Cape Cod... Drink or Destination?

Cape Cod

Pour 1oz. Vodka
Mix Cranberry Juice
add Lime Wedge

or...

Spend seven days languishing in a lounge chair on the tip of the outer Cape with your entire immediate family minus 1 brother and 2 nieces, 525 miles from the politically charged, manic chaos that has come to define Washington, DC.

"I'll take the latter, extra heavy on the family please."

One to two weeks out of the summer in Cape Cod while growing up was a staple of my childhood. While I've finally come of age to appreciate it, this opportunity will be more than cherished. This will be the first time for many, many years that my entire family will all be vacationing there together.

Next week, you may be able to find me combing the local sea shore in a dire attempt to fetch the perfect sand dollar, carelessly strolling through Provincetown watching the hedonistic circus atmosphere take place, or sipping a Bloody Mary and gazing off into the horizon.

Cape Cod... one of the few places where an "anything goes" mindset is not just the norm, it's a constitutional requirement precedented by decades of overtly liberal, entertaining and outlandish folk.

Whether you go to the Cape to relax, body surf, fish, or engage in sexual libidinous behavior on the beach as identified in this article, it's a great place to be.

Everything is NOT All Good

Not too far beyond the precipice of the "mid-summer", an unwanted anxiety slowly begins to find its way into my well being.

Flashbacks to 30 degree temperatures, impending snow storm warnings, and complete incarceration for four months bring out my gag reflex.

Slowly but methodically, one day at a time, the later the summer gets the more my seasonal anxiety begins to strengthen its grip on my conscious.

That being said, last winter I made a pact to myself that I would get out and into the wild in order to spend as much time as I could attending festivals, hiking and camping. I'm confident that if some sort of audit was conducted at this very moment my progress report would reflect a modest B-. Had I not gone to Alaska and done some pretty arduous hiking and fishing I think I'd coast by with a simple C.

Which brings me to why everything is not All Good...

All Good festival - Martins Mountain Top, Masontown, WV the apex of all that summarizes my summers objectives and goals. Held annually, All Good festival brings about 30,000 jamsters from all over the states, as well as top notch talent consisting of the likes of Dark Star Orchestra, Perpetual Groove, Phil Lesh, etc... the list goes on.

Unfortunately for me, this year I've decided not to attend. It's not the three and half hour drive out to West Virginia, it's not the $150 ticket price, ok... well that may have something to do with it. It's the cost of everything god damn it! (230 miles x 2 = 460 total miles), assuming 20 miles per gallon in my truck comes out to approximately 23 gallons of fuel burned. 23 x $4.09 gass = ~$100.

Now take into account food and beverage (of which are also completely inflated) and you end up with a $400 dollar-2 day weekend. Good times or not, I just can't bring myself to do it. I can think of many other "good times" to be had that come in the shape of a 4o ounce cold dark bottle, a good book and a poolside lounge chair.

So, suffice it to say, with my spirits slightly dampened and my summer report card floundering, I'm going to try to make the best of my weekend out on the river again! My show must go on.

Moo Moo's First Swim

Meet Miss Emma, allegedly the fastest, strongest, most talented brindled pit bull terrier to ever traverse the volatile, treacherous and sometimes deadly waters of the upper Occoquan Reservoir.

Local legend has it that Miss Emma once pulled three burly sailors to safety after the vessel they were in had stumbled upon an iceberg and capsized.

Yup... I know what you're thinking, "Icebergs in the Occoquan?", "A 30 pound mongrel Pit Bull mixed breed mutt pulling men to safety?".

What can I say? I heard about it from a friends cousin's sister's boyfriends brother in-law! He said it happened to his best friend and that his wife's uncle saw it all happen.

Anyways, here she is with her doggy vest on all jazzed up to swim in the Occoquan. We took her out there Saturday.

What a stunningly gorgeous day. The optimal temperature, moderately sunny, and a private cove just a stones throw from my house made it feel like a sliver of our own paradise for a day.

Believe it or not, for as small a dog as she is, she kicked ass! I'm so proud of little muttsy. I didn't even have to coax her into the water at first. She chased a few sticks up to her shoulders.
Then after a few confidence boosters I dragged her about 100 ft out into the water and watched her swim back to shore. I thought I might have even seen a few tail wags in there.

At one point, like a receiver showing off by spiking a football, she grabbed a piece of floating Styrofoam and brought it into shore.

Not only do I have the best swimming pit bull this side of the Mississippi, I've also got a dog that is more environmentally conscious than myself.

My dog is green. How about yours?

It's Good to be King

This by far is indisputably my most favorite picture that I took throughout my brief travel to Alaska.

Proudly perched on the top of his own self declared throne, located somewhere in the vicinity of 90 miles out in the Prince William Sound of southern Alaska, it was more than obvious that "King" owned this jagged, inhospitable rock sculpture as well as the two accompanying islands found near by.

While his harem of female sea lions engrossed themselves in barking in a primal attempt to protect their fertile breading grounds (at Kings behest of course) King barely exerted enough energy to pretend to care.

While female sea lions would fight tooth to flipper in order to defend the smallest nook of serrated, jagged, sharp rock, comparatively speaking, Kings domain consisted of a wide swath of flat welcoming rock exclusively reserved for the upper echelon of seal kingdom.

With his insatiable mass and domineering presence, not one junior sea lion in the local vicinity dared to challenge him.

We circled around this random rock formation in a twenty two foot aluminum fishing boat, gawking at this unreal environment. While we exchanged fleeting glances amongst each other, I felt that we were all thinking the same thing and discretely wondering if we were really in the United States proper.

Later on in the afternoon we witnessed two humpback whales performing their mating rituals while we circled around several gregarious porpoises swimming curiously around the boat.

Although fishing was a bit slow that day, I did manage to convince a small halibut to bite my hook. Please excuse the red faced look of utter constipation on my face as I had just gaffed a fish half the size of my body in a proud moment.

Later on, we decided to stop by one of the many islands in the Prince William Sound. These islands had the inviting look of paradise (as seen on TV). But after stepping off the boat with our waiters on, the bone chilling coldness of the salty water penetrated right through the neoprene protection and rested itself directly into my inner core . It was a startling realization that this environment played well on the eyes but was inhabitable. In any case, it was absolutely surreal.

This was undeniably the best part of my trip! I hope everyone in their life time gets to see something this amazing!!!

The Rushing Russian

We averaged somewhere in the nature of four to five hours of sleep per night. After climbing snow saturated mountains, fording rivers, all the while subsisting on a steady diet of granola, beef jerky and silt tainted glacier water it was time to relax.

Relaxation came in the form of fishing for salmon in the Russian River.

"The Russian" as the locals call it is one of the most heavily fished sockeye salmon streams in Alaska. Fortunately or unfortunately for us, the salmon that coaxed us into coming to the Russian that day were running a few weeks behind their migratory schedule. Reaping the benefits of this irregular cycle, the four of us owned the pristine waters of the Russian River for a day.

Hip waiters pulled snuggly around our chests, fishing poles in hand, the crew and I struck out to catch our limit of natures bounty. Within ten minutes K-man had landed a decent sized trout.

As envious as I was, I snapped this picture and started walking upstream more than eager to stake out my own ground. I couldn't help but notice how absolutely gorgeous it was out there. The temperature peaked around 65 degrees, the sun was luminously shining and the air smelled of crisp mountain dew.

Besides K-man catching what appeared to be the same trout over again, as time went on fishing became something less than a fruitful effort.

Fruitless or not, it was still a very surreal and peaceful time. As I stood there in the stream listening to the water trickle by, I thought to myself how far I was from home.

As we were wrapping up and walking back to the car, Sal suddenly stopped and anxiously pointed across the stream.

A few seconds later a brown grizzly bear came lumbering through the brush. Indiscreetly trudging through the thicket and rooting around for salmon scraps this bear had no shame. Hell, we were in his backyard. This was our first bear sighting and it happened to be a grizzly.

It took a few seconds for the novelty to wear off and for me to realize that this primal beast was foraging around for it's next meal not more than 50 feet across a shallow stream from us.

While most of the typical Alaskan wildlife eluded us on our hiking excursion, this was definitely a convenient moment for us to get a taste of our first bear sighting. We were standing fairly close to the stairs up to the parking lot.

There was another fisherman standing just out of frame on the same side as the bear. Moments after seeing this grizzly the four of us started screaming... "GRIZZLY, GRIZZLY, GRIZZLY!!!".

I wish I was able to capture the look on this poor souls face. It was absolutely priceless.

Instinctualy, the man darted across that stream with little to no concern for the potential of drowning. Mind you that this was the same part of the stream I managed to get half way across earlier in the day and decided to turn around because it was a little too forceful for my tastes.

Even though I did not even catch a snag it was a great day.

The Crossing Part II

In my mind there were two distinct parts to this hike. I have categorized them as before the crossing, and after the crossing.

So allow me to explain. There were at least two or three snow crossings before this one. These slippery, snow filled crossings were as I've alluded to in my previous posts "manageable".

Manageable in the sense that serious bodily harm and/or death was not an imminent factor. As we approached the last crossing it initially seemed that it would be more or less similar to the others.

After painstakingly walking heel to toe for about 15 feet onto this crossing, I realized that it felt different. This embankment seemed to be pitched at a much steeper grade than previous passes. When I looked ahead to try to make out the end of the crossing it also appeared to be a lot lengthier as well.

It wasn't until I was approximately 1/4 of the way across before I gained up enough courage to look down. What I saw didn't immediately resonate in my brain. A long, snow filled, icy slope complete with a 3500 foot fall off of the mountain winked back at me. I was in complete disbelief. "What the fuck am I doing?", "I'm a calculated risk taker", "This is bullshit".

It is important to understand that the angle of this particular crossing was on par with any black diamond ski slope that I have ever skied on.

Lacking an ice ax or spiked shoes, if I had slipped, it is a forgone conclusion that I would have slid right off of the side of that mountain into the abyss. It was revealed to me a few minutes after completing this crossing that someone had recently died at the very same spot a week before.

Gathering what senses I had left, I managed to concentrate and continue on. At a couple of points I could feel my legs trembling from a variety of factors. The stress of walking heel to toe, shouldering a 40 pound bag slumped over my back, and lets not forget sheer terror. I remember at one point about half way through where I momentarily went into full panic attack mode. Somehow I was able to coach my nervous system out of it.

About three quarters of the way across the snow became noticeably harder which subsequently made it more difficult to gain any sort of reliable footing. Inch by inch, I walked slowly until I had reached the end of the crossing.

Sitting on this rock shortly after completing the crossing, I was actually angry at myself for doing this. I still have mixed feelings about this and whether I should have done it or not.

The Crossing Part I

We began our Alaskan adventure in the Chugach National Forest. Tasked with completing the Crow Pass Trail in two days, I confess, I was on edge from the get go. What about bears? Would seven granola bars suffice if we had to stay an extra day? How am I going to carry a 40lb backpack 27 miles?

Fiddling through my backpack and anxiously awaiting our destination, I knew my fate was sealed for me right around the the time we began navigating a remote, unforgiving, narrow dirt road one mile from the Crow Pass trail head. There was no turning back.

Around ten o'clock a.m we met up with the other two hikers and began assembling the last of our 40 pound backpacks. A few group photo's were taken, a couple "don't get eaten by a bear" jokes were cracked, and shortly there after we started our ascent to a higher elevation.

The initial climb was undeniably intense. Straight uphill, one of the more "in shape" members of our party confessed that he was already winded. As a result we took a brief rest. Shortly after recovering our winded lungs we came upon a section of the trail with several inches of snow.

One of the more distinct memory's that I have of the initial part of this hike was a cave that was carved out of snow by a bear that Sal had pointed out.

Here it was mid June and I was laboriously trudging through several inches of snow admiring bear caves. Where the hell was I, this is so foreign?

After several hundred more feet, aching legs complimented by sore backs we reached the three mile marker ..."the cabin".

From here it was less of a climb per say and more of an endurance of will power, nerves, and shear energy.

I honestly do not remember much from this point until we reached the first snow crossing (perhaps 2-3 more miles?). The first few crossings were hairy to say the least but in retrospect absolutely manageable.

Equipped with all the latest REI gear that a DC suburbanite hiker can get his hands on, one thing became apparent, I was completely unprepared for and lacked equipment for anything beyond these easy snow crossings.

Contintued in next blog...