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Summer Solstice

What better way to bring in the longest day of the year with a cruise down the river with the flaming sun as your copilot? And of course with your buddy who ties PBR to a line in a plastic bag to float behind, only to leave a gift to the next lucky soul to float in our path.

Pre-river float, the day began on Shanti, Louis’s junk rig, where we used a pulley system to erect his mast into place. I learned a thing or two about tying a cleat knot and Louis learned a thing or two about how to stow a pulley rope to accommodate for dock heights. He kept talking to me in sailor terms as though I knew what the hell he was talking about and I had to keep reminding him that I wasn’t one of his classmates, just a willing friend.

After our work, which wasn’t much at all- I didn’t even break a sweat, though the wind blowing off the harbor must have kept me cool in the sun- we paddled the rig into its slip and got to really kick back. This was the first boat besides a ferry that I’ve been on since I’ve been out west.

I was impressed by the small quarters that houses our friend Louis, and by his lack of stuff, since the interior of Shanti is now his bedroom. Every thing was miniature- miniature prayer flags, miniature bed (more of a bench), miniature toilet. Books pertaining to boat culture lined the nooks and crannies and table tops, as did family photos and notes on paper. He even had a little propane stove and a bottle of champagne, a graduation gift.

Since his sails weren’t ready to be set- he had to find a truck to pick up 13 foot long battens for his unique single sail configuration- a float down the Skagit seemed appropriate to finish out the longest day of the year. We’d save a cruise along the San Juans for next time. We launched from Edgewater and caught the current on the sides and paddled off towards the south fork. From the second our kayak wooshed into the water, that proverbial feeling of refreshment and rejuvenation washed over me as we were thrust into an age-old method of relaxation.

From the inside of the river, we could see all the secret beaches and hidden tarp-tents and old wooden shacks and dock stations. We scouted a prime camping site on an islet and made a mental note to come back with more beer and gear.

At journeys end, we were able to gently persuade our ride back to go for a sunset jaunt through the flats and on up to Chuckanut. Why not throw another beautiful adventure into the sequence? Why not pull over at mile marker 12 on Chuckanut Drive and start a bonfire?

A group of youngsters had beat us to our sought-after spot by a long shot- their fire was roaring- but they eagerly invited us to join them. They were good kids. They shared their Carlo Rossi with us and even their Tofurky dogs and their green stuff.

Dillon was my favorite- a bright eyed quality kid, a laid back stoner who is never mad. He told me this, drunk- we all know drunk minds speak sober hearts- and he proved it to me through his disposition. He’s leaving for Germany in 4 days and couldn’t f-ing believe it. This kid had the best projectile vomit I have ever seen- out of nowhere he leans over and spews right on the fire, practically putting it out. The coals screamed and hissed under his wet vomit as though someone had thrown a bucket of water on it. This kept happening over and over again from his sporting chair, but he had a great attitude about it the entire time.

We sauntered off when the kids were getting too drunk to stay up and it was time for bed for the camping little drunksters. And back down the mountain we went into good ole Mount Vernon, and I drifted off to sleep in the car, leaning on the deflated kayak.

Red wine and Italian specialty cheese made with porter

....is what's on the menu tonight for Sue's fine blog experience up on her hill overlooking the Skagit. I can't help but feel I am a writer who has vacationed off to a far away land, paid a grand sum to rent a fine little mountain cabin with a view, and has comissioned herself to type away as she consumes wine and fancy Irish cheese into the wee hours of the morning. This is actually kind of a true story. Is it wrong that I look foward to this time in my evening every night before bed? I think not.

Quiet time at this house is 10 pm. Guests are encourgaed to sleep out in the yard in the summer. We have a double back yard which doubles for double privacy. Imagine a figure 8 backyard that is figure eighted by shrubs and trees. Louis is downstairs pecking away at his laptop too, awaiting his time to roll out Nicole's sleeping bag under the stars in our double back yard.

Last night feels like a dream I shared with people I am friends with. It's surrealism makes me think of what it must be like to trip acid with people. You leave the Planet Earth for a little while and come back after several long winding hours in a stupor of wondering what just happened. We walked along the Swinomish Channel (correct me if I am wrong, locals) until the houses whose lives we were spying on ended and we descended to our own private beach. The story Andrew told me of getting lost in a boat in the dense fog set the tone for the evening for some reason. I felt like I was encased in something like a dream-fog for those hours we encircled and ate and drank and chanted and strummed and smoked and talked and massage-trained and got naked and dabbled in the cold sound, all around a pallet-board fire. Even waking after sleeping for 3 hours to ride my bike 10 miles back to town was part of the dream. Work was work. I am impressed with how well I handled it off of only 3 hours of sleep. The potluck this evening was where we all collectively awoke from the dream to figure out what really happened.

Or did it?

Night Hikin' in the Skagit

Night hike, Big Rock
Your first time, my ingured foot...port and a cigarette on top
Event horizon
Cultus mountain
I wonder what are all those bright lights?
Shooting stars
I want to watch documentaries on all things
Astronomy
I know it’s the foothills though they disagree
It’s not actually a hill, but little mountains
That lead up to even bigger mountains
It was funny how you helped us down the mountain like you were our father.

Riding Bikes to Open Mics

Frontage Road is a straight shot to Conway. On a bike it takes me 20 minutes. It is true that we live in a valley- the road is as straight as the coastal plane of the Carolinas, yet I can almost reach out and touch tiny mountains. Its like being in a litter box with one of its sides cut out (that side is for the ocean). In the same day I can watch a sunset over the Pacific Ocean, hike a mountain, and bike through fields that mimic the grain producing lands of the Midwest.

To the west the Amtrak will put me to shame with its silver bullet speed as it cuts through true fields of gold. In the haze of the distant horizon, 4 hours from sunset, the sun repeats the same tawny glow. Along the way you can stop for espresso and a bite to eat at the lovely Skagit Valley Gardens, in the fall you can drink cider at the big red barn that says “Cider” in big white letters on it’s roof, and the side of a wooden garage promises Crabs & Beer and, low and behold, skydiving lessons. To the east is surely the picturesque scene from many a calendar, green farmland dappled with red and white barns, and equally as green mountains jutting as the backdrop suddenly from these flat fields. I half-expect a rainbow with a pot of gold at it’s end to arch from behind one of these mountains. This is all parallel to I-5, as in 30 yards away, if that.

This road leads my friend and I to a very warm & inviting open mic at the Muse. This place is unparalleled to anything I have ever seen except in childhood dreams. Antique walnut tables, each one with a glowing crystal light at its center, a cozy plaid couch with pillows, and an espresso and candy bar that mimics the smooth dark wood from an early saloon. The walls are arranged with old timey classic drink ads, cabaret drawings, and feather masks, and every nook and cranny is filled with some vintage relic. The women here are Gaia Goddesses. They could subscribe to witch folklore or believe in faeries, or just be old artistic Thespians finally realizing their youthful fantastical dreams.

It’s a crazy scene in this dimly lit refurnished barn for older granola heads like I may be some day (I fear it even though I half-expect it). They are so gracious. They smile and laugh and cheer and encourage each other. They actually sing along to your original songs they’re hearing for the first time. There was one older man I actually really liked, he improvised his lyrics and mumbled because of some mouthpiece, pulled foreign words out of his ass, and could hardly play guitar but made it work somehow. He had on a blue dress shirt, jeans, and flip flops. White hair, blue eye, a tan face, and a good smile. I was very excited about his kudos he gave me until he was a little too overly insistent that I come swimming in his shallow bay, after I expressed a slight interest. I’m not sure whether to file him away in the creepster category or overly warm grandfather-type.

One funny thing that struck me was that when I asked for an alcoholic drink before I played, the owner/bartended/blonde old artist in a black floral dress explained that they did not serve alcoholic drinks. But as soon as I sat back down on the couch after my set, she ran up to me like an excited puppy, told me how much she liked my music, and offered me wine or beer for $2. I joked how now I was “in”, but I don’t think it’s a joke. Apparently they are getting into some legal spouts about selling alcohol and advertising their events with a cover to the public.

Nicole & I had so much fun we decided to open mic it up again- but tonight it was at Johnny Picasso’s in Anacortes. A slow night, a small but attentive non-vocal crowd of mostly older ladies knitting. The young blonde barista really liked my stuff and told me I should go to Olympia and try to play at house shows or Bellingham. My eyes glowed (hello, this was the connection I have been pining for!) She offered to write down her musical connections there for me. Instead she produced a list of the founders of K Records (from Olympia), and lists of members in popular local bands that she knew from the venue down the street. I was hoping for something more along the lines of phone numbers for folks that lived in houses with basements for rockin’ instead a list of how popular she was in the music scene by listing names of members of bands I already know. Oh well, she’s young, and so the search continues. Well, at least she is one more person that I now know in the little Skagit scene and beyond. And at least people like my stuff! I am finding out that I am more of an open mic kind of gal than a rockstar who plays in bands.

New House with a Killa View

This is about as posh as I have ever felt. Here I am, clicking away on my newly tuned up lap top that is up to speed with the rest of the world of laptops, perched at my large antique wooden desk, a bottle of red wine to my left, even still more perched on top of a hill that provides me a sweeping westerly view of my entire town, much of the next town, and silhouettes of seaside mountains in the distance (though tonight I can only make them out by watch tower lights on top). In the daytime I know I can see islands. And all I have to do is shift my eyes a few degrees up and look out over my laptop screen and through my large double windows, framed with chipping white lead paint.

I occasionally feel like I am sailing through the constellations when I am on a mountain looking down upon a city. Like I am in outer space. This has only happened in Washington State that I can remember. Perhaps because I was rarely on mountains growing up.

It is midnight and I am in my new fully furnished bedroom on 5^th St. I should really go to bed since I have to awake in 7 hours, but I promised myself this time to write. I have to conceal the wine because this is a dry house.

The past 2 days I saw a lot of people driving. I was driving myself or biking. I slowed down and neutrally paid attention to the scene of being in a car, barreling down a road. I thought of how much time we spend in cars. I thought of how routine this time is we spend in this box on wheels navigating around other boxes on wheels. How did this become a normal acceptable part of our day? It doesn’t feel normal to me. I am blessed that I have for a very long time been able to walk or bike to where I need to go- for the past 6 years I have been able to do this most of the time since I started college. But I do do a lot of highway driving between cities. Here I can take a bus for very cheap, although the late night and weekend hours are inconvenient. I am lucky that now I live a minutes' bike ride from work, or a 5 minute walk. I hope you live close to your immediate needs as well, or that you one day can. It feels like the way humans are meant to live, in a village. This is a great way to feel a true sense of community.