First,  to answer the question that I'm sure half of America has been on the edge of their seat wondering.....     No,  I did not kill an elk this year.    At the conclusion of twenty consecutive days of stalking the coastal forests with minimal nourishment and maximal exertion,   I returned home without the trophy that would have made for a darn fine story,  and if you read this site you know that I enjoy the story every bit as much as the activity itself.    I did,  however,  have some of the most profound experiences of my life,  and my connection with the natural world deepend to level that I didn't know was possible.    Those mornings,  sitting in the dark,  covered in mud,  still as ghost with thousand pound elk crashing through the brush mere yards away from my face,  were nothing short of breathtaking.   For comparison,  dropping into a fifteen foot,  make it or die, wave in a surf kayak,  doesn't even come close to comparing to the sheer adrenaline of having a big bull elk come in fast to 10 yards,  stop,  and tip his horns down.   The conditions were wrong though,  and I held my shot,  then, and other times when I probably should have released,  which is infinately preferrable to to the opposite.   I just feel privileged to have gotten so close to them so many times,  and that intimacy of interaction has left me with an abiding love for these wild creatures.   They are so beautiful,  it's hard to feel too bad about not killing one.

I returned to the my normal life with eyes just a little wider,  ears just a little sharper,  and the weird habit of freezing in place at random moments.    Reintigration was difficult but within a couple days I was cutting red cedar and bending white oak and generally prepping like a crazy person to pay for my month long hiatus.    This year I was fortunate to be invited to teach at the Delmarva paddlers retreat in Lewes, Delaware,  where we built six kayaks in six days and launched them on Rehoboth bay to coincide with the launch of the retreat.   Aside from losing my computer to a thunder storm (which sounds so much better than I left it in the rain like an idiot)  things went over really well,  and at the retreat itself I had the opportunity to teach paddling for a couple days.   It made me remember how much I love teaching kayaking,  and reminded me that I should probably do something with that skill.    My thoughts drift back to the video camera and the editing program I taught myself to use last year.  I sincerly hope I can find the time and make good on last winters promise to get some video up.

Back at the farm here I'm still busting butt to finish out the season,  I have a construction job to complete and then a full class to teach in Georgia and then I can finally take a break and make a plan for the coming year.    As usual I'm having a hard time balancing my commitment to local food with my passion for kayaking.   My girlfriend Lee is doing an amazing job with the new restaurant Dinner, at the Nehalem River Inn,  although as you can imagine,  I seldom see her anymore.    This December and January I am availing myself to her completely for a full-on remodel of the space and I'm thinking that come spring,  her delicious farm-fresh cusine is going to look even better on thick slab tables,  made from logs salvaged by kayak,  and milled with a chainsaw.    If I've learned anything, it's that you can't buy soul,  you have to earn it. 

Speaking of Lee,  I suppose this would be as good a time as any to announce that we are tying the knot.   The last year with her has been a revelation in how relationships are supposed to work,  and there is no one I'd rather spend the rest of my life tormenting with my innumerable crazy schemes.    Attractive, capable, tolerant, and the best cook I've ever met,  one could do a lot worse.    We're tentatively considering a ceremony next summer when the farm is in full bloom.  

Sitting in the dark right now in Lee's dining room,  the first heavy rains of fall lash the windows and I feel that familiar pulse in my heart,  the affinity for water dripping off of trees, draining in rivulets that become creeks, that feed into rivers, over boulders and waterfalls to form the architecture of my other passion,  whitewater.   I've got a full day today,  too full,  a solid 12 hours of work at least,  but that should never, ever interfere with the imperative to chase one's bliss,  so I'm going to wrap this up for now,  zip into my leaky old drysuit,  and head up the river for a little bit of crack-of-dawn solo class 4,   because at it's elemental core,  that's what this site is all about.   Paddling.  

The schedule for 2013 is online now,  Port Townsend and Portland classes are open for signups.    I hope to see you in the coming year to share the farm,  the boats,  and my unique brand of poor humor.    Take care.

-Brian


Bonus:   Here are some of my favorite photos from late summer and fall,  in random order.

I have a confession to make,  last week was the first time I've been in a kayak in months.   As someone who's built their reputation as a designer on being a fierce and avid paddler,  I share this information with a guilty concience.   The truth is,  I've lived and breathed kayaking for the last fifteen years and lately my other interests have pushed the paddle aside.   Mostly it's my passion for every aspect of local food that is eating up my hours right now,  and that's a good thing,  because there aren't many things more important than supporting the shift from a petrochemical intensive food economy (fertilizer, pesticide, gasoline),  to something we can actually sustain.   The silver lining of that dark cloud is that you don't need to be an environmentalist to enjoy food that explodes with flavor.   It's an easy issue to support.

One competitor for my free time these days is this wicked contraption,  a sixty-pound draw fiberglass compound bow.   I've been a rifle hunter for six years now and while I enjoy the opportunity to participate as closely as possible in the cycle of life and death in pursuit of wild game,  I don't enjoy the 4 day elk hunting season where every redneck with a rifle goes out maurading through the woods.   It doesn't matter how much time you spend learning the animal because with that much pressure,  everything changes on opening day.   It's not hunting,  it's a lottery.  

Bow hunting on the other hand is a lifestyle.    It means spending all your free time shooting arrows and creeping around in the woods, learning animals and their habits more closely than you ever thought possible.   All of that practice might boil down to a three second opportunity where you must draw, aim, and release a single arrow,  that MUST hit an area the size of a softball.   The focus and discipline required has all sorts of ancilliary benefits.  Waking up every morning and walking down to a dew covered field, relaxing every part of my body,  setting up the target,  pulling an arrow from the quiver,  always aware of the razor tip,  drawing back with perfect posture and exhaling lighly to steady the sight as I drop into an timeless space and try to trip the release without thinking about it.   Twang!  shhooop,  Thunk.    It's so much more than just hunting practice,   it's a wonderful meditation,  but it's also a commitment that I'm taking very seriously.   I've even gone so far as to build a life size elk target which destroys any arrow outside the 12 inch kill zone.   That's $15 per mistake,  it's my way of forcing myself not to release on shaky shots.

Our farm is growing like crazy right now,  and anyone who has ever had a garden knows that even a little bit of agriculture takes a lot of work.   Luckily I'm not responsible for the growing,  but as the resident carpenter, plumber, electrician,  I'm kept plenty busy.   Aside from growing vegetables for our 65 person CSA and the farmers market,  we also process our own ducks and chickens for personal consumption.  It's a messy task,  but just like the hunting I prefer to be part of the cycle. 

The freshly killed chicken in this solar oven is called a Freedom Ranger,   it's a french meat chicken that takes longer to grow but is much heathier than the creepy mutant cornish-cross,  which even when given free range simply lies on the ground and gets disgustingly obese.  The Freedom ranger on the other hand wanders around like a normal chicken,  nibbling grass and bugs and living what seems to be a happy life.   

After adding herbs from the garden we slow cooked this chicken for 2 1/2 hours in the solar oven.   The vapor tight oven seals in moisture and the result is out of this world flavor.    The taste of the Freedom chicken is so much better than a cornish-cross.

Having just turned the corner into August,  everything is in full bloom right now.   It's not easy to grow tomatoes on the Oregon Coast,  but with early starts,  greenhouses, and an expert farmer,  our first tomatoes are ripening nicely.    These heirloom tomatoes are sweet and juicy in a way that store bought hybrids can't touch.    Add a little goat cheese and balsamic vinegar.

Ginger is the farmer,  I'm the builder,  and for years now we've mused that what we need is a chef!   This winter I started dating Lee (center of photo),  and managed to lure her out to our farm with promises of farm raised duck and produce picked that day.   As a passionate local-vore,  she simply couldn't resist,  and when a space opened up at the farmers market,  she was ready to cook!   Mixing her formidible culinary talents with fresh food from the market itself,  Lee showcases local farms with a different menu every week.  Simple yet creative,  Lee has the gift to "see"  flavors in her head and no matter how eclectic the ingredients appear,  the result is always the same,  you put it in your mouth and the first impression is "wow,  this works!"    I made the signs and the table.

A week later I was overhearing people rave about her booth at the coffee shop.   If you've eaten Lee's food that wouldn't surprise you but what happened next surprised all of us.   The charming country inn down the road which is also an exclusive top-rated restaurant was slated to close this August because both owners were moving on to new opportunities.   In an amazingly generous gesture,  they decided to offer it to Lee instead if she could keep up with the bills.   Incredible.

On August 24th Lee will re-open the restaurant as Dinner, at the Nehalem River Inn.  A farm-to-table restaurant that combines the standards of fine dining with a casual atmosphere,  with a foundation of the freshest possible grass-fed meats and organic local produce.   

I have every faith in her talent and we're all excited to explore the synergies of our local farms and her restaurant.   To that effect I'm throwing my full weight behind her with a Cape Falcon remodel this winter.   Hardwood floors,  thick slab,  live edge furniture and tables,  edison bulbs,  the new aesthetic will be one of heft, and substance, with as many items as possible made from local and salvage sources,  finely finished of course.   She'll be closing during the month of January and when she reopens you can expect to enjoy a this unique space while eating food that doesn't need my superlatives to validate it.   In the meantime,  I encourage you to come visit the coast and experience her cooking,  maybe stay a night or two at the Inn. 

Here's a peek at her last farmers market menu,  just to make you salivate.

On the kayak building front,  I'm still doing what I do well,  teaching people to build the very best skin-on-frame kayaks,  during week long classes where you get so much more than just a kayak.   You get to experience the magic of this place and experience the reality of what it takes to grow your own food and make a life off-the-grid.   It's a lot of work,  but it's a blessing,  and I'm passionate about sharing this journey.   For my part I get to meet so many amazing people that I would otherwise never come into contact with,  it really is a privilege.

From a purely artistic point of view,  even after all these years I find the aesthetic of the entire process to be as compelling as ever.   The whole build is art in motion,  and you get a kayak at the end of it.  

On the mornings I can muster it,  I enjoy rowing out at 5am and trolling for salmon in the guide boat.  There aren't many of these fish around,  but every ten trips or so,  the line will go crazy and the reel will start to sing,  and I get to come home with one of these amazing creatures in the icebox.  

Occasionally I can even con someone else into taking the oars.   On this day we passed by another fisherman in a rowboat who leaned out and shouted,  "well that's the best lookin outboard motor I've ever seen!"  I agree.

Thanks to my friends Laura and Kerry,  I did manage to make it out in a sea kayak the other day,  on an rare calm Pacific ocean day.   We explored caves,  and pocket beaches where I found the kayaker-built buoy-man sculpture at the top of this update!   I got to watch two F1's in the hands of experienced kayakers,  doing so well what it was designed to do.    Paddling is in my blood so I don't forsee any permanent dip in my enthusiasm for one of the easiest and cheapest ways to experience so much beauty and thrill.  

...of course no trip would be complete these days without some connection to food.   I feel so fortunate to combine my two passions in a single trip.   We cooked this black rockfish with chili paste and cilantro,  and then made fish tacos with plenty of fresh ingredients from the farm.   Perfect.   


-Brian

Bonus Photo,  another in a series I'm calling,  'things close to Gingers face'   enjoy.

Equinox, warmer rain,  breaks of sun,  chlorophyll floods the landscape,  there is light in the morning and the evening,  the farm comes to life,  my whitewater trips are slowly replaced by surf missions.    The thrill of spring is here!

We just finished our first class of the year here at the shop and for once we had nice weather,  in April!  We built four kayaks including these two beautiful Greenland boats,  some of the nicest to ever come out of the shop.

Loren,  a past student,  returned to the shop to build a new F1 for herself and her companion.   Now 13,  he has been riding like this since he was a puppy.

I was recently given back the very first F1 ever built at my shop.   It's still in good shape and I feel so lucky to get to paddle it again after all these years.

I finally took the time yesterday to build a real rack for all of the derelict boats strewn around the shop.

Tom Moen of thomaspaddles.com dropped off a rack of brand new blades for sale.   This perfect marriage of Red Cedar and Black Locust offers the toughest,  yet lightest wood paddle you can buy.   The shape is mine,  but with a much nicer finish than I have ever produced.  Very nice sticks.

A new project that I'm proud to unveil is this fresh batch of Adirondack Guide Boats.    After 5 years of testing the protoypes I took everything I learned and built a couple more.   One for myself and one for sale.   Go and check out the whole write up as well as photos here.

Ginger is the plant Diva here on the R-evolution Garden organic farm, and my job is to build things and fix things.   Our big addition this spring is these two 48ft long ROLLING greenhouses.   They slide on 150ft long pipe tracks,  allowing us to start things early and then expose them to the elements so bugs and diseases don't build up.

A few days ago Gin came running across the field,  "Brian,  Brian,  look what I found!"   These elusive little frogs always present but seldom seen.   We both enjoyed a close up look at the face behind the voice that sings to us at night.

With the sun now making regular appearances I watch with lust and glee as all of my solar contraptions begin to work!!!!    This is the inlet outlet gauges of the solar bath house loop,  giving me a 15 degree temperature rise at 2 gallons per minute.   I can't even tell you how happy this makes me.    Projects for this summer include a big solar oven and solar food dehydrator.

Many of you will remember this kitten from last years update.  M is now almost a cat!

I found a small clearing of these beautiful little flowers while on a walk the other evening and luckily I had my iPhone 4s on me to catch the shot.    After years of DSLR addiction,  things have come full circle and I've been really enjoying using the 4s  as my primary camera.   It has a great little lens but no zoom,  no exposure control,  limited focus control.   I like it because it forces me to adapt and be creative.   You can get a great photo out of it if you know how to work within it's limitations.    It's a lot of fun.   Like most wide angle point and shoots,  it loves to get close.

Stranded on an island in the bay, this eroded piece of driftwood is one of the natural wonders of my world.   I've always said that if I had a blind girlfriend I would take her here to impress her!   It's as tactilly wonderful as it is visually intruiging.

On the paddling side of things,  I'm still doing what I always do,  boating,  boating,  and more boating.   It's the most important thing one can do as a designer.   I'm pretty happy with the current quiver of Cape Falcon Kayaks,  but every year things get a little bit more refined,  a little better.    The video project is still happening and we are making slow project toward a release date of summer solstice.   I do a lot of things with my time so everything takes longer than I expect,  with summer approaching I can't imagine that problem will get any better.   Classes are mostly full for the year,  although we still have a few spaces left in September,  the nicest class of the year.   Hey,  I'd be happy to take September off to go surfing,  but it seems to me like someone out there would want to come build a boat during the best month of the year?   Sheesh.

Anyways,  that's all for now.   Maybe I'll see ya at the shop.

-Brian

Bonus Photo:

I've been doing this for eight years and I have a reputation for getting things right.   In spite of my obsessive perfectionism,  even the best of us screw up once in a while though.   I was quite shocked when this gentleman had a hard time fitting into his new Greenland kayak.    He got in,  but I want things to go a little smoother for liability reasons.   "We can totally fix this.",  I said.   At the end of the class with evening approaching I hauled out all my tools and got to work.   I carved down the back of his coaming first,  next I crawled inside with an ANGLE grinder and reshaped the underside of the Masik, the spinning wheel just millimeters from the skin the whole time.  Then I reached as far as I possibly could forward and cut out the offending ribs that caught his heels.   Using a razor sharp chisel at the full extension of my arm I delicately cut out two pocket mortises and then steam bent a new rib in place,  fastening it in place with bronze ring nails.    He slid in much better when I was done.   Rebuilding a frame deep inside a finished boat isn't something you get to do every day.   It looks authentic and mimics the rib repairs seen in just about every qajaq in a museum.  

I strive to never make mistakes,  but when I do  I WILL fix the problem,  whether that means a crazy repair,  or even a brand new boat.

Between building and designing kayaks and building my off-grid organic farm,  the last four years have been a crashing wave of relentless productivity.   Occasionally a smooth carve and turn,  often a violent tumbling side-surf.    As I washed ashore and shook off the salt this fall,  I found myself wondering,  what next?   I saw lots of easy paths laid out,  if you're keen it's not that hard to see what is popular in paddlesports and chase the trend in search of a paycheck.  I've always been fortunate to make a living in paddling without having to do that.   Which is good because I can't do it.

I decided to take a long break from even thinking about my business and really just enjoy being a paddler in all of the various forms I enjoy.  After countless solo runs of our local coastal tributaries,  I came to a place where I realized that I was likely as strong and skilled as I'll ever be,  so I dusted off the creekboat and decided to give'r on a few of our Oregon class V classics.    This was a big step.   After nearly losing my life running class V in my twenties,  I've held the belief that it simply isn't worth the risk,  and if it were just for the thrill I'd still hold that belief.   There is another aspect to class V though,  and that is the fact that class V whitewater is created by the geology of some of the most beautiful places on earth,  deep mysterious canyons,  places I longed to visit.   I also simply had to level with myself,  as dangerous as it seemed,  the reality is that I haven't swam out of a whitewater kayak in 16 years and I almost always nail my lines.  

I won't bore you with the details but I did get on a few solid class V runs,  reveling in the beauty of nature,  the miracle of water,  and the singularity of pure focus that a consequential environment instills.  Unfortunately I didn't get a lot of photos because I was busy surviving,  but I did put together a page of some of the best shots of 2011 whitewater.   Although it was a pivotal personal experience to work through my fear of class V,  I'm still a class III-IV paddler at heart.   I like to know I can blow a line and not get munched.   I like to laugh and smile and relax on the river.

Go paddle,  come home,  take a bath,  read a book,  take a nap.     I burned up months doing this and by all accounts it was extremely pleasant.   My bank account dwindled and yet the persistant question whispered over my shoulder:  what next?   Build kayaks,  run the farm,  go surfing?   All of those things of course,  easily enough to consume ones' time,  and yet I couldn't muster the passion to begin again.   I was inhaling cash and producing absolutely nothing.  Something "else" needed to happen.   Something new...

It was about this time that I noticed that my body was starting to hurt,  all the time.   Things creaked and cracked,  I woke up tired,  I felt old.   I'm much too young to feel old.    I knew it was time to embrace my nemesis,  Yoga.    I hate yoga.   I hate sitting still,  I hate breathing,  I hate stretching,  I hate looking for the bright light within.   It's boring,  and goddammit,  I have things to do.   I've spent the last 15 years steadfastly avoiding becoming a yogi fruitcake,  and yet,  eventually there comes a point in all of our lives where the pain of not changing exceeds the pain of changing.  

A week later I felt better than I had in five years.   Those sorts of benefits are hard to ignore.   I even felt tiny bursts of that coveted mental silence,  the source of this supposed bright light.    It could have been that,  or perhaps it was getting pounded senseless at the base of a waterfall I completely missed the boof on,  but something started to shift.    The voice of inspiration echoed from within:

"Go forth and make videos."

"Dammit",  I thought,  in the voice that Indian Jones used when he looked down and saw all those snakes in the well-of-souls,  "why did it have to be video?"

Video is another thing I've avoided like the plauge,  a perfect hole to pour time into.   Nonetheless,  I love creating entertaining narratives,  I love organizing information and teaching,  and video is a much more dynamic medium for furthering these goals.   There is also my savant like ability begin teaching on the word "go"  and spit out something reasonably concise and professional.  I had to accept that I should be doing video,  and from that realization everything began to flow.   I bought a camera and began to force feed myself an editing program.

   Beginning late this spring we'll be launching Cape Falcon Video,  A video specific website where I can post entertaining paddling videos,  informational videos about the kayak building,  and a pay-per-download series of building and paddling tutorials.   There are a lot of things I teach that I think are worth money to learn,  and  I'm sure you'll agree that paying a buck to download a particular lesson is a lot less frustrating than two days of cursing at your skinboat in the basement.    I also just love to teach,  mingling a unique mix of politics, spirituality, irreverence, and humor with some top quality instruction.

It's a big project,  but it's one I'm excited to tackle.

In the meantime,  it's nice to be back in the shop,  cleaning up,  building things.   Believe it or not this is the first time in two years I've actually built a boat for myself and that feels really good.   What does the guy who can have anything he wants build for himself?    A completely standard F1,  albeit made out of completely out of kayak-salvaged wood.   Swift,  stable,  maneuverable,  and fun,  I don't think I'll ever fall out of love with this little boat.   It's my idea of perfect,  and lifting it off of the sawhorses for the first time I realized how nice it was to not be lugging around a fifty pound creekboat and ten pounds of rescue gear.   28lbs will do nicely,  thank you.

I swear I could almost hear it groan though as I dragged it across the parking lot and threw it unceremoniously atop the pickup.   I am a registered boat abuser.    Our first day together was spent in a storm on the flooded bay chasing logs in a five foot wind chop with winds gusting to fifty!    Chainsaw on the back deck,  peavy on the front,  a pile of log dogs and a mile of old rope,  the boat behaved beautifully.  Together we grabbed and tied anything decent that was floating.   I nabbed a few nice saw logs,  the gorgeous firewood log you see above,  (photo from the following day) and sadly lost an AMAZING fir that broke loose from where I'd tied it.    It was fun to be in a sea kayak again,  and the F1 remains after all this time,  my favorite boat to paddle.

The days are getting longer,  seeds are starting to arrive in the mail,  and soon it will be time to fire up the table saw and prep for my first class of the year.   With the buzz of new projects tingling in my brain I'm finally excited to do it all over again,  to share the special magic that comes from building your own wooden boat,  in beautiful a setting where you can nibble on things growing nearby.    Until then,  I've got a lot to do,  ready,  set,  go!

-Brian

In the cold and rainy winter my unheated shop is often less than habitable. In these months I often travel to teach. Sometimes the venues are merely satisfactory so it's a real treat to be able to teach at the Northwest Maritime Center in Port Townsend. Their workshop is beautiful,  well equipped, and bustling with boatbuilding activity that lends and authentic feel to the experience. Interestingly,  most of my students in this class traveled from farther than I did to attend,  including:  Alaska,  Illinois,  New Mexico,  and Australia!  Together we spent an easy week building six kayaks,  which we launched on a cold blustery morning in the marina.   The class went like clockwork and I can't imagine a better start to my season.  Thank you to the students and the NW maritime center!  Here are a few photos.

Glistening frost,  a black twinkling sky,  a drysuit frozen stiff.   6am on the morning after solstice and I'm driving carefully to the beach.   I call my friend Bryon,  "The swell isn't great,  it's still a little crossed and the open beach breaks are going to be a solid ass-beating.   Let's cruise down to Short Sands,  it'll be mellow and fun."   I eat breakfast and drive down to the parking lot,  pulling on my gear and hiking down the always beautiful trail,  flanked by some of the only coastal old-growth forest left on our coast.   Paddling out in my tiny kevlar surf kayak I nearly get smashed by some less than mellow sets wrapping into the south end.    I catch one wildly bouncing ride down the choppy face,  and decide to head North where things are looking a little cleaner.

I pick up a couple of nice rides while waiting for the tide to drop.   Bryon and Jeffrey emerge from the mist.

Both guys are sporting nice,  new carbon-kevlar Valley Rush Mark II's and Bryon is testing his newest protype paddles.   Lighter,  stronger,  neutral bent shaft,  better grip.   These will be the paddles to buy when they go into production later this year.

I sit inside and take a couple photos of the guys when a solid overhead set graces the horizon line.   Twelve vertical feet of curving heaven fires down the line toward me and I barely make it over the shoulder,  my boat catching an air-drop punching out the back.  It would be a moral affront to let another such wave go unridden so I hand Bryon my camera and wait outside,  watching the guys pick up lots of fun waves.   So much for taking photos.

Outside I'm patient,  sets pass by,  and then a nice big set rolls in.   I let the first two roll under.   The third wave is the biggest and I'm a bit deep meaning that if I paddle I'm going to pull myself under the lip.    I resist the urge to do anything and simply let the wave lift me up the near vertical face,  finally I take one gentle stroke and the boat breaks free.    Angling-in on a face this steep means tripping and getting pounded,  and dropping all the way and hitting a bottom turn means getting the lip-guillotine.   Something between the two is called for.   Leaning into the drop I dive straight halfwav down the face,  slowly set my rail,  and ease into the angle.   If a wave gives me even a half second of free time I'll use it to slash a turn or cut back deeper into the pocket,  but no such antics would be had on this wave.   I smoked down the line,  the boat as critically perched as it possibly could be without tearing out of the wave.  Cutting a white spraying laceration across a thumping ten foot face is as close to enlightenment as I am ever likely to experience,  I get that wonderful feeling of time dialating,  an eternity of space and breath nestled paradoxically in the critical moment.

Bryon,  bless his heart,  turns on the camera and takes the only decent photos of me surfing that anyone ever has.     I've always enjoyed watching the gulls "surf"  the updrafts in front of a wave and when a wave is good and I've got a rail set,  I'll take my hand off one side of the paddle and spread my arms like a bird and fly in front of the wave,  steering only with my body weight.  I love doing this.

I used to surf a board before I shredded my shoulder, and I miss the feeling of reaching out and combing a wave with my fingers,  another use for my one handed surf technique.   There were some nice bigger waves (about twice the size of the wave in this photo) that we didn't get any photos of,  but it's still neat to finally get any photos.     We all took a couple of solid beatings including one where Jeffrey tried pulling in a little too late and the curling lip of a big one bit down on him,  growling and shaking before spitting him out the back.   He rolled up and shook it off.   Did I mention that Jeffrey is fourteen?   I took an equally nasty pounding that whipped me like a rag doll and I could feel some of the scar tissue that now substitues for ligaments in my left shoulder tearing loose.   I'll be feeling that in the morning.

Perfect position on a smaller wave in the shadow of Cape Falcon.   Pure bliss.  

Evening at 4pm.   Plenty of time to go home and write the blog....

Like the salmon I've pursued this year,  I'm beginning to realize that I too am an anadromous creature,  whether it's building sea kayaks or using them,  all spring and summer my focus is on the ocean,  on food,  and generally growing fatter for the coming winter.   The salmon are eating,  my business produces cash,  the farm is growing like crazy,  together we race toward the approaching equinox as the sun drops lower at an ever quickening pace.   Autumn arrives.   Significant swells crash into our beaches,  pushing both me and the salmon into the estuaries.   The salmon stop feeding,  I'm done teaching,  and the farm is  overflowing with food.   Too soon the fleetingly gorgeous month of September is gone,  the wind shifts from the east to the south,  the leaves turn yellow,  the skies open up and pour, and people everywhere start to piss and moan.  

Most people,  but not this person.

As the rivers start the flow the salmon are called upstream by an ancient urge,  I too recieve signals from deep in the limbic brain as I follow the fish up past the tidewater where my kayak-body changes,  getting shorter,  harder,  more nimble.   As the salmon get darker I get brighter,  exchanging earthtone nylon for bright yellow polyethelene,  trolling rods for spinning tackle,  microbrew for pabst blue ribbon,  farm fresh stir-fry for gas station burritos.  Waterfalls and steep boulder gardens beckon,  along with a seasonal cast of scumbags,  deadbeats,  and ne'er-do-well's.    I am becoming a whitewater kayaker again.

Before I transform into a complete troglodyte though,  I wanted to take a few minutes to reflect on the this year and lay some plans for the year to come.   To begin with, thank you to everyone who came out to build this year,  you are the reason that Cape Falcon Kayak continues to thrive.    Doing what I love for a living is a privledge,  but the real blessing is all of the interesting people I'm fortunate enough to meet.   The variety never ceases to impress me, and each person is a window into a world that I'd otherwise never visit.   It's a lot of work building six kayaks in six and a half days,  but I wouldn't trade it for anything and I'll continue to live up to my end of the bargain with kayaks of obsessive quality at the lowest prices I can possibly offer,  and the probably crazy Cape Falcon warrantee,  5 years repair or replacement (with normal use).   It's extremely rare that I have to warrantee a boat,  but when I do you won't get a run-around.    A shipper recently broke a students boat (in half) and I had a new boat on his doorstep in 14 days.   That's how I like to do business.

When it comes to kayaks I'm rarely satisfied with anything, so it comes as something of a surprise to realize that I'm now quite satisfied with the Cape Falcon lineup:  West and East Greenland replicas,  the F1,  and the soon-to-be-renamed LPB.   The Greenland kayaks I've chosen provide a decent paddling experience as well as being good rollers,  which is often not the case in traditional hunting kayaks.  The F1 remains the backbone of my business and if I were any sort of business person I'd put up a page with the countless rave emails I recieve from owners.  The LPB as the newest member of the lineup has slowly won me over,  despite my general disdain for longer kayaks,  it's a nice boat to paddle and an excellent choice for those with the need for speed.  Most importantly,  I've built enough of all of these kayaks to be able to tweak them to match the individual paddlers weight,  ergonomics,  and paddling goals.  Along with the standard lineup I've had the opportunity to work on some very cool projects this year,  including a new version of the F2 double kayak that I built with a husband and wife who just took it on a trip in Canada.  The kayak turned out amazing and I really wished I could have kept it I liked it so much.    Looking into the future I am still hoping to get a 12 footer designed,  but with the farm pulling so much energy,  I find it harder and harder to find time for protoyping.   Maybe it will happen this year!

With my keen interest in fishing this year I've also revisited one of my most beautiful projects,  the Adirondack Guide Boat.    Halfway between a canoe and a rowboat, undeniably gorgeous, the Guideboat has proven itself an ideal craft for pursuing the wild salmon.   While other guys are backing trailers into the water and firing up trolling motors,  I am quietly sliding my thirty-pound boat through the grass and rowing effortlessly across the bay.    Having watched countless daysailers rot on trailers,  I have little patience for anything harder to deploy than a kayak.    Weighing as much as a kayak but able to carry two people and some gear,  it's a perfect boat for people who want to row but don't like the hassle of a full-sized rowboat.   Owing to it's narrow waterline and superlight weight,  it glides effortlessly under a light pull on the oars.   It's a great boat for fishing, picnicing,  or simply laying on the floorboards and staring up at the sky.   All of this adds up to a seductive experience that is more than the sum of it's parts.   Is it obvious that I love my guideboat?    Leann and I just returned from our last Guideboat fishing trip of the year where we landed these two eleven-pound coho salmon,  it was a great way to finish the season.

I'm proud to announce that Cape Falcon Kayak is now producing a limited number of Adirondack Guideboats.    These new versions will incorporate everything I've learned from my two prototypes as well as real brass Guideboat hardware,  unlike the cheaper pins and sockets on my protoypes.    The real question is,  how do I incorporate them into my business?   I'd like to provide the opportunity for people to build,  yet it's not practical to run full size classes.    The solution I've come up with is to invite people on an individual basis to come build with me during the winter months.   This is a much harder project than a kayak,  and the materials costs are a lot more expensive.    I'm charging $2900 for the build,  and that may have to go up depending on how the first class goes.  (translation: if you're the first you might get a better price)  During this class we will spend ten days working side by side.  These being the colder months,  you can expect to work in heavy clothes,  and you can also expect at least some mandantory steelhead fishing (the shop is on the river).   I have a nice little yurt with it's own woodstove that I can rent you for someplace to stay at a reasonable price.    Send me an email if you are interested in building or purchasing a new Guideboat.    Cost for a new boat is going to be $4900,  includes everything.

Right now I'm starting to plan my schedule for next years classes.    I'll be posting the 2012 class schedule at the end of October so if you have any suggestions or requests get them to me now.    As usual,  registration will open at 9am on January 1st.    This year anyone who registered later than 9:02  didn't get into a class.   If you register at 8:59 you get pushed to the back of the line.   I know that's all a bit crazy,  but there is nothing I can do about it and this is the only system I can think of to make things fair.  (exceptions can be made for special circumstances)   New for the coming year,  for anyone who tried to get into a class this year but couldn't,  you can register a day early.    The general plan is to build Guideboats until January then I'll probably teach a class in the Seattle area,  (possibly Port Townsend),  and a class in Portland sometime in the late winter months (Feb, March).     Once the weather warms up a bit, classes at the shop start at the end of April.     I will teach one class in April,  one class in May,   two classes in June,  two classes in July,  and two classes in August.   That's sixty spaces total,  about as much as I can do in a year and still retain a shred of sanity.

Moving on from the making of cash to the liquidation of it,  our organic farm continues of grow.    We now supply two farmers markets and a sixty family, seven month CSA.   Ginger,  my partner in the venture and dear friend is hard at work,  even as I write this,  putting the labor into our labor-of-love.   Irrigation, greenhouses,  actual houses, the off-grid electricity and hot water systems,  basically if it needs to be built it's my job.   Ginger,  however,  is the gardening diva who fills all that empty infrastructure with life every year.    Managing the farmwork,  the website,  the CSA,   the markets,  two interns,  and an ever revolving crew of live-in volunteers,  her drive and focus are admirable and quite neccesary to maintain any sort of cashflow from an occupation that pays little to nothing.   The reality of local organic small farming is that it's almost impossible to make a living off of it.    Big Ag is only profitable because they mass produce monocrops, heavily subsidised by the federal govenment.   The real costs are externalized in the form of phosphate, nitrate, herbicide and pesticide pollution,  dead soil, and food that ultimately contains much less nutrition.    It should be obvious that poisoning the planet to feed the people is a stupid thing to do,  but with nearly every key USDA office stacked with ex Big Ag executives,  we aren't exactly headed toward national policy changes,  which is unfortunate because in the fossil fuel scarce future it simply won't be practical to turn natural gas into nitrate fertilizer,  or ship an apple halfway across the planet!  Localizing our food supply is going to become essential in the next twenty years.  Reducing energy consumption,  closing waste loops,  feeding people healthy food so they stay healthy,  we need a food revolution!  That's why Gin and I started the farm and called it R-evolution Gardens.     The only problem being the absolutely pitiful wages.    I've watched Gin work 14 hours a day 7 days a week for the last 8 months and the reward for that punishment is going to be barely surviving the winter.   I'm sharing this because it's important for people who believe in local food to also understand just how tenuous farming really is.

We all need to support our local farmer,  go to the farmers market,  plant your own garden,  get involved with food!    The more we are able to feed ourselves on a local level,  the more insulated we are from an increasingly volitle world.    Practical considerations aside,  when you spend time with farmers you invariably find yourself drinking wine, eating delicious food together,  and saying "I grew this!".   Eating keeps you alive,  but love and laughter are the reason to live in the first place.    I look forward to sharing my passion for food and my passion for kayaks with you in the coming year.     Sign up for a class,  build a boat,  and I'll show you around the farm!

Bonus photo: my kitty M,  now a teenager,  I'm so in love with her!

For seven years now I've gazed upon the sentinal of Onion Peak.   It's bulwark has supervised the creation of my boatbuilding business,  and then my organic farm.   At times bathed in the warm glow of sunrise or sunset,  at others wrapped in fog,  blasted by rain,  and covered with ice,  I glanced up again and again at the crags,  simply wondering what was up there.    Carefully studying the fissures upon it's central column,  I entertained idle fantasies that just maybe some of the rotten choss-rock had peeled off the face exposing a band of cracked columnar basalt that would accept some of my long-neglected collection of nuts and cams for an epic decent straight down the middle.  

Who has time for such things though.  Who has time for anything really?   It never ceases to amaze me how fast one year dissapears into the next,  and how I always find time to do the things I have to do,  and so often the things I want to do are set aside to be done in some mysterious future that is always around the corner but never seems to arrive.   This winter I've been attacking that list with fervor,  and so it was that I found myself connected to my buddy Don's voicemail at 8pm:

"hey Bro,  it's me Brian,   the weather is good and I think we should climb Onion Peak tomorrow,  camp on top,  rappel down the face,  and then bushwhack straight to my house."   beeeeeep.

Another way to phrase that might be:  "Would you be interested in carrying fifty pounds of climbing gear seven miles and three-thousand vertical feet up a maze of logging roads through endless clearcuts,  thrashing through wet slippery thorny brush up to a crumbling mountaintop where we'll freeze our nuts off and won't sleep a wink on uneven windswept rock,  then wake up and make a highly inadvisable vertical decent down a cliff that we have no reasonable expectation of finding any sort of safe anchors,  wherepon (provided we survive) we will continue to thrash straight cross country through more of the aforementioned brush finally arriving back at my farm."

I can always count on Don for any adventure that involves extended unpleasantness combined with the probability of getting lost and the possibility of getting killed.

Rather than take the normal arduous route up steep logging roads,  Don felt it would be a good idea to make an instinctual cross-country shortcut.    This turned out to be something like climbing a muddy stairmaster for two hours with backpack while being whipped raw by branches and brambles.      Not surprisingly,  this turned out to be neither shorter,  nor easier,  especially because aside from the occasional long whitewater portage,  I do little to no hiking.  

Back on the roads we were treated to a six mile tour of greed and devastation.    What you are looking at here is 'a stream buffer to protect habitat'.    This land could have been selectively harvested encouraging a diverse healthy forest,  instead large private landholders simply clearcut and move on.   Currently there is less than one-half of one percent old-growth forest on the Oregon coast,  but a burgeoning market for pulp is now making it barely profitable to cut down the young second growth to be shipped overseas and ground up for pulp.   It's disgusting.   Timber interests always like to whine about regulations when the reality is the reason there are no timber jobs is because they've already cut down most of the trees.

Farther us we got some nice views of Ecola state park and Cannon Beach.  

A cool rock and tree.

We slogged a brutal pace to reach the base of Onion Peak an hour before sunset.    The Nature Conservancy purchased this land a few years ago.

The end of the road.

Seeing my chance to repay Don for the evil thrashfest he imposed on me earlier in the day,   I suggested we forgo the normal trail and take a more "direct"  route to the top via this gully.

he, he, he.....   Just as I'd hoped. 

Halfway up,  less than a half hour of daylight left.

A quadracep destroying half-hour later we quavered victoriously on the peak as the sun melted into the Pacific.

Nehalem bay.

As romantic as it looks,  you need to be both stupid and a scofflaw to camp up here.   There is nothing resembling a flat spot,  the wind howls,  and each side of the tent opened to a potentially fatal fall.    The Nature Conservancy does not allow camping here to protect the habitat,  but more to the point,  it's just a bad idea.    I plead forgiveness based on the fact that I've wanted to do this long before they bought the land.    To reiterate,  camping here is illegal and dangerous.   It is murder getting a pack up here anyways.  There are nice spots with exactly the same views at the base of the peak on the old logging road.

First light.

Rainier,  Helens,  and Adams at sunrise.

Nearly crippled from (not) sleeping on baseball sized chunks of sloped rock,  we rose to greet the rare winter sun.    From this amazing vantage we watched a Peregrine Falcon swoop and dive in front of us.   It was the first time I'd seen one fly for more than a moment and from this distance with a clear view I was struck by how unique it's flight was.    Compared to other birds I'd watched fly at altitude,  the fast arcs that it carved were cleaner,  more steady.    

Though it was clear that there was none of the solid rock I'd hoped for,  we strung out the climbing gear anyways and started carefully working our way down the face.    This seven-hundred foot drop required careful strategy to insure that we didn't rappel into a situation we couldn't escape from.     We strung out a pair of two-hundred foot ropes,   and I dropped down,  worked out an anchor,  and then rappelled on a single 120 foot rope down to establish a second anchor,   then Don would come down,  pull the ropes and drop them down to the second anchor.     At this point we were committed,  but if we were unable to find a third anchor point,  we could still tie all the ropes end to end and rappel to the base.

For anyone keen on repeating this feat,  allow me to call your attention to what I mean when I say 'anchor'.    Our first two anchors were trees,  our third was a slung rock,  but our fourth,  completely committed,  and most exposed anchor consisted of three small nuts slotted into a wet muddy crack.   

As horrifying as this looks (even to me),  I established this anchor by digging moss out of the crack with my fingers and a pocket knife,   then slotting a nut,  and still safe on rappel,  I'd transfer my body weight onto the piece and jump up and down on it like crazy.    I did the same with each nut and then using slings,  prussiks,  and a cordlette I managed to equalize the trio,   making sure to check it for stability in any possible direction of pull.   My bottom nut was securely wedged behind a nub that prevented the top two from lifting out.    I could have slotted another piece,   but this felt solid and I trusted it.   I haven't built many trad anchors since I quit seriously climbing fourteen years ago,  but the intense focus of ever having done so made it seem as though it was yesterday. 

We were incredibly lucky on finding anchors,   I was at the literal absolute end of my rope on each section when I found or made an anchor.   On the final rappel the rope ran out just as our feet touched the ground.     We brought a total of 520 feet of rope and to do it over with I should have brought an extra 120 feet and a couple of pitons and a hammer.    It was fun to do,  but it's just not a climbing friendly place.    The rock falls apart in your hands.

After eating lunch and coiling the ropes,  we were ready for the really fun part,  a straight line bushwhack to my house four miles distant.    At least it was downhill.

alas,  this is the last picture my camera ever took.    In the midst of our downhill bramble-thrash we encountered a small cliff band where I was heard to utter the phrase,

"Don't worry,  it's all good."

....followed by a slide,  tumble,  and crash!   I stood up bleeding a bit, and winced at my smashed Canon s95.   Not a bad price to pay considering what could have happened.   I yelled back up to Don,

"Ok,  maybe it's not all good!"

Below the peak we traversed a landscape of fantastic volcanic spires and outcrops amidst massive clearcuts.    This area should have been preserved as a park and it was sad to see it cut.   Our cross country epic continued well into the darkness,  and we arrived on my doorstep scratched and bruised.   I lit a fire in the wood-fired hot tub and cracked open a well earned Jubelale.    Not a bad adventure considering it was hatched in day and a half and executed with very little gas or money.    Sure our rainforest is clearcut to all hell,  but it still has it's charms.   (thanks and apologies to the Nature Conservancy)

Even beginning to complain about the hardships of being a successful kayak builder on the Oregon coast,  (much less a succesful boat builder of any sort anywhere)  is certain to earn me a tide wrathful emails from people trapped behind desks across America.    So I ask your forgiveness while I bemoan my station:

hoo boy!   it's been a busy summer!

Our fledgling organic farm has doubled production this year,  and to keep pace with the river of cash it inhales for infrastructure,  I've doubled kayak classes and commisions as well.    A day in the life currently consists of waking at 6am,  working on the computer 'till 8,   teaching or building 'till 5,  chopping firewood or fixing things until dark,  working on the computer more 'till midnight,   and then waking the next day to do it all again.   I share this with you first to say THANK YOU,  to everyone who buys a kayak,  builds a kayak,   or donates money.   Aside from leaving here with an absolutely kick-ass kayak,  you are making something amazing happen as well.    Gin and I had a five year vision to transform this bare piece of land into a working farm and sustainable living teaching center,  and I can tell you that from my vantage,  halfway through year four,  it looks entirely probable that we will meet that timeline.    Our goal is nothing less than showing people that even in a modern industrialized world,  we can still choose to live happier,  healthier lives,  living closer to the land on renewable energy sources without suffering lukewarm showers,  flickering lightbulbs,  a steady diet of kale,  or any of the other horrors that the status quo seems to insinuate would result from a broader application of individuals rejecting industrial agriculture and fossil fuel dependance.   

Our noble quest comes with a price these days though,  and that cost is an overworked and addled Brian.   You won't notice it in a class,  but where I fall short of my responsibilities is late at night,  when things still look blurry in my reading glasses and I'm staring at a wavvy deluge of emails,  the majority of which I have no hope of dispatching in a timely fashion.   Chances are you could be one of those people who are wondering what happened to your email and I want you to know that I CARE about your inquiry,  and I apologize for any terse replies.   Please feel free to pester me if your question is pressing.    As long as I'm at it,  I'd also like to apologize to all the friends I never call unless I need something,  and to anyone else for whom I have or will drop the ball on in the next two months.    Case in point,  I am writing this presently because I spent the day at the dentist and literally can't do anything else at the moment.

More than anything I miss having time to write stories and take pictures.   My own special brand of photos and narrative is one of my favorite things to do and it's been excruciating to let my adventures go undocumented.   Take for instance salvaging firewood this year:

I found an enormous curved fir log at the edge of the bay and with the help of my buddy Craig  (it was his idea, officer)   and two large chainsaws, we sliced it into 12 inch wide,  3 1/2 foot diameter rounds which we rolled with great effort to the tide line and dropped in a long line onto their sides.    I laid a rope across them and pinned them onto it with fence staples.    We returned at midnight under a full moon with the bay overflowing with silvery black water and not a breath of wind.   Bats swooped and coyotes howled in the distance while together we ever so slowly towed the sinuous chain of giant wooden wafers a mile to where we would split them for firewood in the morning.   The surreal visual effect was of a winding magic walkway stretching into the distance across the water in the moonlight.   I feel so guilty for not having a photo of this to share that I went out and bought a camera with some serious low light firepower just so it doesn't happen again.

All that said,  I have been taking a few photos when the opportunity presents,  mostly of classes,  some of my darling kitten M.    Please enjoy them,  and I hope to return to my normal narratives this fall.   Feel free to come check out the farm if you are in the area,  that's why it's here.   I have a gorgeous Japanese bath house / passive solar sauna under construction,  almost all salvaged,  of course.

-Brian