Micro Hoh~ endless log jam

Ruby~

Chris and i were both talking about going out on a hike or a climb or a fight, for a surf, to find the elusive Goodman creek, where back in the 1960's Ruth Kirk wrote about going to observe the tidal bore, within the pages of her great The Olympic Seashore

where~ i found a sky full of wonder

so complex and bewildering

white winged scoter

greatest island name~ DESTRUCTION ISLAND

my dream home is abandoned at the end of a horrible road, patrolled by mongrel rez dogs, behind the log jam, sand spit, at the point of a river mouth filthy with wildlife, as soon as we showed up and climbed over the jam to see what was out in the ocean a pack of dogs in solid browns, blacks and tans surrounded us

the initial plan was to kayak down the river, beach it, check the swell and punch it out to sea, around the rocky shoal and 14 miles north to see Goodman creek and on the way camp on Mosquito creek, while towing two surfboards~ look for surf, Duskiya* plump hens and Hoquats*

*kelp haired child thief, floating houseboat people

but. . . the area had just received an inch of rain in 8 hours, and the river was really high and really fast, and we hadn't checked it low for snags, nets or rusting cars

gigantic raccoons stole ours cloths and lunch~ stalked our very selves

how the ocean watches television, for some reason i always find a TV on the beach, who. . .Who decides to drive it to the beach and drown, face down

the river mouth here is creamy with life, these ducks while alive, fly right up to you, squeaking, they have red bills and black feathers and white circles around their eyes, we saw huge salmon leaping high plucking pelicans out of the very air, i saw two harbour porpoises, one black one gray swim right for me, millions of birds sitting on sand spits, the seals here pogo while giving us the eye, circling Bald eagles and fisherman laughing at us, as they pull their nets out of the cold green /opal waters

Chris seeing if we can make it, rock climbing over rotten brittle rock, after we changed our plans, ditched the kayak and loaded up our packs and tried to hike it over Scott's bluff, which we knew can only be rounded at a low tide~ TRAPPED

that tiny guy hiding in the lower right is Chris

we could have stripped down to naked and swam for it, but the swell gets funneled here and crushes the rocks to dust

trapped and looking up, no way out~

is it going to be a girl or a boy or undetermined, because i need to pick out some flotsam~

a boy ? name him Debris.

from here to headland~

some endless log jam

thirty-five minute surf check walk~ we don't often get to surf in warm water, or go without hoods and booties, get sunburned two days in a row, with buttered glass swell, all to ourselves, on a little A-frame point, glorious left and rights

rain swollen, flooded, with the Alder aglow

Monkeys ? baby big foot ? chupacabro ?

old growth stumps at Oil City road~

favorite line from Ruth Kirk's book about oil city~ NO OIL ~ NO CITY

aquanauts about to float down the river and into the mouths of gravel and cobble rough bar

this is what all the wildlife activity is based upon, including ours~ breeding, struggling through life's journey to find nothing~ death and. . . delicious

tomorrow~ pictures of waves and video

Neil~