, as there were no storms or precipitation in the weather forecast, and the Paulina Peak trails are well marked. We arrived at the trailhead shortly before 11 a.m., and to our dismay the parking lot was full with snowmobiles and trailers. Jud was able to squeeze his truck on the side of the road between two trailers on the opposite end of the parking lot. Upon opening our doors, we were immediately greeted with the incessant hum of engines and the pungent odor of exhaust. Fortunately, the trail we were going to climb up was exclusively for cross country skiers and snowshoers. Within minutes, we had the blue skies, the powdery snow, and fresh air to ourselves. The temperature was hovering in the 20's, there was no wind, and there was not a cloud in the sky. There were a couple of tracks in the snow, but there was plenty of fresh snow for Jud and I to easily ski up. My new boots and poles were working wonders, as I did not feel any of the exhaustion and frustration that I had felt on the McKenzie Pass trail.

We arrived at Paulina Lake in the mid-afternoon. Again, we had to contend with the noise and exhaust of the snowmobiles. We had the option of doing a 2 mile Nordic loop around the lake, or to continue climbing up to Paulina Peak. My legs had the energy to do the climb, yet I was hesitant to try to race the clock. Jud was intent on going up and I was willing to challenge myself further; still I was afraid of being caught in the wilderness after dark. The remainder of the climb was on a snow covered road that we shared with the snowmobilers. The endless views of the Central Oregon sky made up for the shared-use climb. According to the guide book we should have been able to see everything from Mt. Jefferson down to Mt. Shasta. The haze off in the horizon hid Mt. Shasta, but our eyes feasted on Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Bachelor, the Three Sisters, and Diamond Peak. The continual gawking of the scenery allowed me to temporarily forget that we were climbing nearly four miles to the top.

"Take a look at that" remarked Jud, as we saw the sun casting its red glow on Diamond Peak.

"Jud, we don't have time. It's going to get dark soon."

"Relax Jill, it's going to be all downhill. We'll be down in twenty minutes."

"No Jud, you will be down in twenty minutes. You know I am not that comfortable on these skis going downhill. I don't want to get stuck out here."

"You'll be fine, stop worrying about it. You have the right gear now, and trust me, it makes all the difference."

It was nearly 4pm when we reached the craggy rocks near the top of Paulina Peak, well after my proposed turnaround time of 3:15. With the clear skies throughout, and a first quarter moon rising, I put myself in the mindset that we would not be in complete darkness. We could always take the road the entire way down if need be. If worst should come to worst, a snowmobiler may come to our rescue. After dining on a victory bagel, Jud and I began our descent.
I had yet to have a positive experience going downhill on cross country skis. Jud gave me some tips on keeping my knees bent, my skis straight, and on trying to stop like I would on my alpine skis. When it came to stopping, I still relied on the snowplow. I did not have a back binding to allow me to turn the skis in a parallel manner. As I accelerated down the road, I felt control and confidence take over. This was actually fun! I was finally cruising down, with full control of my feet, on what would be an easy winding trail on Mt. Bachelor. While taking in the sun setting over the Central Cascades I was in such a comfort zone that it no longer mattered that I did not have a back binding. Jud was right in that it only took twenty minutes to descend to Paulina Lake. We had 40 minutes of daylight remaining, and Jud asked

"So, should we take the trail down, or should we take the road?"

"That was a great downhill, let's take the trail."

The law of gravity applied wonderfully here. The 2.5 hour climb through the woods transitioned into a smooth gliding decent. In order to reach the truck before dark, I forced myself to glide through the snow, kicking my heels to slide downhill. In 3.5 miles, I only fell once, when I was going too fast to be in control. Exhilaration of sliding through the fresh snow replaced the fear of going downhill. We arrived at the truck with a sliver of daylight remaining.

"Well Jud, I stand corrected, we had plenty of light. By the way, this was much more fun than downhill skiing." He just smiled.

New Year's Eve day, Jud and I chose to ski Vista Butte, which is halfway up the road to Mt. Bachelor at Swampy Lakes Snowpark. After only two successful days of cross country skiing I learned what my preference was for nordic skiing. Vista Butte offered the elevation gain that I liked, the promise of views of Mt. Bachelor and Broken Top, and there were options of linking on other trails in the area. Again, there was not a cloud in the sky, nor was there a breath of wind; the perfect day to be on the skis. My uphill gliding felt more natural, and the soreness that used to occur in my thighs and arms was absent. Upon reaching the top of Vista Butte, I realized I could have continued climbing uphill, only there was no more hill to climb. Instead, Jud and I soaked in the views of Mt. Bachelor, Tumalo Mountain and Broken Top. Tumalo Mountain is known for backcountry skiing, and it has become one of my goals to attempt it some day.

"So, Jill, do you want to go down the same way we came up, or do you want to go down the fresh snow on the back side." I looked down at the meadow of tantalizing fresh snow, sparking in the sun. I did not hesitate when I looked at Jud and said "Let's do it." Jud easily cruised down the back face, and turned around just in time for me to trip over an alleged snowsnake and fall on my butt. It took several sit ups, while planting my pole in seemingly thin air before I could roll back up. I bent my knees, stuck the poles in the snow, and pushed myself through the fresh snow. After falling on my downhill side, Jud suggested that I lean my skis towards the uphill side as I was going down. Finally, I was able to slide down while maintaining control of my skis. Having no back binding forced me to concentrate on keeping my skis parallel and in not shifting my foot inside my boot. It was almost too soon before we were off the butte and on to the main trail back to the trailhead. Despite falling several times, I felt completely at ease in gliding downhill on cross country skis. Lifting my heel to glide was no longer awkward, climbing on skies seemed easier than biking up a steep hill, and my body felt refreshed rather than exhausted. The Swampy Lakes route was my favorite route on the trip since it offered a number of trails for all levels of skiers. I would have been willing to ski off several other spurs on the trail system, but that will have to wait until a later time.

New Year's Eve in Bend offers the best of both worlds for hungry outdoor enthusiasts. Bend has a variety of restaurants and bars to dine in, all of which are within blocks of each other. We were staying at the Rainbow motel, which is a fifteen minute walk to downtown Bend. On New Year's Eve, walking was much faster than driving down to hunt for a parking spot. After a wonderful dinner at Marz café, I persuaded Jud to check out the McMenamins St. Francis School to see if any music was playing. Neither of us wanted to sit at a bar just to wait until midnight, and the St. Francis School was on the way back to the Rainbow from downtown. Upon arriving at St. Francis School we learned that the Moon Mountain Ramblers were playing live bluegrass music, at no charge. After putting in nearly 24 miles of skiing in three days, Jud and I still had the energy to dance out 2006 into 2007.

We left Bend early on New Year's Day with plans to ski Maxwell Sno-Park before returning to Corvallis. While we had to venture several miles out of the way on Highway 22, Maxwell offered the most suitable skiing according to our preferences. The sunny weather was gone, and when we arrived at Maxwell, we noticed the temperature was slightly warmer than it was down in Bend. Unlike Paulina and Vista Butte, the trail was well skied over, so we were gliding on the trail with little friction on the snow. To my dismay, Maxwell was not as well marked as the trails in Bend, and vandals had removed some of the markers on the trail that corresponded with the map. Jud and I also spent the first part of our climb picking up beer cans that some left over by some New Year's revelers. Perhaps they felt the need to mark the trail themselves. The first 3 miles involved climbing up to the shelter, which can be used for overnight stays. A gradual downhill followed the shelter, where I spent my time focusing on lifting my heel and gliding downhill. A move that I did not even attempt a year earlier now seemed effortless and natural. After descending from the shelter, navigating the trail became an exercise in trial and error. The signs on the trail were supposed to have numbers on them, telling us which junction we were at. However, those numbers were stripped off the posts, so Jud and I ended up guessing which part of the trail we were on. One wrong guess sent us on a two mile detour, where we ended up at the end of a spur leading to highway 22. Fortunately, both of us were acclimated to gliding on our skis, and the detour only ate a little more than a half hour of our time. We followed a series of ski tracks, until we reached a ridge where the tracks branched off in several different directions. Jud decided to herringbone straight up the ridge, by this time, the snow was so sticky, it felt like we were velcroed onto the ridge. We descended to a second ridge, where we saw a number of skiers traversing in different directions. In the distance we could hear the traffic on the highway, so we knew we were not hopelessly lost. Jud and I were two-thirds of the way up the second ridge when he suggested turning back. I looked north, and saw terrain that was recognizable from previous our climb towards the shelter.

"Jud, let's get to the top of this ridge, things are looking familiar to me, and if we don't see the trail, we can turn back."

By this time, a light rain was falling, and both Jud and I were eager to return to Corvallis. Fortunately, the climbs were short, and within minutes we were atop the ridge. Looking down, both of us saw blue poles, indication that there was a trail. Upon arrival, we saw a packed down trail, and we followed it until we found a marked map, which would lead us back to the snowpark. We intended to only ski a couple of hours, but the detours turned it into four hours. Unlike the McKenzie Pass trip, I still some leg strength along with the desire to get back out on Cross Country skis.

Jud is right in that cross country skiing is fun once I started gliding and having control of my skis. As epic as a powder day at Mt. Bachelor would have been, we were just as happy exploring some of the trails in the Bend and Santiam network.

That Lasted a Day

        

 After eight years of commuting to work by bike, I did what the majority of the American population did to get work.  I drove.  By chance, I accepted a job in the hinterlands of the Milwaukie and Clackmas area outside of Southeast Portland.  In my years of working in law firms of downtown Portland, it never occurred to me that I may have to accept a job out in suburbia.  While I was relieved to have obtained a job shortly before I was to be laid off, I was not looking forward to the prospect of driving to the office five days a week.  Several days prior to starting my new job, I looked enviously at all the bike commuters, all suited up in their water repellant gear, their LED lights marking their presence, and their flashing tail lights blinking goodbye to me.  As unpleasant as pedaling through the rain can be, it is far preferable to sitting in traffic watching my gas gauge plummet while fuel prices skyrocket.

           

On March 29, 2007, the sunrise glowed brightly in my garage as I reluctantly turned the key in my ignition.   My truck groaned in protest, confused at why I was taking it to this place called the office.  The truck never went to work; instead it ventured to adventurous places such as the mountain, gorge, or the coast.  Errands were done on the way home from these places.  During the week, my truck happily rested in the garage, unless it was accompanying me to a social engagement.  By the time I approached the first stoplight, I sighed to myself "This will never last."

 

 Despite the relatively short commute from John's Landing to Milwaukie, I knew this was something I could never get used to.  It was a reverse commute, and I tried to console myself by observing the parking lot of cars waiting to cross the Sellwood Bridge.    After hitting every red light on SE Tacoma, I was merging on to Highway 99E, hoping to beat the herd of vehicles racing to their respective jobs.   Highway 224 was not even in the vocabulary of the traffic announcers, which did nothing to convince that I could enjoy this.  Highway 224 was not the traffic nightmare that Highway 26, 217, or the Banfield Freeway are, but the potential is there.  The commute would be quite smooth if it was not for the three stoplights monitoring the traffic.   Suburbia never did appeal to me; I would never gain an appreciation for the generic architecture of strip malls, big-box stores, and chain restaurants.  After 25 minutes of accelerating, reaching third gear, and then stopping at yet another red light, I finally arrived at the office parking lot.   I slammed the door of my truck, and arrived with ample time to begin my employee orientation.

 

After reading the policies and procedures of this law firm, I inquired about a locker room and shower facilities.  The office manager did not hesitate, as she led me to the third floor locker room. 

 

Returning home, I was taunted by the sun and the clear blue skies.  Waiting to cross the first intersection while the car ahead of me waited for the light to turn a special color of green,  I began cursing "I hate this!  I need to quit!"  The drive home was uneventful in the eyes of the average commuter; it was agony for me.  My legs longed for the spinning motion of pedaling, my face longed for the fresh air, while my heart longed to be beating at target heart rate for exercising, not crawling through traffic.  The end of my drive was the worst, where traffic was backed up for three blocks at a four way stoplight.  It was not how I wanted to end each and every workday.

 

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual, pulled on my bike tights, top, and waterproof coat.  My work clothes were folded in my backpack next to my Tupperware bowl of lunch.  Everything felt natural except for pedaling my bike in the opposite direction of downtown.  Immediately, I was greeted by the quarter mile downhill on Corbett Avenue going towards John's Landing.   Waiting at the light to cross Macadam was far more tolerable on two wheels than it was on four.  Soon, I was cruising on the water front, relying on my light for illumination.   The sun was beginning to peak over the foothills of East Portland as I pedaled up the Sellwood Bridge.  Even bikers were on the reverse commute, as we navigated around each other on the bridge, giving the uphill rider the right of way.  SE Tacoma was probably the most hazardous street for me to bike on, but that was shortlived, as I could cross over to SE Umatilla towards the Springwater corridor.  The Springwater Corridor trail slices through southeast Portland, Milwaukie, and Gresham.  The bumpy trail is not recommended for a sleek road bike and as you venture further east, the number of intersections increase.  I was fortunate that Johnson Creek was the only major intersection I had to cross before reaching Linwood.  The drivers were used to bikers crossing, as I always had good luck with motorists stopping so I could cross without waiting for a parade of cars to whiz by.  Pedaling in high gear across the Springwater trail was a refreshing feeling; far preferable to driving down 224 with the windows down and the music blasting.  Soon, I was heading down Linwood, finishing my commute on a downhill.  Traffic was light, and I was treated to a bike path.  At the end of Linwood, it was just a hop skip and a jump to Lake Road, where my new office was.  Riding my bike took 40 minutes, driving took 25 minutes.  Each day, as I watched the gas prices grow incrementally, I breathed a sigh of relief that I was still able to remain a bike commuter.

Those Three Beautiful Words

Throughout the summer, I sat with anticipation yearning to hear the three most beautiful words in the English language. By the end of every weekend, disappointment filled the air from not hearing those words. Labor Day weekend had come and gone, and by that point I had all but given up hope.

It was a warm clear September morning when the three cherished words reached my ears. I was listening to the radio, when the host declared, "Small Craft Advisory, for winds on all of the Oregon Coast." My heart raced in anticipation of punching through the wave break, carving swells the size of SUV's, and riding down the surf towards shore. The only thing stopping me from leaving the office early on Friday afternoon would be a downgrade in the wind forecast.

Friday morning, I arrived at the office with board in tow. My co-workers had become accustomed to my board taking residence in my cubicle, since the firm is en route to my "board meetings". Law firms have a reputation for pressuring their paralegals to work long hours; however the firm I work at encourages us to take time off if we complete our hours. I logged onto NOAA and was giddy with excitement as I read the words, "Small Craft Advisory." I just could not get enough of it! Two of my experienced wave sailing friends, Tom and Trudy, were also taking Friday afternoon off to wave sail. Trudy and I traded e-mails throughout the morning, flip-flopping among Oceanside, Lincoln City, and Newport as the wind speeds changed at each place. Our respective bosses sprung us loose at 1:30, still, at that point we were still debating between sailing Lincoln City or Newport.

Shortly into my drive the three of us had agreed to meet up at South Beach State Park in Newport. I-windsurf text paged wind-alerts to my cell phone on an hourly basis; to my delight, the wind speeds only increased. By the time I arrived at Newport at 4:30, the wind was averaging 26 knots with six foot swells. Trudy, Tom and I quickly rigged our gear before jogging out onto South Beach to launch. South Beach is an ideal place to wave sail. The park is nested between the dunes which protects us from the winds. There is a grassy rigging area, a hose for washing sand off gear, and full service bathrooms. We were not subjected rigging our gear while our faces got sandpapered by the blowing wind. Upon reaching the beach, we only need to walk a few hundred feet before we are at the ocean's edge. I had not wave sailed since August of 2006 and I nervously hoped that I would not spend my entire afternoon wrestling the wave break in frustration. I walked a few feet upwind towards the jetty, where I followed my own rule of thumb for getting myself through the wave break. If I could see the far horizon over the waves, it was safe enough for me to sail out. Despite being off the water for nearly 13 months, I was able to charge through the breaker with relatively little trouble. In the past, I had learned to put pressure on my mast base to punch my board through. By the time I got in the swell, I was breathing heavily but panting in excitement over the exhilaration of ocean sailing. I sailed a few reaches before attempting to wave ride into shore. Tom made carving down wind and spraying water off the wave face look easy. I could carve upwind down a wave easily, but in my first try downwind, speed overtook control and I had keeled over right into a wave face. After losing my purchase it took several minutes trying to reunite with my gear. Having been a whitewater kayaker, my instinct for reading the power of the water prevailed as I allowed the wave break to carry me into shore. I noticed Tom was taking some time in getting out of the wave break. It did not occur to me that as the tide changed, the format of the waves would change. I charged my board out into the break, thinking "I'll be on the outside in no time" while a steep wave face crested in front of me. I looked up to see the froth and prepared myself for what was to come next. A thundering crash resonated through my ears as the wave tackled me for a loss of yardage. I bobbed my head up reset my gear, only to do imitations of the mythical figure Sisyphus while getting slammed back to the beach. After several tries, barrage of waves left me cold, limp, and fatigued. I gamely made a last ditch effort to get out, when I saw another wall of surf rushing towards me. "Here we go again", I sighed, as I crouched my body, waiting for the body slam which was soon to come. As the whitewash surrounded my board, I pushed my weight forward and then felt nothing but flotation. I had gotten through. Despite my body being as limp as a noodle and having no feeling below my knees, I knew I had to keep on sailing. I did not see the ramp forming in front of me and I unknowingly launched a large, uncontrolled jump. I was already past midair when I landed the nose of the board onto the water and catapulted me flat on the ocean's surface. These are the days when I am glad I wear a helmet, as I just spit water out of my mouth and shook it out of my ears before waterstarting back on my board. Just making it through that pound gave me my second wind. Trudy, Tom, and I sailed to near dusk, stopping because we had to, not because we wanted to. By the time I was shivering with cold and feeling nothing below my knees, I forced myself to carve down one last wave into shore. Despite collapsing in the sand after getting my sea legs off the board, I carried a huge Cheshire cat grin.

Saturday morning greeted us with sunshine and calm winds, which is typical for the coast. Still sore from the Friday night session, we took advantage of the slow pace of the day and enjoyed coffee and company. After breakfast, Trudy and I occupied ourselves by watching a longboard surf competition at the jetty. The two to three foot waves looked dismal as we began to have doubts about actually being able to sail that afternoon.

By mid-afternoon, the wind had picked up to nearly the speed it was the day before. I started the session on my 4.7, following my "horizon" rule so I would not repeat Friday's tackling drills. The break was friendlier closer to the jetty and I took advantage of that to work on sailing down the line and carving through the waves. The wind built gradually, and after a couple of hours, we were forced to re-rig. 4.0 is my ideal sail size, large enough to give me plenty of wind range, but small enough for me to maneuver easily. The Oregon coast takes windsurfing at least one level above gorge sailing. The gorge reminds me of mogul skiing, which is both strenuous and challenging. Coast sailing is the deep powder skiing of windsurfing. The exhilaration of jibing down large swell, racing out to pass the breakers, and carving down the line is unmatched. For several hours, I felt nothing but pure soul riding. By 6:30, my body was telling me it was time to get off the water. Again, I had little feeling below my knees, I was missing easy moves such as a jibe, and the cold had penetrated to my core. My last reach was a magic carpet ride onto a logo high wave. Looking right and left, I saw no other windsurfers or kiters, as I exuberantly shouted "YOUR'E MINE!' Slowly, I s-turned down the wave, trying to avoid gathering so much speed that I would end up outrunning the wave. I heard the thunder of the wave breaking to my right as I carved left, then right, then down the face, back left, and right. Then, it happened. A mini-wave began to form beneath my board, and there was no stopping me from flying over it and sticking the nose of my board directly into the water. The curler behind me upended me into the water as I somersaulted through the break. Fortunately, I was close to shore, and after the break calmed down, I was able to stand up, grab my gear, and head to the beach. After looking at my watch, I learned I had sailed nearly 4 hours in those conditions. No wonder my legs had the consistency of noodles.

Those three beautiful words were not mentioned on Sunday's forecast. I slowly hosed off my gear, packed up my truck, and trekked on home home. After a weekend like that, it is my hope to hear those three beautiful words more often each and every summer.

When planning a downwinder, one must consider key elements: river
>current, river miles, air temperature, and hey, what the heck, maybe some
>wind! While enjoying some pints the night before a forecasted easterly, Brian, Dave and I decided Saturday would be the perfect day for a Home Valley to Stevenson downwinder.  It was September, so the air and water temperatures remained warm.  People were still driving out to the gorge on a regular basis, so finding assistance would not be too much of a problem.  East Wind downwinders take one obstacle out that is common in west wind downwinders; that being the current of the river.  We would be sailing with the current instead of against it.  By the time we ended the evening with a cheers, our group included Brian, Dave, Nate, Aaron, Jay, and me> >

            By noon on Saturday, the number dwindled to four.  Brian read about a sale on trees at a local nursery; Dave conveniently "lost" his house key between
> >the crevasses of his chair at home.  He promised that as soon as  he
> >"found" his house key, he would show up at Stevenson and shuttle us back
>to Home Valley.   Nate, Aaron, Jay and I rolled into Home Valley chortling this is going to be awesomethe current will totally sweep us downriver.  Temperatures were creeping into the 80's, and the wind appeared to be blowing 25 knots (4.2 for me) at Stevenson.  Home Valley, which was five miles east, resembled a kiteboarding pride parade and the whitecaps appeared few and far between.  Nates theory was  "If we are doing broad reaches, we can slide with the current, stay on a plane, and we will be overpowered at Stevenson.   Nobody took into
>account that people resembling Calista Flockhart were exiting the water on their
> >formula boards and race gear announcing "The Wind is Dying.  Denial prevailed, as we rigged our largest sails and beachstarted off towards Oregon.  Nate looked at me and said "we should probably hug the Washington side, in case if the wind dies" I nodded in agreement, since it would be much easier to hitchhike on Highway 14 than it would be on I-84.  Nate and I started our reach being in harnesses and footstraps as aimed towards Stevenson. Nearly
2/3's of the way across the river I felt my board stall out to a crawl.
>In an effort to continue on a plane, I ripped a long jibe, in order to capture as
> >much downwind as I could.  Nate was not far behind me, and I noticed him
> >trying to intercept my reach. As I was sailing, his board aimed towards
>me when I heard him yell :"BLAH BLAH BLAH AKE IT!" Later he said "SHOULD WE
> >BAG IT?!?" My ears  heard "WE CAN MAKE IT!."Who the heck knew what I heard him say, as I floated myself downwind?  I looked towards Home Valley, and saw Jay and Aaron, cruising out of a planeand pushing their rigs forward to capture as much wind as possible.
> >
            2 reaches and a half hour later, I can barely keep my board afloat.  I am tilting my sail as far forward as possible, placing my feet directly over the centerline to avoid having to waterstart in a fifteen knot wind.   I looked back to see only one other sail in the distance. I knew nobody was in imminent danger, since the air and water were warm, and all of us were strong swimmers.   Slowly, I felt my board sink into the water, down to my ankles. My balancing act worked no more, as I timbered into the water. There was enough wind to fly my sail, so I laid in the water, with my feet on the board, and butt dragged myself downwind.  Five minutes later, a puff of wind lifted my sail and body out of the water and onto my board.  I immediately sailed toward the Washington side, in case if the wind should die off again.  Behind me,  no
>sails were visible, so I assumed the others were either waiting for wind or
> >swimming.

 

            Miracles do happen, as the wind was slightly stronger on the Washington
> >Side. I could easily make out the sails down at Stevenson, and knew that
> >if the wind remained, I could tightrope my way to Stevenson.  It was slow going,
> >like my days in the midwest, floating a 6.0 rig on an 11 foot board.
>The only contrast is that an 11 foot Bic Reggae stays afloat, an 8 foot RRD sinks quickly and has no forgiveness for poor foot placement.  As I was approaching Stevenson, the wind
> >increased about 5 knots, allowing me to reach planning speed and taking a
>screaming reach into the beach. Thank god I didn't have to swim, slither up the
>rocks, stash gear in the bushes and hitchhike back to Home Valley.  Dave greeted me at Stevenson with a snicker so ya finally made it!"  Nate arrived a half hour later, with relief and an ear to ear grin.   2 for 4 accounted for. A phone call to Jay indicated that he ended up on the
>rockiest stretch of Hwy 14, and he bushwhacked himself and his gear up the
>slippery bank onto the highway. 2 cars loaded with fishing poles jamming hard-rock
>music sped past him. But, within minutes, a fellow windsurfer driving theo pposite direction noticed his harness, flipped  a hair-pin U-Turn on Highway 14 and gave him a lift back
>to the car.

            Aaron's location remained a mystery, so Dave volunteered to drive his van to help us search for Aaron.  We combed Highway 14, assuming Aaron was swimming back, and needing a ride back to Home Valley. As soon as we parked at  Home Valley,  a green subaru pulled in. Aaron jumped out, along with his parents who were visiting from Seattle. Minute earlier,
>his parents saw a lone figure jogging on the railroad tracks. "Hey...that guy
> >kind of looks like our son, maybe we should turn around." Aaron ended
>up sailing towards a sandy beach between Home Valley and Stevenson.  He thought he had avoided the hassle of climbing the slippery rocks up Highway 14.    It didnt occur to him that a there may be a reason that this lone sandy stretch on the river located no place in particular was not a public beach for a reason.   Little did he know, that he had just ventured upon a Deliverance Trailer>Park/Nudist>Colony.
> >
> >"Whew, glad I made it to Stevenson." I was thinking to myself, because if
> >the wind did not pick up, I had considered that beach as exit.
> >
            After several beers and a scorpion bowl, Nate asked When is the next downwinder? 

            When there is more wind than what we had today.  Ive done my one downschlogger for this lifetime was my response.  Everybody erupted into laughter as we discussed other potential downwinders such as Maryhill to Rufus and Rowena to Dougs. 

With the gorge forecast being dead with gusts to light, the majority of the gorge windsurfing crowd trekked down to Florence in hopes of truth in the 25-35 knot wind forecast.
The Central Oregon coast promised steady winds, consistent swell, and fewer crowds.

Trudy and I arrived at the jetty around 2pm on Saturday, and the winds were
already blowing a solid 23 knots, meant I could rig my 4.2. I have not been to the coast for three years, so the knot set into my stomach. Sure, 4.2 winds are great at the
Hatch, or Doug's beach, but the coast magnifies the whole
experience at least one notch. Not only is the air colder, but the ocean is bone
chilling cold, and the sharks are hungry. After 3 hours of driving through triple digit temperature heat, the 60 degree blast chilled me to the bone. There was no thought of packing up my parka when I was up in Portland, so I slipped into my wetsuit and put a sweatshirt on over to rig. Since I am most comfortable on my 4.2, I started the day off on that, and did warm up runs near the jetty. The beauty of the Florence Jetty is that jetty protects less experienced sailers from getting giftwrapped by the incoming breaking waves. The further from the jetty, the higher the chances of getting the giftwrap treatment. Although I was hesitant on my first few reaches, I was soon working on carving through the waves and even jibing on the inside.

After a couple of hours of acquainting myself to the waves, the cold and my inexperience took its toll. Other sailors were calling it a day as we discussed our plans for camping that night. John and Trudy suggested camping on the jetty, since it was free and convenient. Both spend the majority of their summers at the coast, and they knew the cheapest spots to take a hot shower, the best local happy hours, and which convenience store had the cheapest gas and beer. All of us were carcamping, which eliminated the hassle of pitching a tent. After showering at the city park, I hung my wetsuit on the vinyl of my front seat in hopes it would be dry by morning.

Car camping at the coast is quite an experience. Lucky for us,
Florence does have a nightlife. Especially if you like to hear "You
shook me all night long!" for the entire night. The beer and food
is cheap, and the atmosphere is diverse and friendly. It was Labor Day weekend, and the Oregon Ducks were playing their season opener. Since the Ducks were winning, the patrons of the bar were in good spirits. Few minded the crowd of windsurfers invading the tavern. Several thought we were all in town for a competition. No, just the wind; the same wind the locals were complaining about. The downside of carcamping in Florence is that
campers have a choice of driving on some winding back road for 25
minutes, or sleeping out on the jetty, where a 30 knot winds
blasting your vehicle like a tent on Mt. Everest. Saturday night, I
parked my truck on a flat part of the jetty, and laid down, hoping to collapse from exhaustion. If I was lucky, I got about two hours of sleep. Every time I was about to drift to dreamland, a blast of wind would bolt me into reality. The next night, I was either going to drive back to Portland, or find another place to camp. .

Sunday, the winds blew 30 with gusts to 43. I rigged my 3.2, only to
have it ripped out of my hands. I tried two survival reaches, but
decided to pack it in. Survival sailing is one thing at the Hatch or
Doug's, it's another when the Great White is out there chapping his
lips. Trudy spent the entire day on her 2.8, men were rigging
3.2's. Others were also not sailing, so we discussed camping plans for the night. At dinner, I wrote the directions to the horse camp on a napkin, and began looking for the sight. The directions I got were good, but they were for the WRONG CAMPGROUND! The parking lot was empty, and there was no sign of life. Several minutes later, a Diesel truck parked next to me, with no windsurfing gear in sight. My stomach knotted up as man
drawls..."don't worry honey, I aint stalking you" Immediately, I reversed my truck and spun down hill as fast as physics allowed. I backtracked through 25 miles of Deliverance, where some kind Hood River souls let me follow them to the real campsite. Several of us opened a bottle of wine, and drank under the stars. Without the wind, we felt warmer than we had in two days.

Monday morning greeted us with light winds. After a group breakfast at a local diner, we pulled into the jetty around noon. Surprisingly, the wind built to a solid 4.2. My happy sail! Within a half hour I was on the water, taking out Sunday's frustrations in the head-mast high
swells on the outside. On my first reach back, I started riding down
a swell when I heard a thunderous crash over my right shoulder. I
look over, to see the logo high swell breaking over my shoulder.
HOLY SHIT! as I zoomed down the wave towards shore. Most days at the
coast, I just sail back and forth, attempt some wave riding, but
usually am just relieved to be out beyond the breakers. Several
people I met through the weekend said "follow me!" as we started
bottom turning, jibing, and riding through the swell. Instead of hesitating, I found myself agressivly pursuing the 4 foot waves, allowing them to carry me towards shore. For most of the afternoon, Steve, Trudy, Karl, Sue, and I rode wave after wave, bottom turning on the swell, and attempting transitional moves on the inside. For me, it was an accomplishment to not sail to shore, walk off, turn around, then reenter the water.

After hearing my weekend exploits of windsurfing, mountain biking, cross country skiing, alpine skiing, kayaking, snowshoeing, and road biking, people tend to ask, " Is there something you don't do?"

 I used to have to pause and think about that answer, until Kim invited me to rock climb with her. It was late fall, and I had promised her I would cancel the wind clause until March. On the day in question, the wind was howling over 35 knots at nearby Rooster Rock, but the cold air temperature dampened my desire to sail. A 30 mile mountain bike ride on Saturday diminished my urge to do the same on Sunday. Kayaking would have been fun, except for the fall rains had not arrived yet, and there was no stretch of the river I could go on that I have not already paddled a number of times that summer and fall.

It was high noon on Sunday when Kim and I reached the rock climbing area on the Sandy River. A cold east wind was reminding me of the strong conditions at Rooster. Kim gave me the look that only meant one thing: "Shut up about the wind" as we hike up to the top of the rock wall to set ropes. Rock climbing presents a huge obstacle to me; that being, I am afraid of heights. Here we were, perched on a ledge, 50 feet above ground while Kim was setting carabineers, ropes, harnesses, and anchors. I would have offered to help, had the strong east wind not plastered me to the rock behind me. Oh, that rock was my friend, since it would have prevented me from plunging helplessly to the ground below. Kim asked me if I want to rappel down from up top, and I hurriedly said "no thanks."

 Along with the fear of heights, I had to deal with the pain and suffering of wearing rock climbing shoes. I can guarantee you, that after spending five minutes in a pair of rock climbing shoes you will want to slip into something more comfortable...like a ski boot. Kims size six shoe was the size of my big toe. I looked at Kim and sighed "Do I have to?" "Yes! she barked in a tone appropriate for a drill sergeant. That's the only way you can climb. And your big toe is going to be your most important muscle." Shit, I thought as I squeezed my entire foot inside this contraption, which suctioned itself onto my foot. The pain was tolerable until I put weight on my foot, when it escalated to excruciating.

After Kim mentioned the importance of wearing climbing shoes, she then briefed me on safety in Rock climbing. "Jill, for one, never let go of the fucking rope. Two, never let go of the fucking rope. three...if I say 'oh shit' that means give me tension...if I say 'fuck' that means give me some slack. Got it?" "Uh hug...On Belay" I as I winced in pain "Belay's On...just take the middle section of this wall" Believe me, Kim did mean wall. Instead of hand holds the size of a cheesehead at a Packer game, I am facing a sheer wall, with dimples the size of a golf ball. There are few handholds within arms length, and within minutes, it became apparent I have done no upper body workouts in years. I could hear Kim yell "Stick your toe in it!" All I was thinking was my toe was jammed in my shoe, and putting any more weight on it would cause me to scream loud enough for the windsurfers at Rooster Rock to hear. Instead, I made my first mistake as a rookie climber. Instead of putting my weight on my feet (because it hurt too damn much) I used my arms to shimmy up the rock. 20 feet later, I was sitting on a rock ledge, completely roped in and seeing the ground a bit farther below than I would have liked it to be. Standing up to assess what else I had to climb, I ended up slipping off the edge. "SHIT" I yelled as Kim pulled some tension for me on the rope. "Hey!, what profanity do I yell to get the hell down!" Kim started laughing as she brought me down, assuring me I did just fine.

 She is an experienced climber, and within minutes, I was watching her effortlessly scramble up the same wall that thoroughly kicked my ass. On the second climb up, Kim relented and let me climb in my sneakers. Despite her prediction that I would not be able to climb any higher than I would with actual climbing shoes, I was able to reach up to one ledge higher. Comfort did beat performance, particularly in this case. Still, after this day, anytime somebody asked me " Is there a sport you dont do?"

My first answer is Rock Climbing.