Supafly.com

Last night I took the guys camping across the street at the Carlsbad State Beach. This was not entirely a spur-of-the-moment decision, because the campsites are so coveted that they are usually reserved nine months in advance. But I had heard that if you arrive early in the morning, the camp ranger might feel generous and let you have one of the few open sites.

The rumor was that one of the campers had been lanced by a stingray* a couple days ago, which is unfortunate to say the least. But this also meant that a family might not be spending another night at the beach. So as a penitent opportunist, I woke up early yesterday morning and took a somber walk across the street to the ranger’s office. A campsite was open.

Most of the afternoon was spent scrambling for camp gear and food. By four in the afternoon our campsite was unrolled and assembled and we were officially campers. I got to teach the little guys some of the basics of camping: starting a fire, cooking, using knives, tying knots, etc. Last night was the highlight. We had hobo meals, cake baked in orange rinds, and baked apples. Danny brought some of his friends over. When you add the Oertle girls to the party, there were about 20 people at our campsite baking a cake in their oranges. I first learned that trick when I was maybe eleven years old in Boy Scouts. It still tastes the same. Wow…so many memories sprung from that forkful of steaming cake. Soon it was time for bed, and the five of us crawled into the tent and drifted into sleep.

I woke up before dawn this morning, hoping to be one of the first people to get to the campground office so we could get a campsite for the second day. It didn’t have to be the same campsite; we’d gladly uproot and move to another patch of dirt if it meant that the adventure could continue. Getting up early was out of discomfort, not out of heroism. I hadn’t slept that well because the ground was packed down as hard as concrete. And the weathered sleeping bag beneath me didn’t offer much relief. I unzipped the tent, slipped on my still-wet sandals and stumbled toward the camp station.

The campground is on a cliff about 150 feet above the ocean, so the view is breath taking. The sun still had not rose in the east, but in the west was a full moon setting over the Pacific. I’ve seen hundreds of sunsets over that ocean, but never a setting moon. I was so groggy that the view was both otherworldly and beautiful. I was the only one awake out of the 100s of campers, and there were just a couple surfers down on the beach getting ready to paddling out. I wish there were more people there to enjoy the moment with me.

I’m here typing at a computer inside a house because we did not get another campsite. It was a lot of hassle to prepare for such a quick cam pout. This morning was a lot of work unpacking the car, organizing camping gear, and then scrubbing out all the cookware. But I think the little guys had; a lot of fun. It was rewarding for me to teach them skills I learned when I was there age, things that I still treasure today. I smell like a campfire and my breath could kill a hippo. So it’s time to clean up and get back to civilization.

* Note: The evening that I posted this journal, it was reported that The Crocadile Hunter was killed by a Stingray while snorkeling in Australia.

Last night I got back from an exciting weekend in Tahoe. It’s too hard to tell what happened in the correct order, so here’s a quick highlight reel:

Snowboarding
Shortly after I arrived, Stephen loaded up his SUV with a couple snowboards and drove deep into the mountains. The mountains of Tahoe are crisp and Alpine looking. Regardless of how far the mountain may be in the distance, you feel like you could pull your fingers across it’s face and feel the texture of the boulders.

It must’ve been a two-hour drive to the snowboarding site, but it was so beautiful that it didn’t really matter. I was enjoying catching up with my high school buddy, sharing adventures of traveling and dramas with the ladies. We bounced up a rocky road for twenty minutes and then finally came to our destination—an icy patch of snow left over from five months before. This is a coveted playground for the local snowboarders, complete with rails and ramps. I couldn’t believe that there was still snow in August.

Ten seconds after we got out of the car, a thunder storm started churning above us. We were at 10,000 feet, so the storm was right on top of us. We hopped back in the car as the hail started to fall. Lightning and thunder shook the mountainside. Then the rain came, forming creeks that ran down the mountainside. The storm showed now sign of blowing over, so we decided to head back before the road washed out. Twenty minutes later, we were driving past sun-washed grass fields.

Mountain Biking, Hiking, Swimming
Stephen and I hopped on our bikes and road ten miles to the foot of a trail. The scenery from the ride was fantastic. It wasn’t so much the dramatic views that got me, it was the shade from the towering pines. Arizona trees are more like low-lying shrubs than anything. But these pines were six feet thick and soared a couple hundred feet into the sky.

It was sad that even in a remote area we had to fuss over locking up our bikes. It took ten minute; to find a tree thin enough to wrap the chain around. We forgot about the delay once after just a few minutes on the trail. This was a popular trail, which means you meet plenty of strangers along the way.

As a Christian, I always feel obligated to be warm to strangers. But hikers are a strange breed of overly friendly people. I guess there’s camaraderie that comes from loving the outdoors, but it seems a little put on. I mean, do real hikers all buy their stuff from REI? Is the tie-die accessory necessary to being a real hiker? It’s not worth sorting out, because it’ll just get in the way of making my point. And my point is that I ignored most of the people we passed because I just wanted to go on a hike with my friend. I didn’t want to agree with a stranger that the mountains are beautiful or marvel at the tiniest creatures.

After about an hour and a half we found the lake we were looking for. Where I’m from, lakes are just big puddles in between mountains. But here this lake was caught in the side of the mountain. It was the size of a football field and perfectly cool and clear. The clarity of the water is normally makes a lake inviting, but here all I could see was the wreckage of trees on the lake floor. I was hot and the water looked good, so I ignored warning and stripped down to my boxers. I slide into the water and rolled onto my back to avoid walking on the muddy logs. I paddled to the center of the lake and laid motionless, looking up at the patches of snow still on the side of the mountain above me. That was one of my top five swims of all time.

Jessco White, Dancing Outlaw
Saturday night was a celebration of our redneck heritage. We always watch this bizarre documentary of a redneck dancer from West Virginia called Jessco White, Dancing Outlaw. It would take pages to describe the oddity of this guy’s life. I didn’t know a low-budget documentary could be that fascinating. I thought that three years ago when I first saw it, and I’ve said it ever since. The guys got tired and went to bed. I slept on the floor of the living room, so I opted to keep watching the movie. It was a strange way to end a day. The next morning the three of us wen to Mass. The familiarity of the Mass balanced-out the weird feeling that stuck with me from the night before

Car Show, Swimming down the River
We left Tahoe early on Sunday to venture into Reno to catch the last day of one of the country’s biggest car shows: Hot August Nights. But we were too late. The show had gone on for a week or so, and most of the 10,000 cars left the city that morning. But there were a couple stragglers that gathered in the dismal parking lots in front of casinos. We enjoyed looking at all the cars, but it became so hot that I thought I was going to die.

So we crossed over town to a section of the river that has been altered to be a playground for water sports. I guess Reno is trying to shake it’s inferiority complex to Tahoe and market itself as a nature lovers casino town, or something. So tax money poured into re-routing the river to make it fun for swimming, sliding, kayaking, and tubing. Luckily we all were wearing shorts, and we took turns jumping into the river.

It was a bizarre twist in the day. I expected to see slick cars for city people and ended up playing in a river for the afternoon. It was awesome. We climbed out of the river and explored the city, dripping wet. We discovered a river-side coffee shop in a historic, loft-looking brick building. Looking at the front of the coffee shop you would think you were in New York. But no, you were standing next to a river in a little gambling town.

Loving Candyce to Death
It’s always lonely to arrive in your home city without anyone there to welcome you. It’s impractical, I know. That’s why I usually drive myself and leave my car in the budget parking lot. I waited 45 minutes for the shuttle van to take me to the parking lot. Once I hopped out, I felt like I was the only person still awake in San Diego. It was quiet, dark, and a little spooky.

I got home last night and Candyce was there to welcome me. I love her so much. I love my friends too. I’m happy to see the men that the three of us have become. I’ll be friends with Stephen and Benny for the rest of my life.

I’m in Lake Tahoe visiting my high school buddies. Stephen went to work about the same time that Benny got off of work. We road mountain bikes a few miles on paths and streets until we eventually hit the beach at the most southern point of Lake Tahoe.

Benny’s friend set us up with a nice table on the deck of a popular restaurant right on the lake. There were so many things to see while we sat there: the people playing in the sand, the boats on the water, or the mountains that surrounded the lake. It was a stunning place to sit and have a burger.

Stephen and Benny work at the same restaurant. Benny’s been their for a a couple years, and has managed to make a name for himself as a show cook. Basically, people pick ingredients from a buffet and stack their plate. Then Benny cooks up the meal, all the while entertaining the people with conversation and showmanship. Stephen is new to the restaurant, but he’s content as a waiter. It’s not his dream job, but it’s working for this point in his life.;

Candyce and I always talk about opening up a cool but casual restaurant, probably somewhere near the beach in San Diego. Or we dream about a coffee shop. It’s always a fun conversation because we dream based on our experience, talent, and knowledge. With real life experience as a foundation, the plan becomes more of a reality and less of a fantasy.

Ironically, I’ve worked in restaurants for a total of two and a half years when I was in younger–and I hated every minute of it. (Actually, there was one summer that was kind of fun because Stephen and I were waiters together.) I liked driving home with cash in my pocket, but I cringed at the thought of going back the next day. So it seems foolish to think about creating more misery by starting my own restaurant.

Looking back, what created my misery was foolish owners, bland menus, and an overall lack of vision for the restaurant. Each of the three restaurants where I worked were just businesses. They sold food to hungry people. As long as they made money, the owners tolerated the average managers that maintained a lifeless staff of dirty cooks, greedy waiters, and angry dishwashers. Each restaurant was a disaster.

I’ve been to so many excellent restaurants since I graduated high school nine years ago, and I’ve become a student of their success. The more I enjoy a restaurant, the more I become curious about how they created that experience for me. I study the food, the atmosphere, the service–the overall vibe of the restaurant.

This is the kind of journal I’d write from home. So I’m going to stop thinking about old things and get started with my day.