I’m happy to report that the same judge who, one month earlier, ordered a stay on Oregon’s domestic partnership bill has reversed his own ruling! Now gays and lesbians here in Oregon can get legal benefits almost but not quite exactly like straight couples. It’s not called “marriage” though, because gay marriage was voted down a couple years ago. To be honest, I’m perfectly fine with that. Marriage is a religious institution anyway and has no business being muddled with by the government.

But when has the government taken the separation of church and state seriously lately? Oh well. Go and get yourselves happily domestically partnered all you lovely Oregon queers out there! Yayness all around!

elle jo

With only four days before domestic partnership rights were to be bestowed upon us Oregon queers, U.S. District Judge Michael Mosman, in his right-winged wisdom, threw a grenade into the works. I wonder if he thought to himself, “Lets wait until the last possible second to make this ruling just so that I can fuck with people’s heads.”

As it turns out, a conservative out-of-state organization called The Alliance Defense Fund brought the issue of Oregon’s domestic partnership bill to the U.S. District Court.  The ADF is a conservative group started by nutters like James Dobson and James Kennedy. Tell me that an out-of-state group, a conservative one at that, and a federal court imposing its agenda on what is supposed to be a state issue doesn’t sound suspicious.

Thankfully the ruling doesn’t affect the other rights that will be bestowed unto us Oregon queers beginning January 1. Rights such as protections from discrimination and equal housing. Nevertheless, the blatant federal attack on one of the biggest issues in the LGBT alphabet soup is just disgraceful. Basic Rights Oregon is already fighting the ruling but the injunction pretty much ensures that the law won’t go into effect until February 1 (unless Dobson and his cronies gets their way).

I’ll be attending a vigil on January 2 to protest this ruling. And I’m pretty certain my comic will be addressing this issue as well.

elle jo

Here are a few pix from my attempt to summit Mt. Thielsen:
(Sorry, they don’t click to embiggen.)

Thielsen in the early morning hours.

The climb was a gnarly class iv with lots of loose rock.

In case we forgot where we were.

Mt. Thielsen in its glory.

The view of Thielsen from the Crater Lake road.

One of our climbers didn’t bring an extra pair of shoes, so he barefooted it up the snowy hill to see Crater Lake.

Wizard Island on the beautiful Crater Lake.

Salt Creek Falls is always a stunning sight.

el jo

The weather had been overcast and rainy for a while in the Willamette Valley, but Thomas assured me that the skies would be clear for tackling Mt. Thielsen in Southern Oregon. The summit is at 9,182 feet which meant that we’d be ascending about 4,000 vertical feet from the trailhead on Highway 138. Mt. Thielsen is only a stone’s throw to the north of Crater Lake. I’d never been there before and since there was a possibility of going to Crater Lake as well, I had to get in on this trip.

We gathered on Friday evening at the OP Barn, packed our gear in the trailer, and headed out in Safari, the smallest of the OP’s van fleet. Safari is a nice van to drive because it’s a modest, eight-person ride. Plus, it has both a CD player and the increasingly elusive tape deck. We were able to listen to a mix disc as we departed, then we listened to my iPod with the help of a stereo cassette adapter. With the exception of my lounge music, there weren’t any objections to the music picks I made. (I played the lounge version of Istanbul Not Constantinople followed by the They Might Be Giants version to kind of atone for my lounge music.) With the music issue taken care of, the eight of us headed east on Highway 58 to hook up with the 97 southbound.

Evening turned into night and it was dark by the time we got to the Highway 97 junction. As the light faded, we saw a line of clouds gathering toward the south where we were ultimately headed. By the time we got to the 138 junction, the clouds had become a dark, brooding, almost ominous presence in the sky above us. As we headed west on 138 toward the trailhead, the clouds above us slowly began to dominate the night sky making the already moonless night completely pitch black. I felt as though our van was but a humble monk crawling toward an inky silhouette of the high Himalayas.

After 18 miles on the 138, we reached the trailhead parking lot. The mass of clouds completely blotted out the stars and I found myself thinking about what the skies will eventually look like in a trillion years after all the stars go out: dark, empty, lonely space. The only things that kept me flying away into deep eschatological despair were my six traveling cohorts and the fact that far off in the distance, the lights of Chemult were reflecting off the low ceiling of the murky clouds.

Including myself, there were two women on this venture. When we went to set up the tents, it was pretty much assumed by the two of us that we’d be sharing my tent. The first thing we did when we got to the trailhead was to scout out a suitable camping spot. The guys were planning on sleeping in their tents on the asphalt but when they saw that I had set up my tent on considerably softer ground, three of them reconsidered their plan. Like mighty Atlas hauling the Earth on his shoulders, one of the guys picked up the three-person tent and carried it off into the woods. Unfortunately his plan wasn’t entirely well though tout as the space between the trees tended to be narrower than the width of the tent. However, with some careful maneuvering, the guys deposited their little earth on a small patch of big Earth.

The clouds helped to retain what little warmth there was in the air. I was wearing a skirt and sandals while the rest of my cohorts were bundled up in trousers and boots. “I have Viking blood in my veins! I can handle the cold.” It was a cute, but ultimately absurd talking point. As I sat waiting for dinner (you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten “Combat Annie’s” mac and cheese with only a bit of water and the powdered cheese mix blended together while sitting on asphalt in 35 degree weather), my legs and feet gradually grew more and more chilled. Though we were all seated around a small fire, it was not the kind of fire that keeps feet warm. It was a tiny candle lantern. How romantic!

At one point during dinner, the sky cleared up and I was very pleasantly reminded that the stars in the sky are still very much burning bright. In Eugene I consider myself fortunate to be able to see the brightest stars that help to define constellations like Orion, Cassieopeia, or the Big Dipper, but that night out in the wild, I was able to get a small taste of what the Greeks must have seen when they gave names to the constellations. The sky was brimming with millions of tiny lights, and for the first time in years I was able to see the band of the Milky Way Galaxy. I could see why our word galaxy could come from the ancient Greek word for milk. It was a stunning sight that no photo could ever hope to reproduce (which is one reason why I didn’t even try).

After dinner, we cleaned up the cookware, locked up Safari and the trailer, and called it a night. It was about 11:00 pm and if we were lucky, we might just get one or two hours of sleep before we got up to start our trek up the mountain. I didn’t bother to attach the rain fly to my tent mostly because the last several times I’d gone camping I didn’t need it. I didn’t really stop to consider that the last few times I’d used it was during the summer when it was warm. Heh, whoops! I rolled around like a frozen burrito in my crusty sleeping bag in a desperate but ultimately vain attempt to get warm enough to fall asleep. Viking blood my ass! When I get too cold, I can’t sleep. I wound up wound up rotating in my sleeping bag for at least an hour trying and failing to get some decent sleep. I probably did manage to catch a few Zs periodically, but it wasn’t quite to my satisfaction. When the alarm went off at 5:00 am, I was awake and waiting for it. When I finally worked up the grit to get out of my sleeping bag (though it was cold, it was still hella warmer than the air outside of it), I saw that the sides of the tent were not only wet, but frozen. Yeah, I think I’ll put the rain fly on next time I camp in sub-zero temperatures.

Everybody was up and moving by 5:15 am and gathering for a breakfast of piping lukewarm oatmeal. The day before, I’d made it a point to pick up some genuine maple syrup for the oatmeal. I was a bit chagrined to discover that it was actually instant, pre-flavored oatmeal for breakfast and not plain flavor-it-yourself oatmeal like I was expecting. I took the lone packet of maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal, mixed it with slowly cooling water, and put a modicum of maple syrup into it. Meh, it was tasty. I ate a couple more packets of blueberries and cream oatmeal in Safari, where everybody was hanging out to get warm.

When we hit the trail, the night was still clinging to the sky, salting the heavens with starry splendor. It wasn’t long before the sky was quickly consumed by the shapes of treetops. We hiked up the trail by flashlight for about two or three miles. Soon, rosy fingered dawn greeted us on the trail and we caught glimpses of Mt. Bailey in the distance. Below Bailey was what appeared to be a large bank of fog, but as dawn matured, we realized that it was actually Diamond Lake. Several of us tried to snap photos of the mountain, but if their cameras were anything like mine, all we managed to get was a white blur obscured by blurry black stripes in the foreground. The first good photos wouldn’t come until after sunrise when we hit the lower ridge of Mt. Thielsen where the trail crosses with the Pacific Crest Trail.

Along the trail were traces of snow. Both Mt. Bailey and Mt. Thielsen were dusted in a light coating of snow. While it was very beautiful to look at, hiking in the slurp of the snow proved to be frustrating. I don’t have a proper pair of hiking boots, so I had to make do with my well-worn pair of Doc Martens. While I might look super sexy on the street in these nimble leather boots, they’re practically worthless when trying to climb a snow-covered mountain. After almost daily wear over the course of two years, the tread, which was not by any means the most rugged of treads, was practically smooth. I did a lot of slipping and sliding on the snowy slope. I was barely to the treeline when I began having doubts as to whether I would make it to the summit or not.

Through sheer force of will, I managed to slip and slide my way up the mountainside. A cutaway view of our route up the mountain would resemble an exponential graph: a slow and steady incline which rather rapidly becomes steep. By the time we were past the treeline and ascending the loose Talus slope, the angle of the ascent was around 45 degrees. Step on a bit of loose scree or lean a little too far back and I was in for a very long roll down the mountainside. Fortunately the snow which earlier was causing me a slippery ride up the mountain was now helping to provide me with more secure footing along the loose rocks. I kept repeating to myself, “Frozen scree is my friend. Frozen scree is my friend.” The best places to ascend were along the boundaries of snow and rock. The rock alone was too loose for secure footing and the snow was too frozen to kick in footholds. But the border between the two proved to be very helpful in the climb.

During the ascent, rest breaks became more and more frequent. I once mused to one of my cohorts that we took a break with every ten vertical feet. Well, tackling a mountain is a lot of work to do on only one and a half bowls of oatmeal. Unfortunately I’d left most of my trail food back in the van. The only thing I brought with me was a box of white cheddar Cheez-Its. Hardly the best thing for a mountain climb. Eventually I reached a point about three hundred feet or so from the summit where I had to call it quits. It bummed me out that I couldn’t make it all the way to the summit, but I had to save energy for getting back down the mountain.

A few days earlier, I went to a presentation on rock and mountain climbing by Micah Dash and Ed Viesturs. Ed is a climber of renown for ascending the 14 8,000+ meter peaks without the use of supplemental oxygen. He mentioned in his presentation that he’s turned away from the summit of various peaks on several occasions because he understands that getting to the summit is only half of the climb. In the Himalayas, it’s typically the weather that forced him to turn back, sometimes only 100 feet from the summit. But after climbing a mountain, I know now that climbing 100 feet can be an extremely energy draining task at 8,000 feet let alone 8,000 meters. He didn’t let pride or ego convince him to keep going when common sense told him to turn back. I didn’t need to prove to myself or to anyone else that I could make it to the summit. Sure, I wanted to, but I listened to my body and my common sense and they told me I had to stop. So, three hundred feet from the summit, I found a cozy spot and crashed fast asleep for about 90 minutes.

When I woke up, I heard the voices of the guys who did make it to the summit. Some of them were shirtless on their way back down the mountain. It was now around noon and the sun finally made it to the west side of the mountain, warming up the snow as well as the climbers. We’d spent six hours on the mountain and we were only just now starting to make our descent. The heat was melting the previously frozen snow making the descent down the mountain more like a descent down a steep flight of stairs. A really long flight of stairs. In only two hours, one third the amount of time it had taken to ascend the mountain, we were down the mountain and back at the trailhead.

Back at the van, everybody peeled out of their soaking wet boots. They were sprawled out on the pavement of the parking lot, exhausted as though they had just climbed a mountain. Funny thing, that. We noshed on some of our food, packed the trailer, and were on the road within half an hour. Now we were homeward bound, but not without a brief detour to Crater Lake for a quick photo-op.

I haven’t been to Crater Lake since the early 1990s, but it’s still just as beautiful as I remembered it. And fortunately for us (me especially), we didn’t need passports to get into the National Park! (Earlier I wrote a comic about the anti-terrorist action the government is thinking about taking at National Parks. They’re contemplating requiring a Federally issued ID to get onto Federal property. In this case, National Park land.) Well, the seven of us didn’t have any problem going to see the lake. Justin, who didn’t bring an extra pair of shoes and didn’t want to put his wet boots back on, barefooted it up the hill to see the lake. I have a photo of his footprint in the snow. Hardcore, man. Hardcore.

We stopped for gas in Chemult where we saw a bright yellow truck carrying a car trailer with a Hummer and two other vehicles on it. In one of the trucks on the trailer was a fluffy-tailed dog. I thought to myself, “What kind of clueless fuck would carry their dog in a truck that is strapped on top of a trailer?” We watched as the driver of the bright yellow truck backed up the trailer with nimble agility and precision trailer backup skills. Wow. And Thomas was complaining about backing up a six foot trailer a distance of ten feet back at the trailhead parking lot.

We got back on the road and things were quiet for the most part with the exception of the iPod playing ethnic electronica. Everybody was wiped out after a night of cold, sketchy sleep and an eight hour climb up and down a mountain. We got back onto the 58 west and I watched with wonder as the trees changed from the spartan pines of Central Oregon to the dense firs of Western Oregon. Around the Waldo Lake junction, we met up with the bright yellow truck and its three vehicle cargo. I was still pretty bemused about the dog in the truck on the trailer, but I soon forgot about it when we turned off to go see Salt Creek Falls.

I’m always awed by long waterfalls like this one. It’s a spectacular sight to watch as Salt Creek literally stops, falls three hundred or so feet, and then resumes its way down the mountain. I have several photos of it from various angles above and alongside. My last photo of the trip is a portrait of one of my traveling cohorts with Salt Creek Falls in the background.

We got back to the OP Barn around 6:00 pm or so. After unloading the van, we settled our debts and headed home. Despite the fact that I was exhausted from the climb, I was elated. I was riding on the high that only the Great Outdoors can provide. When I got home, I was excited to get my photos onto my computer so I could look through them on a screen larger than the two inch dinky-vision on the camera. I took the film card out of the camera, plugged it into the USB drive adapter and then said, “Where’s my computer?”

My computer was stolen. Instantly the rush of my elation was replaced by the despair of losing my closest friend. All my art, comics, emails, music, and so forth, gone. I was completely devastated. I blame myself. The night before I left, I contemplated moving my computer to my bedroom. But I didn’t do it. I left it out in my dining room office. I got complacent about security and I left my computer in an open spot in the main room in a house just south of the U of O Campus on a game day. Big mistake.

This weekend was full of extremes, physical and emotional. I know that the next time I climb a mountain I’m going to need good solid hiking boots with a rugged tread. I know that the next time I camp in sub-zero temperatures, I need to attach the rain fly to my tent. And I know that the next time I leave on a trip, I need to bury my computer deep in the back of my closet. It was a spectacular weekend, but I really could have done without the twist ending.

Classes at UO began this week here in the city of naked hippies. It’s only day two and I’m already insanely busy with, you know, everything. For those who care, here’s a quick rundown of what I’m doing this term:

History of Roman Art (Did you know that most people hate Roman art? They prefer Greek cock. I mean marble.)
Jesus and the Gospels (I’m looking forward to learning more about early Christianity before it got all fucked up. I’m talking to you Paul, you opportunistic prick!)
Second Year Arabic (I’m learning to speak Arabic so I can be turned away by the Government because I’m, well, one of them. Shhh! Don’t tell anyone!)
Fencing (In the event I have some hot new technology that some Middle Eastern buyer might be interested in, I’ll need to know how to fence. “I’m not left handed either!”)
Hatha Yoga (I’m actually a teacher’s assistant for yoga, which is cool since it means I’m going to be learning more Sanskrit than I ever dreamed of. Did you know that ‘chandra’ means ‘moon?’)

In addition to those classes, I’m also going to be refreshing my brain with Ancient Greek legal speeches by Lysias, translating Matt, Mark, Luke, and John from Greek into English (because I’m insane), working 18 hours a week at the UO Outdoor Program, attending weekly archery sessions for the Archery Club, maintaining the website for the Archery Club (it’s really lame-ass simple right now), continuing to draw weekly political comics (gasp!), and on top of all of that I’m going to try to have some semblance of a social life in the form of regular (or semi-regular) trips into the great outdoors with my friends.

(All that was one sentence because my life is that fucking crazy right now. Whoa!)

Oh yeah, and I’m going to try and keep up with this blog by writing the occasional (hopefully reasonably well thought out) rants about the stupid shit going on in the world today. This week’s target: Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and his boast that Iran doesn’t have gays. Definitely going to have to call “bullshit” on that one.

Carpe Diem,
ellejohara

I found out through Facebook that Jeff Merkley, the Oregon candidate for U.S. Senate, was on a tour of Western Oregon announcing his intent to run for Gordon Smith’s seat in Congress. He was in Eugene this afternoon and I made it a point to go and listen to him speak.

While he did give the traditional politician’s speech, essentially telling us things we wanted to hear, the vibe I got from him was of a guy who is a doer, not merely a talker. Merkley is the son of a mill worker, and I definitely got a kind of blue-collar work ethic impression from him. He sounds like a guy who wants to not simply get the job done, but get the job done well.

I’m definitely sick of Gordon Smith’s so-called “moderate” antics, and I’m ready for a change. Given the (probably screamingly obvious) fact that I’m a progressive, I’m going to vote for a progressive candidate.

I rode my bike over to Skinner Butte Park not really knowing what to expect. I’ve never been to anything remotely political before. Fortunately there was a big “Jeff Merkley for U.S. Senate” banner hanging on a tree, so I knew right where to go. The gathering seemed kind of small to me, but I gather that’s largely due to most people’s general apathy toward politics. There were a number of 40+ people in the crowd. The only 30-somethings I saw were either journalists or volunteers of some sort. I only saw a handful of student-aged types in the crowd. Bummer.

When I arrived, I was immediately approached by an attractive woman. Her name is Julia and she works for the AP. So I imagine there’s a slight possibility that one of my asinine quotes might find its way into print somewhere. I was also approached by a guy who works for Blue Oregon. (I’ve got a link to the website in my links section.) I wound up doing a brief interview with him describing my general impression of Mr. Merkley. (So that’s possibly something to look for over at BlueOregon.com. Oy vey!)

Overall, I must say that I’m very happy to be living in Oregon. And I want this state to be well represented in Congress.

Oh yes, I also kind of met Eugene mayor Kitty Piercy. That was cool.

elle jo

Fall has come once again (here in the northern hemisphere anyway) and it won’t be long before the nights are longer than the days. I’ve already gotten a taste of what’s in store for me this winter as far as weather goes and it’s not looking pretty for me.

Every winter for as long as I can remember, I get seriously depressed. In recent years, that depression has even gone so far as to be suicidal. It’s not something I’m happy about and it’s certainly not something I’m very proud of. So this year I’m finally going to get off my ass and do something about it.

I’m not a big fan of pharmaceuticals. I don’t like the idea of being dependent on a drug for day to day activities. I’d much rather find drug-free ways of keeping myself fully functional. Since I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for the last 20-some-odd years, where it’s grey and overcast for five months out of the year, I’ve come to the conclusion that my depression is the seasonal kind that can be treated with light therapy. So instead of Prozac or Zoloft or whatever, I’m going to get myself one of those 10,000 lux light boxes to stare at. Hopefully it will do the trick, because depressed and suicidal is no way to go through winter. (Or the rest of life for that matter.)

The only down side is that those light boxes cost $200. Oy! But if it keeps me from going crazy this winter, it will be worth every cent. If it works, there’s a possibility (oh, and I do hope it happens) that the light box staring will give me enough energy to stay productive on my comics in addition to my regular job and schoolwork. I’ll keep you posted.

elle jo

Here are a few pix from the epic event:
(Sorry, they don’t click to embiggen.)

The rolling hills of Central Oregon along the Deschutes.

Beautiful.

That is one high cliff to jump from. Holy crap!

Head-first into the Deschutes. Ouch!

Scouting out the class IV.

I take it in stride. Class IV? Been there, done that!

el jo

Our camp was in the shadow of a cliff, so we managed to head out before the sun was on the water (which made for particularly chilly water). But since we were camped on a bend in the river, it wasn’t long before the sun was warming our backs. It’s a good thing too, the wind from the Columbia Gorge was brutal and it was very efficient at making us cold. That was the suckiest part of the trip: the wind. Now I’m a Libra and Libras are a sign ruled by the element of air, so I should be all about the wind. Ehh, maybe if I had been sailboarding. Paddling into the wind just sucked. At some points, the gusts were so strong that it felt like they, combined with the current of the river, were keeping us stationary in the river. But eventually the wind died down and I managed to have a more enjoyable time.

Then again, there was the pain in my shoulder to consider. It was still wrenched and throbbing from my little escapade on the bottom of the river two days earlier and paddling furiously into the wind was not making it heal any faster. Quite the contrary. I struck a deal with Jim to swap out with him once we got to the class IV. He would take the IK and I would take the raft. The spare hardshell was then strapped to the back of the IK. Eesh! And I thought it was heavy before! but Jim is buff and he could handle it. (Except when he flipped it in a class III. That was awkward. But everybody’s gear remained dry and Jim was no worse for wear.)

The powerlines along the ridge were getting ominously closer. Two days earlier, Dave had mentioned that the class IV was underneath the powerlines where they crossed the river. I kept a constant vigil of the powerlines, waiting for the class IV. Off in the distance I could hear the rapid, the wooshing of water gradually getting louder. I thought to myself: Okay, I’ve gone through Marten’s Rapid on the McKenzie, I can go through this. Right?

We eddied out on the right and landed on a large outcropping of rocks. On the left, the river was here. On the right, the river was down there. There was about a ten foot drop in the river over fifty yards or so creating a series of beautiful waves about five feet high. So that’s the class IV. Everybody sat and took it in for a bit. It was nice to be able to scout the rapid first before plowing through it. It gave the playboaters an opportunity to examine the waves in hopes of surfing them.

I don’t remember who was first through the rapid, but I do know that everybody did it. Including me. Twice! I powered through the first time in the IK, taking a mellow route to the right of the big waves. (Now I kinda wished I had taken the wave head on. Oh well.) It was a rush! It was an amazing feeling to power through the rapid like that, even if I wasn’t in the big waves. After the rapid, I eddied out and gave the IK to Jim. While he strapped the hardshell onto the back of the IK, I hiked back upstream to the raft to ride through the rapid again (whee!) and float the rest of the way to the take-out.

I missed my opportunity to go through the waves in the IK, but I made up for it on the raft. Raft captain Ben piloted us right into the five foot waves with be on the bow. We dropped down into the hole, getting completely soaked in the process, and then we rocketed back up again for the next wave. The mellow part of the rapid in the IK was nothing compared to this! It was amazing!

There were a few more good waves that I wished I could have gone through in the IK, but my shoulder was really pissed off at me for dragging it along the rocks on the first day. Nevertheless, I had a rocking good time on this trip. We floated the rest of the way to the take-out spot right along the Columbia, got out, and packed up. Raft captain Ben gathered his gear and headed off to Burning Man (which I hope to do myself one day), and the rest of us got in the van and headed back to Eugene.

I’m looking forward to my next trip!

el jo

After banging up my shoulder in that rapid the first day, I opted for the inflatable kayak (IK) for the remainder of the trip. It offered me the stability I needed to keep from flipping and the mobility I wanted to hit the rapids I still felt comfortable with. It was a good decision because day two wound up being the most fun of all three days.

Day two wound up being pretty mellow however. I probably would have fared just fine in a hardshell kayak, but I was royally rattled from dragging along the bottom the day before and I didn’t feel like doing it again anytime soon. I haven’t been put off hardshell kayaking mind you. I’m totally going to do it again, but only after I can guarantee a decent roll. Besides, with my shoulder out of commission, I needed all the breaks I could get.

We stopped for lunch on the right side of the river near a pile of amazing rocks. I really wish I had paid more attention to my mother’s roadside geology lessons when I was younger. (She majored in geology when she was in college.) The rocks were like quartz crystals in that they were hexagonal columns of (I want to say) basalt.

We stopped again a short while later at a cliffside of these hexagonal columns. They reminded me of the Skinner Butte Columns in Eugene except they were only about two-thirds as high and they dropped straight into the Deschutes River. Most of us climbed out to jump off the cliff into the river below. Jesse impressed everyone with not one, not two, but three insane jumps (including a forward flip and a back flip) off the top of the cliff about 40 feet above the river. Not wanting to feel left out, I managed to jump from half that distance from a lower column. (I just wish I had a picture to prove it!)

The day went on and we floated further downstream. We thought we were going to make it to the class IV that afternoon, but folks were getting weary and hungry, so we decided to call it a day. We set up camp on the left side of the river this time, right at a bend in the river. After a dinner of (too) spicy pasta, Jim and Sam paddled across the river in the IK to scramble up to a small cave they spotted. There wasn’t much to it. It was filled with guano and didn’t go very far into the hillside. On their way back, Sam managed to inadvertently create a small rockslide as he climbed down from the cave. But they both made it back to camp in one piece.

Once again I slept under the stars, but this time I dragged the IK to use as my sleeping pad. It was a smart decision because I slept a lot more soundly than I did the night before. Dave wound up sleeping in the raft down on the river. I thought that was great. Some of us who slept in tents the night before ended up sleeping out in the open that night. While it was a little colder that night, with some cloud cover in the middle of the night, it was still a great night to sleep outside.

elle jo