What could possibly go wrong?

 It all started a few days ago.

I was informed that circumstances would no longer permit my very pleasant accommodations in the Woodstock neighborhood of SE Portland, an unpleasant but not unexpected development. In a desperate attempt to prove I was incapable of being trusted to my own devices, I cut my finger deep enough to see a vein while moving a refrigerator. It didn't work. The reasons for my eviction seemed reasonable enough though, and the wide network of friends in the region would surely step in to fill the position of "host." If my position should then be described as "parasite," it should at least be noted that there is a symbiotic relationship occurring, because, as expected, a number of hosts seemed to spring up.

With such a wide and undoubtedly reliable selection of new homes, it was hard to conceive something going wrong. Especially in the early morning haze preceded by 18 or so hours of consciousness, the latter half of which were spent carting children's toys unnecessarily back and forth in a store. I should add, the term "concious" is used in the loosest sense. 

Anyways, unacknowledged by me, the options trickled subtly away.

Benny left, Cat left, Harrison might (?) still be around. The day came for me to move out far too soon. I found myself experiencing some moderately significant anxiety as I packed up the car again. There was a distinct feeling of "not-good-ness" settling in the pit of my stomach which I attributed this to one too many redbulls throughout the night. 

After an ashamedly short drive to Gus' I hopped out of the car and confidently entered the passcode on his garage and twisted the handle.

Nothing happened.

I repeated the code 3 or 4 times, occasionally cursing, because cursing usually helps in these situations. So I called Gus, worried I'd have to admit I forgot the code. Turns out, I had it right, the door just needed to hear me admit I could be wrong (kinda like some of the girls I've met), because it started working as soon as Gus told me the code I was using was correct.

Things were looking up. I got to chat with Gus, it didn't sound like I woke him up, the door was about to open, and I'd continue living the dirtbag's dream. Except it still wasn't opening. And to be honest, I've sorta put off sharing this detail, because it's a bit incriminating.

That handle I twisted in my initial attempts actually sent a deabolt into the frame, effectively sealing me out. The poor automated door opener's engine whirred and cranked (repeatedly), now so desperate to allow me inside where moments ago it had stonewalled me.

It continued to strain against the deadbolt for the duration of my conversation with Gus which involved 2 near circumnavigations of the house, searching for an option that would allow the entering part of breaking and entering without the breaking part. It actually continued struggling to open well beyond my discovery that these college students had been surprisingly responsible when they headed home for break.

Ultimately, it stopped though.

Then it started to snow, a rare occurrence here in Portland.

So I went back to Kate's and did the first thing anyone in my position would do. Told facebook I was homeless.

Happy Holidays Everyone!

I left with his great advice ringing in my ears: "There will be times when everything works out perfectly, and there will be times when you're alone, and everything is going to sh!t, and you don't know what to do. Cherish those times, because they teach you more than anything and that's what these adventures are all about."

With that in mind, I spent some time sleeping in the parking lot of the Upper Gauley, on the floor near NOC while I waited for the Cascades to release, on the couch at my aunt and uncle's near the Ocoee, in Durango, in my car somewhere between Arches and the Bonneville Salt Flats, and at a campground near Crater Lake.

I also spent a lot of time driving.

I learned a few things on that drive. 

I learned that being alone isn't all that bad, but it isn't all that good, either. There's certainly something to be said for being independent. That's what allowed me to see things like this:

But for all the freedom I had, be it choosing where to stop, what to eat, or which hikes to go on, I constantly found myself searching for ways to share these experiences. So here I am, sharing. Unfortunately, you don't get to feel how cold the desert is at sunrise, or hear the crunch of the salt beneath your shoes, or smell the emptiness in the air. You don't get to reach into that photo and pick up a pinch of salt taste, even though it's against your better judgement.

Some things can only be shared in person.

I learned that the world isn't flat, but it really looks like it is sometimes.

It adds some perspective to how privileged I was growing up where I did. How privileged I am to choose where I want to live. I can't imagine living someplace without rivers or mountains, but those places exist, and people choose to live there. Some people don't have a choice. 

I learned (again) that the United States are far more vast and diverse than you can imagine.

How can this:

and This:

all exist in the same country? And how can the people that live in all of these places agree on anything? Sure, there are some major disagreements every 4 years...I mean, once in a while, but really, at least we don't have states going to war against each other on a daily basis. Plus we can visit any of these, or many other, places without needing a passport or visa. America is pretty sweet.

Since I've been in Portland, things have been pretty fast paced. I've been kayaking a lot, looking hard for a job, and relying on friends to survive. So thanks friends, you rock.

My most recent paddling adventure was on the Upper Upper Cispus, which is an incredible run in the northern cascades that's a perfect 2-steps down from the Little White. 

In years past this was something I had paddled quickly by, barely glancing at it, certain I'd never run it. Every year, more and more people run it, but in the relative crowd that shows up for the rest of the river, only a handful of people step up.

Perhaps I'm biased, but it seems like the unknown is the root of most fears. It's impossible not to play the "what if..." game, especially when staring at a complex rapid, or in the wake of tragedy. The unknown is equally influential in my trepidation about what the future may hold. Where am I going? What's out there?

Darkness embodies the unknown. It makes it visible, if not tangible.

Nietzchie references aside, I frequently find myself facing off against the darkness and feeling challenged. Most times I make it a few hundred feet into the woods before something goes Rice Crispies in the woods and I return to someplace less threatening.

But on the water it's different. Whatever light there is gets reflected and refracted, multiplied with every ripple. On the water, I feel at home. It acts the same way whether it's light or dark. For me, water creates an incentive to push past the fear.

So I chased after that incentive. I jogged my shuttle in the fading light. The dogs at every house I passed were aggressive but on leashes. In the last quarter mile I startled something in the woods. It followed me to the clearing where I stashed my boat, but stayed hidden in the trees.

The water was warmer than I expected. The residual light of the setting sun faded as I paddled through the minefield of rocks above the first falls. I sat quietly at the edge in the dark. The night air was rich and still. Life hung in the balance of black and white.

Paddle in hand, I walked into the darkness to retrieve my car, emboldened by the gifts facing my fears had left me with.