After the long, but musically entertaining(thanks to Chester) bus ride down to Vernal, Utah we were hungry, angry, lonely and tired. This is called HALTING and anyone that has participated on a Nols course or any extended expedition knows this phenomenon. We received the tour of the whitewater base, ate some food, all became friends again and met some of our instructors by way of a game. There are three main places in the Vernal base area; Student land, where the students sleep on the ground, instructor land, where all the instructors are living in vans, buses, or pickups and then the issuing room. I dont think Nols instructors live in houses, most are vegabonds or professional hobos at best. The whitewater base is very relaxed as one might imagine. There is of course fresh fruit in every meal, chaco’s and board shorts present, whitewater boats strewn about around every corner, and dogs that belong to all these river rats.

The Green River is not green. It is brown. Practicing our rolls in brown silty water over and over again and being trapped in a very unstable little boat was definitely a new experience for me. Its all part of learning a new skill which I can respect. Desolation Canyon is an incredible section of river to run. I strongly recommend it.

I only lost my cool twice on this section; someone spilled my dinner in the sand, and rolling in a large rapid that I was confident I could run. It was good for me to fail.

We later transitioned into canoes for the San Juan River. I was in my element here and had my shit down. Whitewater canoes are great. They are nothing like kayaks, totally different feel. Paddling a tandem boat through a large rapids while carrying gear is different than messing around solo in a playboat.

The groover- A metal box that leaves groove marks on your ass while you take a shit. It bakes in the sun all day while you paddle with it.
Groover duty- No pun intended, this task belongs to everybody. One must put the groover in an aesthetic spot and clean it in the morning.

Thanks to our rations lady, who was ironically on our canoe section with us, there was no butter or cooking oil. Needless to say cooking and baking was a real pain in the ass. Instead she packed Jicama, an edible root that almost everyone refused to eat except for one kid who ate it raw.

There was also an abundant supply of Datura, a plant found naturally in Utah claimed to be a psychedelic by the Native peoples. We were instructed not to eat it, so we played hacky sack instead.

The River section was great. I was well fed, tan, and happy at the end of it. We had also become savages.

And I did not have sex on my river section.

A damn fine conversationalist indeed.

Success?

Sho!

Dear brother,
You’re in Squamish. Living the dream; beautiful granite, powder, and cute Canadian women. I hope that you stay within your limits. I hope you catch fish, I hope you obtain a dog, and a volvo. Please come to Wyoming and find me, probably in Jackson, sleeping in a heated bathroom, under a pavilion, or in my van, cooking flapjacks on my double burner and smiling at the new day’s sun.
It will be good. Our tele skis will be our tools, and snow our canvas. Skinning up Teton Pass, a couple of midwest boys lapping the locals. Dreams.

Even J.T Robinson has a sweet golden retriever. I say they’re the perfect ski bum dog, I will have a dog soon. She will sit in my van’s captain chair happy as can be. Dogs are good listeners.

Leaving the big top, I am anxious. My hopes and dreams rely on this van, it needs to get the job done. Mitch and I load our shit up, and are finally on the road. Traffic sucks just out of Everett, so we split to the more scenic route. It’s Beautiful, Mt. Baker stands tall in the distance. I take pictures while we drive, converse, and listen to trance.
We are about to cross the border into B.C while licking chocolate off the Reeces pieces wrappers in dead silence. We pull up, and there is immediate confusion on the border patrols face.
1. Minnesota Boys?
2. A Vanagon, we were asking for it
3. Squamish bound- “Never say this”- (Chris and Brian)
We are brought in, only to be further questioned by a beautiful dark skinned Canadian gal. The whole situation is quite comical. They have nothing on us, probably just protocol. We are turned loose, and enter B.C. A stop at Mcdonalds and MEC in Vancouver, and the Vanagon plods north. The landscape from Vancouver to Squamish is powerful, real and absolute. Good vibes. We are here, greeted by Canadians and slacklines. The Mosquitoes are ferocious so Mitch and I retreat to the fake campgroud. A new day is tomorrow, and climbing awaits.
Squamish belongs to us now.

For a moment let’s approach information as though none of it really exists. The only reason we may think it does, is because the progression of “facts and concepts” in the scientific community provide us with some basic security in the essence of what life is and what its about. Simply put, something for us to base our morals and beliefs around.

Mitch Ellis is an ox on a bicycle. That’s all there is to it. I recall a time cycling up the North Shore with the guys while he was leading our peloton. Nothing could stop him. The wind must have been blowing 30 miles an hour. Chris looks at me and says “your brother is a fucking machine” I nodded in agreement. Later in the ride someone bumps his back tire and sends him for a digger. His bike’s fucked, his leg’s fucked. It doesn’t phase him. That’s Mitch.