June 30th, 2018. Arrival day in Oregon. If you know, you know.
June 29th, 2018- At 19 years old, I have learned very quickly that there are some things in life that you just shouldn’t miss out on, and if you don’t ask, nobody can say no. Asking to go on a 3,000 mile road trip out of nowhere was certainly something I wasn’t going to take a risk on.
It could have been as early as one point five million years ago that early hominids begin using fire. Then, stone tools out of Kenya. Language, bipedalism, and advancements of the cranium. Then we had art… elaborate cave paintings, jewelry, tattoos, and garments. Intelligence, as we know it, has been measured. With carefully collected data we can conceptualize just exactly how human we really are. A constant reminder to ourselves that we really do exist. A real schematic of time and space.
If Roger Keith “Syd” Barrett hadn’t reached for the answers too soon, we’d have never heard such mosaic sounds. And upon his return to Earth, Syd had not found his knowledge easily translated. And soon he became A target for far away laughter. An artist’s greatest skill is not to access the unknown, but rather be accessible to it. The joke of it all is this: the burden is no longer on the shoulders of the artist but rather in the ability for their audience to translate it.
I’ve had some trouble sleeping lately. My head feels like a block of lead and my mood has flat lined. An Interim daze holds authority while I fade in and out of sleep. My limbs, I would assumed paralyzed, have adopted a mind of their own; they move. My brain stakes its gamble where it should and sacrifices a healthy night’s sleep for thoughts of snowboarding. And while this reality shakes hands with the gatekeeper of dreamland, those thoughts turn to dreams of snowboarding and my limbs act out what they cannot do for seven more months.
Release the hounds. The chaos begins at the rope and ends at the next run over. Ignore every siren going off in your brain, every primal extinct: the reflection of fear, insanity, and pain. Embedded in a short period of time is a high you can’t find on any street corner or bar. It’s the kind of euphoria you get when you blend panic and comfort. Every snowboarder and skier finds happiness in this satanic cocktail. It’s only on the rope tow you’ll find this particular atmosphere. There are no breaks. There are no stops. No rules. It’s chugging at an invaders pace until your gloves are filled with holes or your heart is.
Mt Ski Gull. (It’s by Brainerd)
Like most of us, you probably never heard of it – but this place is amazing. It’s a nonprofit ski hill with a long, wide, medium-grade park, a crazy fast rope tow, lots of trees to cut the wind, and a constant whisp of woodsmoke. It absolutely made our day.