Life Outside

By Fringe Staff

By Sarah Gents

Highway 101, in the Redwoods, twists and curves through rustic cabin homes, candle shops, and a Big Foot Museum. Among the groves, mountain towns, minimal in population but not in character, tease any passer-by to stop in, grab a cup of espresso and a mushroom-colored pull over.

Just west of 101, the Lost Coast, a 35-mile stretch of black sand beach, old-growth forest, and a wall of 4,000 foot peaks sloping right down into the waves, was the destination for my best friend and I to have a Thanksgiving weekend of wilderness and serenity. What more appropriate way to have a less-traditional holiday celebration than to satisfy our appetite for the outdoors?

Between Briceland, a town without much more than a home garden shop and a bacon-and-eggs cafe, and Shelter Cove, a community studded with beach motels, we chose a campsite. There, we were tucked into the towering trees, in a moist world of deep browns and greens, our blue tent sitting stark against the scene. Pleased with the solitude of the spot, we started a fire, and began preparing our Thanksgiving feast. Vegan roast, heartily stuffed with grains and spices, snuggled in tin foil with gravy and dried cranberries tossed over blazing coals. Gingerbread tea and pumpkin pie Clif Bars authenticated the meal. We cozied into our bags, full-bellied.

Sleep was more like a handful of lucky naps, poking my nose out for clear air without letting in too much 35-degree-chill. Fortifying whatever temperature they’re fed, bags can trap cold just like they do heat. One night I filled my Nalgene with boiling water and tossed it inside near my feet, but the frigidity of my toes took over and filled the space. It’s a tricky little game.

The trees blocked the sun until midday, so we woke prematurely, forced to provide warmth with a few hops and wiggles and handfuls of trail mix. Our days consisted of hikes along the foggy ridges and beach, stopping to capture a picture or two, observe the waves to the left, summits to the right, or say hello to the sea lions. On the way back to camp, we’d hit up the general store in Shelter Cove to get firewood and muse at the ’70’s vintage vinyl covers stapled up for decor. During fajita dinners at our fire, Beth and I read Thomas Pynchon’s novel, “Vineland”, to each other- a difficult and brilliant depiction of ruined hippies, the real live-ers and do-ers, who defined cool and artsy, and were defeated by the Man, or by their own choices.

Of course we don’t admit it to each other, but know we’re attempting to be our own generations’ narrative. And out in the woods, discussing politics, consciousness, and poetry, we felt as enlightened and immortally hippie as the real thing.

We boiled pot after pot of water for our whiskeyspiked tea. If we weren’t hard core enough for the cold, at least we were hard core enough for whiskey. The moons were clear, near full each night, so we barely needed headlamps. One evening a couple of guys from San Jose came up to camp, and we were drawn together over the most basic of needs- fire, whiskey, and stories. We left early Sunday morning, proudly foul with stale campfire and body odors, back to cities and meetings and work. Back to reminders that gas must be budgeted, and so must escaping. Back to recognizing that being able to spend a weekend camping in the Redwoods, is enough to be thankful for.

Outside Capitalism

By Fringe Staff

By Jonathan L. Miller

While in a big-box style outdoor store I heard something that made my heart sink. While shopping for a backpacking stove I actually heard a clerk say, “I don’t really know, I don’t really go camping.”

As in most industries, these massive retailers can offer lower prices than smaller stores but at what cost? In today’s world of big box stores with unbelievable discounts it’s easy to forget that there are small retailers out there who have quality products and people behind their counters who actually use the items they sell. In other words, you’re actually purchasing outdoor equipment from real outdoor enthusiasts.

I am fortunate enough to have Sunrise Mountaineering, a small independently owned outdoors store, in my hometown. Just like the big box stores, it has the shelves loaded with the most up-to-date equipment out there. Everything is high quality and costs about the same, and in some cases better than those retail giants.

Berkeley, no surprise here, has its own independent outdoor sports store, Wilderness Exchange, ironically located across San Pablo Ave. fro REI.

At Wilderness Exchange you’ll find exactly what every outdoors enthusiast hopes to find at such a retailer — other enthusiasts. There are folks who actually use the gear they sell. They can offer their own input on products instead of just regurgitating what the sales brochure says.

While the big retailers do have people that are just as enthused about being outside as those of us who shop there, odds are you won’t hear, “I’m just a cashier.” at the smaller places. It’s easier to find someone who is not just willing but able to swap stories with you about their last backpacking trip or kayaking adventure. It can take some searching to find the small guys like this but it is well worth the work. Not only are you supporting a small business owner, but, in my experience, they also offer friendlier, more relaxed environment.

I don’t feel rushed or pressured. I feel more like I am among my peers.

While these are great places for a vet of wilderness travel, they are wonderful places for the greenhorn as well. I feel much more comfortable with the advice I glean from the clerks at the independents, odds are it’s info that has been tested on their own travels. It is also easier to locate shops who buy or sell used equipment when dealing with smaller retailers. Sunrise Mountaineering regularly sells the rental gear at the end of the season. Wilderness Exchange regularly buys and sells used equipment.

If you never have, or just need nudge to revisit a local outdoors retailer, let this be the not-so-gentle kick you might need. You might find a great piece of used gear that you couldn’t afford new, or find a new place to camp or hike while swapping stories or comparing scars. Get outside.

Misfortune on the Ohlone Trail

By Fringe Staff

By Jonathan L. Miller

Robert Frost tells us that: “…Two roads diverged in a wood, and II took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

Well, I took the road less traveled by and I got f–n’ lost. My buddy Scott and I were long overdue for a trip into the backcountry. Some reservations, a quick trip to the grocery store and we were ready to go.

Day 1

What was supposed to be an early rise and about twelve hours of fishing turned out to be a half day of work and a half day waiting for a ride.

I only made it to the park 30 minutes before my hiking buddy, Scott, was supposed to meet me at 7:15. He found me at the ranger’s kiosk, snoozing while leaning on my pack. We only had two miles to cover that night — two very steep, very humid miles. We made quick work of setting up camp and cooking dinner. Dehydrated food is not exactly five-star cuisine, but after a couple miles hiking in the dark, even the partially hydrated bits of turkey were appealing.

Day 2

We drug out of bed early and made breakfast; more dehydrated food in a bag, followed by a good cup of Joe. Coffee is never an option. I meandered down to the Boy Scouts we were sharing a camp with and offered their leaders a cup of that magic black elixir. Over our early morning cup of go juice, Scott and I swapped lies with the adult leaders of Troop 1811 from Walnut Creek.

We set out in high spirits, which were quickly dampened by that hollow clicking that makes your blood run cold. I was just a couple steps away from a trip to the E.R. thanks to our friend the rattlesnake.

When our hearts calmed down and we were able to continue on, I heard those disasterous words, “Oh, Shit!!” Scott’s knee decided that it was time for a rest. We wrapped the knee and Scott marched on. Instead of the next trail marker, we found the boundary fence for the Ohlone Wilderness. It was too dark to find our location on the map and we were down to 16oz. of water. Not wanting to be the next day’s news story, we stayed where we were at.

Day 3

I crawled out of the tent and woke Scott. We made our way, slowly, to a watering hole and then to a trail marker with cell phone reception. I called the East Bay Regional Parks general information number and found my way to through their prompts to the police dispatch. First words out of my mouth, “This is not an emergency.” The last thing we wanted was a helicopter ride. We settled in for what we expected to be a long wait. I had just begun to doze off when I heard the hum of a Chevy 350. Officer Larsen brought his truck to a stop, jumped out and hefted our packs into the back. I have never been so happy to see a cop. Not a bad trip, overall. We’re both alive and Scott will heal. People keep asking if that was my last trip. I just smile and say, “I’m thinking, something near the beach next time.”

Point Reyes, here I come.