Nov 30 rain and wind storm

My normally quiet life received adrenaline from a visit from friends. We have hiked the beach, the nearby hills, and  foraged twice for chanterelles. Its amazing that the wild mushrooms have been continuous for two and one half months.
Yesterday we went to Pistol River to get some alder firewood. It was wet and half-rotten but we took a small load anyway. I like the incense quality of alder.

We stopped at the beach where the river meets the sea. In June, a hundred wind surfers had been practicing there and my daughter and I had watched  blond and tan  surfers with colorful sails do acrobatics in the waves. Yesterday the beach was deserted. Jeff, Laurie, and I walked the beach and through grassy dunes, Jeff collected dry sticks and made a fire. We sat on driftwood logs in the lee of a giant boulder and talked about our girls. We all have 21 year old daughters and Laurie and Jeff have 20 year-olds.

At sunset we headed for Helen's (another ex-Alaskan, now Rogue River guide), for a dinner of meat loaf, and pasta with chanterelles.

This morning, I awoke at six AM to find the wood stove crackling, coffee made, the dishwasher unloaded, and the scrabble game set out. What house guests!

November 27 showers

I'm excitedly awaiting the arrival of a friend from Juneau. I haven't seen Laurie since her wedding in Kodiak last December but we go way back. She helped with my kids when I went fishing in 1979. Then she became of valued crew on my boat. We both had baby girls in 1989 and lived together in the late nineties, both negotiating divorces. I recall 20 years ago at the home birth of Laurie's second daughter, Katie, I made matza ball soup with the Thanksgiving turkey leftovers so I am doing the same today after absconding with the turkey carcase from Steve and Terri's.
While the carcase simmers, I bike to the P.O. Dressing for the rain in gore-tex pants, raincoat, and waterproof gloves, I don't let the 41 degree temperature discourage me and am rewarded as I peddle home and sunbeams light up a distant Cape Blanco and snow patches sparkle from the hilltop meadows on Humbug and the coast range.
Cape Blanco is the western most point in the continental U.S.

Andrew Barron's snow in the cryptemeria

After a snow day, which melted as the flakes hit the ground, Thanksgiving was sunny and pleasant. I used the hydraulic splitter on a cord of fir to justify eating a huge meal.
I can live without a man and a boat. I can't  live without hydraulics.

Thanks Andrew! He took much better photos than me on Thanksgiving.

Terri sat 27 of us for Thanksgiving. We stuffed ourselves then played Taboo and Gestures.

Yesterday I put the last coat of finish on my drawers and replaced the handles. They look great! I feel like the house is finally finished.

Nov 22 Misty like a spring day in Ketchican

I'm liking the security of wearing layers with gore-tex shells. I ride to the post office in a barely perceptible mist, stopping to take pictures of Cypress tress.  The Monterey Cypress thrive here in Curry County. There's one by the California border that is advertised as the biggest in the world. Who knows? I've got one on my property--its girth ( 27 foot circumference) would compete with the "largest in the world" however Coos/Curry electric keeps cutting the top out of it to accommodate power lines. Especially since Andrew and his friend, twenty-five years ago, about age twelve, both were shocked while climbing it.
In Coulioure, France, there was a bi-lingual guide to Mediterranean plants. It said that the conical cypress, common as U.S. suburban border elements, were European. The ones with a lateral profile were the imported Monterey variety. Interesting how both forms of cypress are common throughout the U.S. and Europe.

Sounds, smells, and visibility are all muffled in the mist. The ocean rumbles like a far-away train.

Nov 21 clear

Not a cloud in the sky this morning. Droplets of water adorn all greenery. They sparkle in the sunshine. The holly tree is starting its mid-winter showing of red berries. I put on gore-tex pants and  and a rain coat so I won't get wet if I am tempted to forge into the brush, take a wine bag which separates and supports mushrooms, a knife to cut them at the ground  level, and a camera. I let the chickens into the garden and give them some  beet greens and bread. They ignore the basket of beet greens until finishing the bread.

 My favorite chanterelle patch  100 feet from the house has a dozen or so mushrooms in it-enough for dinner. Sunbeams penetrate the  pines and huckleberry; steam rises off the the sal-al ground cover.
 The intense red bark of madrone and manzanilla contrasts with the sparkling green leaves.

I keep failing to capture the elegance of madrone, its claret-colored bark, scaled in places and slick as bare wood in others, a crimson side trunk is mottled with olive green in true cammo fashion.I will keep trying, one of these days I will get a decent picture. But the reason they are so dramatic is how the madrone tree stands out against the green and black of the forest backdrop.
Coming back to the house, I decide to continue with the raised bed project. a front moves in with a cloud cover in  varying shades of grey so,  spending an hour until the rain and wind discourage, I cut and mount more hoops on the raised beds.
I was hoping for a bike-ride today but the rain continues and I make popcorn and read a John Stralely mystery.

Nov 20 rain

December is the rainiest month on the Oregon coast. As we approach it, there are few days when no rain falls. There are, however, many days when it comes intermittently. Yesterday I picked up the  roll of 3/4" tubing to build cloche covers for the raised beds and drove home in a drizzle--on my right, the hills were enshrouded with dark clouds; on the left, the ocean sparkled under blue sky.
In the afternoon the storm retreated into the Siskyous and I cut and mounted nine eight-foot hoops for one of the four raised beds. I covered the young greens then thought, not raining, low tide, I better get to the beach!
 Grabbing my camera, I assessed my clothing-- dirty black sweat pants, a stained 2001 Kodiak High school hooded sweatshirt, and my muck boots, and decided that I didn't want to take the time to change and that putting a raincoat over an already damp sweatshirt would be less comfortable than taking my chances with another squall.

After the five minute walk to the beach, I walked through the ubiquitous invasive European grass that had been planted to stabilize the dunes and has done its job too well. Shifting sands are the life of the dunes, the spreading grass has enabled brush and trees to encroach, altering the landscape and wildlife.
On the beach, I smiled to see it devoid of footprints. The sun played hide and seek behind cumulus clouds. The breeze blew the tops off of the offshore swells. A string of pebbles dotted the wet sand and I rolled a couple of interesting green rocks and a couple of sugar agates in my hand and deposited them in my pocket. Taking a few pictures, I noticed the storm clouds rolling in over the tops of the cumulus, similar to the waves breaking over the foam-covered receding waves. I  returned home.
I was invited to Terri and Steve's, next door, for dinner. I am always thankful when I walk the circle driveway between our houses, not just for great neighbors, but also for the excuse to be outside on a night that the stars and an almost-full moon light my way.
I had made a modified salade nicoise. I didn't use eggs, but I put in home-canned albacore. Not canned by me, I trade canned red salmon for albacore and goat cheese.
Terri baked a free-range chicken (not one of mine), made brown rice, and we shared a bottle of Zinfandel.
She made tea and we sat around the living room fireplace talking about Thanksgiving plans.
Terri works upriver at Tu'tu'tun lodge and has the ability to remember every guest's name as she seats them for breakfast or dinner.
After work, she  brings  leftovers for my chickens. Yesterday she brought them baked polenta with olive tapenade, rosemary shortbread with oven-roasted tomato pesto, curried chicken salad with currents and nuts, cornmeal toast, home fries, and caramelized onion tart. Terri whispers the word chicken when referring to cannibalism. She hoped that there was adequate curry so they didn't recognize a cousin.
The day before she cooked up some old buckwheat spaghetti for the chickens. A black and white Brahma and a Rhode Island red hen went at the pile of pasta like Lady and the Tramp eating spaghetti.

young greens in the raised bed