On the Map

Time runs a little short here a the Front Door and thus I will keep my rhetoric brief.

Fifty-five days seems like a long time, but when you try packing up your life for a year with the intention of walking back into it being reasonably intact, the schedule starts to feel pretty tight.  I am inspired by people who are able sell it all, saddle their respective ride and hit the road with no intention other than to learn a little about the world and have some fun, but I am not that man. My Dad raised a planner and my mother born a worrier; I need a good map and a home base to enjoy myself to the fullest on a journey.


It is strange to be a bit homesick two months before Jen and I hit the road, but I would be lying to myself did I not acknowledge the feeling.  My wife and I have turned a rat infested shit box that smart people told me to bulldoze into our beautiful home with love, trust and the strength of those that feel the same for us.  I have a career that I have learned to love because every day I laugh and am taught something new by a child a quarter of my age.
I live in the greatest place that I know on earth.

But of all of these attachments that I struggle to leave behind, it is my people that will cause my heart to  ache the most.

I am comforted however to know that no matter how far I may roam on this planet, that my neighbor, my friend, and my Buddy Aaron Erbeck will always be on the map.


Kla Ha Ya
Kloshe Konaway

Matt

Friday post work rendezvous, Olympic Sculpture Park.  

My City's Filthy. 

Super secret Hood Canal bivy.  Gracias la familia de Roberta!

 Potlach State Park. Located on land the Skokomish Tribe knew as Enetai, the park is named in honor of Potlatch, the gift giving ceremony.  A good hydration station and a worthy FDA objective in it's own right.  

Erbeck wawa, Wake kopet
.

Aaron Erbeck, Jefferson County line sprint champ. 

Safety meeting.

On the MAP.

FDA's aren't  all shits and giggles.  Big Dummy's weren't really designed for pushing uphill.

I developed an overwhelming case of kickstand envy on this trip.

 Bushwhack 1:  Light brush, travel mostly unimpeded, only occasional use of hands required.  

Summit ridge payoff,  Mount Jupiter at the sunset.  

 Where did you drink your Sunday morning coffee?

Boat ride home.  Living the Dream and back on the MAP.

Spring Break

Best payoff ever.  Summit of Mount Saint Helens to Marble Mountain Snow Park; over 5,600 feet on skis.  Marble Mountain to Cougar, Washington; 2,200 feet of pavement through the woods without a stroke of the pedals or a single car.  Living the Dream.  Photos by Cliff Leight.

A tough question.  

What was your highlight of the week Matt?  Jenny asks as we sail eastward home across a blustering Puget Sound under the ever darkening skies of a spring storm.  We play the "Highlight" game often and it is usually easy for me to pick out best part of any given day.  

I sit back and grin with content as I rewind the events of my spring break through my weary head.   You know you have it good when it's hard to pick the best among the many great things that happened over last seven days.

A childhood memory. 

I am almost three years old standing near the couch and staring out through the glass of my living room window.

When the hell is my Dad coming home?, the resounding thought in my juvenile brain.

Mom tells me something about a mountain that blew up and Dad having to go clean-up the mess.  Still I stand, staring and waiting, not really understanding what a mountain is why one would blow-up in the first place.

When the hell is Dad coming home?

On May 18th, 1980 Mount Saint Helens, the nearly perfectly symmetrical "Fugiama" of North America awoke from a brief geologic slumber and blew its top spewing over a 540 million tons of debris sixteen miles into the atmosphere of a clear spring day.  The blast created from the lateral uncorking of the mountain and subsequent release of pressurized gasses could be heard as far away as Idaho and Northern California. The collapse of the entire north flank of the mountain caused the largest landslide debris avalanche in recorded history of man and sent a wall of molten rock, ice and water downhill at over 150 miles per hour with enough force to climb 1500 foot ridges over four miles away.  Prevailing winds carried a dark cloud of dust eastward over the crest of the Cascade Mountains blanketing Eastern Washington towns with up to 2 inches of fine volcanic ash.

Washington went into a state of emergency and municipalities from around the region sent personnel, equipment and services to the most heavily impacted areas of the state.  My Dad was working as a heavy diesel mechanic for Snohomish County in the early 1980s and the fleet was sent over the mountains to help clean-up the mess.  As the vehicles went, so went my Father.

In all likelihood Dad was only gone from home a week, but that is a hell of a long time when you are only two-years old.  The experience was profound enough to etch a memory in my brain that I can recall like it was yesterday 33 years later as I pedal my sorry ass and a pair of skis up the last steep miles of Forest Service Road 83 towards Saint Helens in the waning evening light.

Earn your turns.

I am anything but a good skier, but I think I might be starting to wrap my head around why folks prefer to hike a hill over taking a lift to the top.

The ethos seems similar to one I was raised with; work before play.  Like life, grinding your way slowly uphill is not always the most enjoyable part of a journey.  But in the struggle and pain of the ascent often lie the greatest opportunity for learning and growth.  The steeper and longer the climb, the sweeter and more joyful the coast.

Jen and I have been climbing hard for quite a while and are getting ready for the downhill ride of our young lives.  Over the last nine years we have built careers, a home, and set roots in a community of people that have become family to us.

On July 1st, 2013, with a deep sense of joy, a true sadness and overwhelming excitement Jen and I will depart the Front Door for one year to do a little exploring around this great planet of ours. The plan is rough, but the commitment is strong and no matter what happens, we ride from here.

High entertainment value.

Quarter to noon on a Thursday at the Fat Moose Bar & Grill in Woodland, Washington.  I am not quite lost but trust that a short conversation with a small town barkeep might save me a little time and effort on my journey back to Kelso.  A cold beer on a hot day sounds pretty good as well.  Armed with verbal directions, a mental map and a slight buzz I step outside into the sun.  Two old boys dressed in their best for the pre-happy-happy-hour specials examine my rig.  

Them waterskis you got there son? one pipes up.

No sir, they are snow skis.  I responded with earnest and respect in my voice.

The both shake their heads in disbelief and shuffle slowly towards the front door.

You're a hell of a long way from any snow boy.  The taller one snickers over his shoulder as he holds the door for his compadre.  They continue to giggle as the door slams behind them.

I smile and saddle my bike, happy to provide these men a story from the bar different from the bullshit that usually comes home on Thursday afternoons.

Riches.

The large roadside sign reads:

What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the world and lose his own soul?  Mark 8:36

Historically and culturally I am a Christian.  My Dad taught me how to play Bingo during his rotation for Sunday School, my vacation Bible camps were taught by a First Nations Chief in a Tepee,  I have been baptized and Jesus is Just Alright with Me.  I figure I've got my bases covered, but have always had really hard time putting my name on any brand of mass conformity.  People in power have a unique way of fucking up and twisting anything truly sacred in this world, and faith is a private matter anyhow.  This is likely all you will ever hear me say about the issue.

Country roads can be a lonely place and the sign got me thinking about things a little though.  Mark the Apostle seems like a decent enough fella, although rumor has it that he turned tail when shit hit the fan on his first world tour for Jesus.  I can't decide if he was really smart or just lacked conviction.

In any case a few of his philosophical meanderings resonate with me and think that he actually might be on to something with this one here.  I am no biblical scholar, but think Mark 8:36 can easily be translated to The best stuff in life really isn't stuff, or The shit you own eventually ends up owning you.

Seems like an awful lot of folks these day work themselves silly to afford big houses and fancy toys that they never have time to enjoy because they are so busy earning money to pay for them.  I am not here to judge, but feel like if we all spent a little more time appreciating what we have instead of trying to collect more of it, the world may be a little happier place.  

Highlight of the week.

Jenny is fast asleep;  a six AM wake-up call on the beach, forty-five miles of hilly terrain and a beer are the best sleep medicine a doctor can order for a girl who has trouble getting quality shuteye.  

The ridge of high pressure over the Pacific Northwest has collapsed and the wind is blowing hard outside; my spring break is drawing to a close as raindrops beat off the skylights above my head.   

Jenny's question drives hard at me as the cursor blinks against the white of the screen. 

What was your highlight of the week Matt?

A small snip of bourbon, another bite of ice cream and I close the screen and sit content in the dark.  

When you had a week as good as mine, you just don't need to pick out the best part.

Living the Dream,

Matt

 Bike love at the Front Door in Greenwood.

Rails are fair game in the FDA and I love the Amtrak Cascades.   Edmonds, WA.

 The Amtrak Cascades runs the Interstate-5 corridor from Vancouver, BC to Eugene, OR and provides reasonable access for a motivated bicycling alpinist.

 

Yale Lake Reservoir, Lewis River, WA.

The highway ends and the forest service road begins.  Ten miles and 2000 feet to climb before I sleep. 

A peek just before the lights go out motivates me for another hour of hard climbing. 

Peel a layer, stick the skins, and sunscreen up.  

The man, the myth, the legend Cliff Leight charges up the frozen slopes on the southern flank of Mount Saint Helens.

The Luscious Light Bar by Jenny Hurst.  By far the best adventure fuel I have ever eaten.  

Mom, don't look at this photo. Photo credit Cliff Leight

Gazing across a mile wide crater, it is hard to imagine the amount of energy released when Mount Saint Helens blew its top.

 D. Rainey enjoying the payoff.

 Tres Amigos.  Much to the relief of my lovely wife, Darren and Cliff met me at the trailhead for the ski.

 Cougar attack, Cougar, WA.

 LeLooska Cultural Center, Ariel, WA.  Much to my disappointment,  nobody spoke the Chinuk Wawa here.

 Dennis Eli of Eli Creations.  Dennis took the time to show me where he got smashed between two storage containers on his property a couple years ago nearly popping his eyes out of his head.    He sells hand made wooden flutes and various other Native memorabilia out of a Tepee on Highway 503.  An interesting stop if you are in the neighborhood.   

I know this girl who really loves water, sunshine...

 and her husband's hairy face.

 Another terrible day in the Emerald City.

Mount Rainier from the Puget Sound. 

 Where did you wake up Saturday morning?  Fay Bainbridge Park is one of the best overnight FDA destinations within striking distance of Seattle.  

The Front Door to the Front Door.  Dad Hurst, this one is for you, slowly but surely the walkway is coming together.  

To Be Seen

It never ceases to amaze me when I see what appear to be fairly intelligent people riding bikes in Seattle at night wearing dark cloths.  To each their own I suppose, but I have been have been hit by a car at a high rate of speed.  I feels like shit and takes functional years away from your life even it doesn't kill you.

I get the whole hip European thing about jaunting around on your your bike from one fabulous engagement to the next dressed in business casual with no helmet,  and don't get me wrong I would love for Seattle to look much more like Coppenhagen.  But hell Man, this ain't even Portland.  It is my opinion that in Seattle a fellow needs to be visible and on his toes if he wants to live long and prosper as a cyclist.

I am not here to take sides on any issue and whole-heartly wish my bicycling ninja friends well, I hope your strategy proves efficacious.    I however, very much like to be seen when I am riding by drivers and other cyclist alike.  I have a really great wife,  a growing family, wonderful friends and some big plans in the future that don't involve colliding with tons of metal and plastic at any rate of speed; I enjoy being alive and highly functional.  With this in mind, Skookum Jacket recently got a little high visibility upgrade.  Unquestionably a bit rough, but for my first go I am not ashamed of the work.

I also must say that the really nice thing about having old gear is that it gives you the courage to experiment with modifications and have little fear of ruining the garment.  At the end of he day if project  really goes south, the piece is more than recycle worthy already and Mom has been telling me to quit dressing like and an orphan for most of my life anyhow.

Kloshe Konaway, Kloshe Nanitch.

Matt

Supplies:  3M reflective tape, seam grip and cutting tools.  Alcohol is handy for cleaning glue off sharp things.

 

Stencils.  Note to knuckleheaded husbands:  Don't Orange Sharpie your wife's cutting boards.

Learning opportunity 1:

During phase one, I seam-gripped over the entire letters for added durability.  Little did I know that a coat of rubber cement would all but eliminate the reflective properties of the 3M tape.   A week later I added the arm strips and corrected the issue by only seam gripping the edges.  The above photo demonstrates the vast difference in visibility and exposes the need for additional work.  

Glove Love

Several years ago I picked up a pair of OR Stormtracker Gloves at Second Ascent for thirty-five bucks.  They were in the clearance bin and I was looking for a reasonably warm glove with exceptional dexterity to climb frozen waterfalls. Outdoor Research is a local company with a reputation for making gear that is designed to function well and built to last; I felt pretty confident in my purchase.

To me, the best part of ice climbing is sitting in a warm  hut with a buddy sipping whiskey reminiscing the mountainside ribbon of ice that you just ascended; definitely type two fun.  The truth is that ice climbing is really quite miserable, dangerous and nearly nonexistent in my region of Cascadia.  Despite the implicit discomfort and hazard of the pursuit, the crux of the issue for me did not lie in the preposterousness of scaling melting waterfalls with really sharp shit protruding from all four appendages of my body, but in the absurdity of driving ten hours for a half-dozen pitches of unreliable ice. The contradictions abound; pumping tons of carbon into the atmosphere to climb frozen water while bitching about the ever-shortening and warming winter season.  Hmmm, go figure?  Biking and skiing are both more accessible, sustainable and enjoyable winter pursuits in my not-so-humble opinion.

In any case my career as an ice climber fizzled and the Stormtracker's soon made their way into the general use glove rotation.  I commute daily to work by bike in Seattle and these are my go-to glove for the chilly damp mornings of fall, through the temperate somewhat miserable maritime winter, and into the crisp and occasional clear days of spring.

I have chopped cords of maple in these gloves, and swung ice tools into perfect sixty degree alpine ne've.  I have hunted deer in freezing October rains, and bounced perfect powder turns between three hundred year-old firs with these gloves wrapping my hands.  I have traversed both the Olympic and Cascade Mountain Ranges in these gloves, and run home from parties too inebriated ride with the Stormtracker's insulating my little sausages.   I can conservatively state that I have between five hundred and one thousand days of use on this single pair of gloves.   They cover the range for a guy who likes to do a lot of different stuff and thinks speciality outdoor gear is really kind of stupid.

After years of daily use and frequent abuse, the Stormtracker's are just beginning to show their age.  Seams are still intact, zippers still function well and the leather palms are just beginning to wear through.  They continue to do a remarkable job of absorbing snot with limited chaffing as well.  

Once in a while I run across a piece of gear that is so good that I am almost afraid to buy it again or recommended to a friend.  This is how I feel about the Stormtracker's.  It's not that I fear anyone wouldn't be completely satisfied with the glove, but rather that they wouldn't live up to the nearly legendary status I have built.  Honestly though, I have never owned a finer, more durable or versatile pair of gloves.

If I get half the life out of my next pair of Stormtracker's, I will admittedly be a bit disappointed; but I will still feel got a great deal and think you might surmise the same.


Kloshe Konaway-

Matt

Road Trip

I built the Surly LHT with trips like these in mind.

The train speeds quickly against the miles that I earned just days ago when I strapped a pair of skis on my bike, pointed my nose north and began pedaling.  I packed the best I could and set out with little more of an intention than seeking an adventure and spending time with family and friends.

The winter night hurries by silently outside my window as the events of the week play like movie clips inside my weary head.

I met a man who commutes over 80 miles every day by train, ferry and bike from Whidbey Island to Seattle year around, rain or shine.   I respect the effort immensely.

I played pool with childhood friends in my parent's basement.  Nate smiled with the anticipation of an unborn son and Dave was racing home to family across the mountains before Big Jim could fire up the first pot of Folger's in the morning.  I have a heck of a lot of fun watching my buddy's become dads.

I shared time with both my mother and father and left home feeling a little closer to each in different and unique ways.

I made breakfast for my brother and gave him two hugs.  

I rode 30 uninterrupted miles of solitude on a paved bike path through a canopy of Pacific macro flora grinning ear to ear the entire time.  

I drank beers with two old friends in a place where you keep track of your own tab because people trust you.  We spoke honestly with each other because it would do no good to lie, and the truth is a hell of a lot funnier anyhow.

I scared ducks to flight from roadside ditches in the darkness of the Skagit night.  I find it peculiar that they remain unstirred by the roar of thousands of pounds of speeding metal but alarm at the silent report of my bicycle tires meeting chip seal at 12 miles per hour.

I recovered from a 65 mile ride with five shots of tequila and dancing the worm across Cliff's hardwood floors.  I have concluded that water and sleep are much better choices for a fellow if he wishes to be at his best the following morning; albeit less fun.

I crashed repeated trying to ski in 15 fresh inches of heavy Northwest powder and 40 mph winds.  I had a blast and feel decadently rich every time I hitch a ride to the top of a slope on a lift and let gravity pull me down.

I fell asleep spooning a Boston Terrier in front of the fire on Cindy's kitchen floor and woke up 11 hours later in a sleeping bag on a futon.  Hot tea with cream and honey was served soon thereafter; it is really nice to be taken care of.

I blazed a trail up a mountain with the men who taught me how to climb and shared a beer with them as the sun turned the clouded horizon pink salmon over the San Juan Islands to the west.  I like having old friends.  

I asked a couple walking with a dog to watch my kit while I bought food at the Co-Op in Mount Vernon.  When you travel by bike, you sometimes just have to trust strangers.

The conductor calls for the Edmonds station and wakes me from my trance.  I gather my kit and fill my water bottles for the last push home.  One leg over my bike, I gear down and spin to wake my sleeping muscles.  The cold February wind blows off the Puget Sound and nips sharply at my nose and cheeks.  I inhale deeply,  point uphill, and pick-up my cadence.  I think about Jenny.  As much as I  like being on the the road, I miss her dearly and truly love coming home.   I am anxious to crawl into the warm bed beside my wife.

The hill steepens and I begin cutting switch-backs across both lanes as I inch my way higher into the darkness of the frigid night.  My body sweats as the grade inclines again and Saturday night becomes Sunday morning.   I dig in, stand on the pedals and let my loaded bike flex wildly under my body as I grind out the last 100 yards of the climb.   Steam rises rapidly from my open mouth as I crest the hill and roll to a stop.  My  mind is tired and legs burn, but my soul is joyful for all of the wonderful people and rich opportunities in my life.  I am filled with a deep sense of gratitude as I point my nose south for last time on this trip and roll home towards my Front Door.

Livin' the Dream,

Matt

The Sounder Commuter Train is an inexpensive and convenient way to get out of the city with a bike.  The ride cost me $3.50 and saved me 25 miles of urban pedaling.

 The matriarch and youngest of the Alford Clan.  Pretty good looking couple in my humble opinion.

 30 miles of uninterrupted bliss.  The Centennial Trail stretches from the city of Snohomish to Skagit County an is undoubtedly one of the greatest recreational gems of Snohomish County.

 Bike Art. Arlington, WA.

Horse rack.  Bryant, WA.

Current end of the line at the historic Nakashima Barn.

The Rexville Grocery, among my favorite hydration stations.

It is still winter at Mount Baker.

Aging men and an old trees.

To the summit!

Blanchard Mountain and the beautiful Skagit Valley below.

Good day to fly.

The Greatest Adventure

The truth is that I really don't care that much for Valentine's Day; in fact, I think it kind of sucks.

I work in an Elementary School and many of my colleagues have this charming habit throwing their class party and jacking 7-year-olds up on sugar just prior to sending them to PE for me to deal with; hilarious.  Todays' migraine was only rivaled by the one produced on Halloween, my other favorite holiday.
Besides my disdain for trying to manage screaming groups of children cracked-out on corn syrup, the blatant commercialism and exorbitant waste associated with Snt. Hallmark's Day exacerbates my repugnance.  I guess it seems to me that if you need a special day to tell somebody you love them, you probably really don't all that much.

Armed with all my ill feelings towards the celebration of the great Saint, I hopped on my bike this evening and spun the ten miles home through the perpetual winter fog of Seattle trying to think of something special to do for Jen this year.  It's true I tend to be a bit of grouch about some holidays, but I am not such a dick that my wife doesn't get some recognition on Valentine's Day.

Through the Front Door, I dumped my helmet and swung the fridge open in search of a can of liquid tylenol and I was greeted by the best Valentine a guy could ever ask for.  Jen makes it pretty darn hard to be holiday-hating curmudgeon for long.

 Red Velvet Beet Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting.  Snowman has been missing for months, but comes out of the woodwork for homemade cake.

With a cold beer and fork I went to work on my cake, reflecting a little about the woman to which I have devoted my love and life.  My marriage with Jen has certainly been the most magnificent, bold and interesting adventure that I have ever embarked on.  Like any great adventure, there have been obstacles we never could have never foreseen and days when the wind has blown so hard against us we felt we were losing ground.  But in those harder times we have always kept spinning forward and been rewarded by arriving someplace grander than where we began, and a little stronger for the effort.

I couldn't be more happy, proud and thankful to call Jenny my wife and my Valentine.

Cheers,

Matt