​It's been difficult to keep up with everything these days---writing time has been scarce. So here is a quick catch up on the last 30 days or so:

The property in Vernonia had a multitude of various ice formations--we were enchanted by them all. And, when I used the word "enchanted" I really mean it--this stuff is fantastic.

Ta da! Not bad, right? I am going to either find or make some end cap type things to fill in the details. We looked for iron day beds and trundle beds and all sorts of versions of such---people want a lot of money for those things! We wanted something that could operate as a couch and a bed. I'm going to make some bolsters for the back and sides and steal the mattress off our son's bed. He might not notice, but even if he does it's no big deal--he's eleven...he can sleep on a towel in the corner of the room--he'll be fine.

Thats everything for now. Going to finish the drywall whenever it's not wet outside and try to figure out a way to make a vent to get heat up to the loft. Being in Vernonia is my favorite thing in the world! 
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Beautiful pewter-colored morning sky: 

Good God, sweet Jesus, Buddha and Mohammad! I did it!

I have finally successfully booked a 3 night stay at a Lookout tower! A three year quest completed! At one point, maybe the fifth time I had set my alarm for 6:55am and had been usurped again from my rightful place in the woods (I just didn't care about the freaking Lookout tower anymore) I knew this wasn't about camping anymore.  This is not the way to start out for a relaxing trip away from town.  But my competitive nature greatly outweighed my desire to camp in a Lookout tower--and I couldn't stop once I'd started.  I've been determined to WIN the Lookout tower no matter how long it took--and it got a little ridiculous. 

Relavent Backstory:
I moved to Portland in 1991 having never even seen a picture of the city (note the date: pre-ubiquitous internet availability). I needed to move to a town or city far enough away from the Bay Area that no one could visit me casually, but close enough that I could visit the Bay Area when I felt like it. I applied and was accepted to the Pacific Northwest College of Art (PNCA). Even though I was fairly physically active at the time of the move, I am more sedentary by nature—and I believed the rain culture would serve me well. I like reading and drawing, watching TV--stuff that I can do in bed. California is outdoorsy in a weird vanity-driven way, and I wasn’t interested in being tan or buff or wearing neon spandex. Rain seemed like an excellent excuse for remaining indoors.
 
I quickly learned that rain was no excuse for an Oregonian remaining indoors.
 
In my ignorance, I had no idea I was moving to Outdoorsy Central. Many people ONLY live in the Portland area for the amazing access to the multi-faceted outdoor life. Within 60-90 minutes one can drive to the mountain for mountain-related activities, one can go to the beach for beach stuff, or one can go into the Columbia Gorge for Gorge-things. In case you don't know, this covers a lot.
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When I first arrived, I wasn't really interested in any of these things.  However, I met a lot of people who were. I found myself tromping through a wood, wading in a river, walking next to an ocean, bathing in a hot springs, riding on a bike, hanging on a rope, scrabbling on a rock, stomping down a trail...It was here, in Portland, that I first discovered a part of myself I had never really known: I hate doing most of these activities. They last too long. The sitting down part was okay, but everyone always wanted to walk or bike everywhere--on trails no one had ever seen to places no one had ever gone. I found it exhausting. My favorite thing to do really was to get loaded--and drugs and alcohol worked just as well in the city as anywhere else. In fact, drugs and alcohol worked better in the city than anywhere else. I loved the city more than I loved the woods. I felt connected to the city the same way a lot of people feel connected to nature. I spent a lot of time in the industrial areas of Portland, in the Warehouse district, the night- night- night-life of music and art openings and performance. Bars, small music venues, tiny cheap restaurants---these were the small out of the way places I sought—walking streets few had walked and going places few had gone. Only I could drive there in my car and get home a million different ways. I wasn’t trying to be cool or alternative or hip—I was trying to get my needs met. I needed drugs, I needed alcohol and I needed noise. Nature can be so quiet and my brain felt so loud---I craved anything that shut that racket down.
 

​I would be willing to camp or hike or climb if there was the promise of that chemically induced oblivion—but most nature folks weren’t into the quantities I was into. They might want to sit on the beach at sunset* and share a joint between 5 people, or maybe share a bottle of wine between a couple of people---and it was never enough for me! I would find myself stuck in these unbearable situations, out at the fucking beach or in the middle of the God-damned woods --not one liquor store in sight, not one dealer lurking in a corner ready to sell; jonesing for that next drink. It was only fun for me if I knew I had enough of what I wanted—and I rarely gauged that correctly. Even if I planned ahead, I often thought there was enough—but there wasn’t. I didn’t know that there would never be enough of what I didn’t need—but I learned that later. If I didn’t believe that I could voluntarily score more of whatever I needed, I felt the lack. As you might imagine, it was difficult for me to feel secure outside of the city. The City held a promise for me that Nature never could.
 
Plus “city clothes” are so much cooler than “fancy-pants outdoor gear”.
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​Portland, in 1991, by the way, had a SPECTACULAR city culture for a 21-year-old art student, and after a while I rarely felt the need to go to the outlands. Portland was a city that was strongly defined by youth and innovation. If had not yet fully established itself for a new age and it was constantly seeking new territory. It was NOT Seattle, nor did it want to be. It was its own thing—driven by people who did not want to be anywhere but where they were. It was affordable, accessible and alive. I’ve stated before that I was born in Boston, I grew up in San Francisco, I’ve lived in Paris and Washington DC, I’ve spent time in large international metropolitan cities—and Portland was like nothing I had ever seen—like no where I had ever been. It was so easy to slip into it and be a part of it---it was not holding onto something it had been—it was looking forward to where it was going. I loved it. And I loved getting loaded in it. Life was perfect.

​So…how did I get from there to here? Details don’t always matter---suffice it to say, I am sober now, trying to live a spiritually principled life. I have cleared away decades of wreckage and made a certain peace with my past. My brain, that over-used tool, always thinking, my constant enemy—is gradually quieting down. My need for noise has greatly lessened. My desire for ongoing distraction from self can now be achieved in different ways. And, even though I still yearn to check out, I don’t use drugs and alcohol to do it anymore. I have other ways of navigating my life. Conscious ways.
 
The biggest surprise I’ve had in a long time came shortly after my husband and I purchased the Vernonia property. We were going out there regularly to work on our cabin and other tasks and I started to realize not only how quiet it was, but also how good the silence felt. I’d never experienced silence as a relief, really. The more quiet time I’ve “logged” in my life, the more chaotic and noisy the city has become.
 
Suddenly, getting out of town and going somewhere peaceful has a great allure. 
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​So, that ALMOST brings us back to the topic at hand: the epic tale of booking a 3-night stay at Fivemile Butte Lookout tower.
 
The subject that exists between my early life in Portland and the quest for the Lookout tower is this: how the city of Portland and the surrounding area have changed dramatically.
 
Like I said, I didn’t recreate a lot then and I don’t recreate a lot now—I have only heard stories of how things have changed in the mountains, at the ocean, in the Gorge. The fact that it took me technically 3 years to book a Lookout tower (2 months of sustained planning and scheming) is what brought it home: there are way too many people here in the Pacific Northwest. So many, in fact, that it has changed the tenor of how it feels to live here. This city is not set up to support the amount of in-coming citizens. I’ve heard people say Portland now has all the problems of a major metropolitan city without the benefits of such a metropolis.
 
There are at least 19 Lookout towers in Oregon alone, most available 365 days a year. In order to book one I’ve had to plan ahead in six month increments. I’ve had to set an alarm on my phone to wake me up a 6:55am (9:55am EST) so I can log-in to recreation.gov and prepare to battle. Every time I clicked “Book This Date” at exactly 7:00am, someone had beaten me to it. And every time I would check the next relevant six-month date and set another alarm. I had lists of dates on my refrigerator for various Lookout towers--
 
Green Ridge Dec 20 Dec 25 Dec 27 Jan 2
Indian Ridge Dec 30 Jan 4 Jan 9
Fivemile Butte Dec 18 Dec 25 Jan 1 Jan 7 Jan 9 Jan 11

I made notes on my computer to access webpages quickly:
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​I have written what I consider to be a very amusing account of my experience installing the attic stairs. It involves a long description of my thoughts about following directions vs. not following directions. Here are some of the key points:

• Attic stairs require two people to install safely.
• I try to figure out a lot of different ways to get around this.
• I write almost an entire essay on how I relate to being told I need another person’s help.
• It’s supposed to be deep and revealing but it gets a little tedious.
• In the end I ask for help and I am a better person for it.

 
It’s poetic and revealing and now you can relate to me better as a fellow human being.
 
I also have a funny story about buying the stairs in the first place:

• I have trouble getting them on the cart.
• I have trouble maneuvering the cart through the store.
• I play Chicken with a guy in a Rascal whom I suspect of not needing the Rascal.
• The rascal story turns out to be something I made up.
• I describe my highly effective skill set around playing Chicken.
• My Chicken skill set is not made up.
• I get the stairs into the back of my truck without incident.

 
Again, I assume you will relate to basic struggle and also lying about the struggle. We are all human after all aren’t we?
 
Then I describe the difference between what I thought I needed to do BEFORE installing the attic stairs and what I actually needed to do:

• What I thought I needed to:

1. Lay the laminate floor.
2. Tack up some paneling on the pitched walls.
3. Plug up the holes in the eaves to prevent critters from coming in.
4. Frame an opening for the stairs.

(It should take a month or two?)

• What I really needed to do:

1. Learn about sub-floors, levelers and moisture barriers.
2. Fix the sub-floor, level it, and install a moisture barrier.
3. Discover the moisture barrier gives me a headache and wait for it to off-gas.
4. Learn how to cut flooring.
5. Cut all the flooring to size.
6. Buy more flooring because I mess a bunch up.
7. Install the floor. (Watch out for wasps.)
8. Install the floor. (Watch out for wasps.)
9. Install the floor. (Watch out for wasps.)
10. Finish the floor.
11. Learn about paneling types.
12. Realize I can’t afford what I want.
13. Decide on bead board for durability and price.
14. Buy the bead board and drop it out of the back of the truck in the middle of an intersection during a rainstorm.
15. Go back for more bead board.
16. Measure every freaking space between the rafters at the top and bottom because nothing is square.
17. Cut bead board; mess up a lot.
18. Install bead board; mess up a lot.
19. Trouble shoot over and over to get bead board in.
20. Cry because bead board looks like crap.
21. Get over the bead board debacle.
22. Learn about “soffits”.
23. Cut soffits.
24. Cut better soffits.
25. Cut better soffits than the second set of soffits.
26. Install soffits.
27. Learn about framing holes for attic stairs.
28. Mess up
29. Mess up
30. Mess up
31. Tear down and start again.
32. Mess up only a little.
33. Call it good enough.

 
NOW the stairs were ready to be installed. Not one month later, but eight!
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And here they are:

​It's not quite complete, but complete enough to actually sleep upstairs if we want. My husband found us a futon frame for free on craigslist but, if we want to sleep up there this winter we will need to cut a hole for the heat from the wood stove to travel into the loft—and we are working on that. We are soooo close!:

Honestly, I’ve never been so happy to work so hard and I’ve never been so proud of anything I’ve done. It is a completely unique experience for me to be pleased with doing “a pretty good job” and not avoiding a task because I can’t do it perfectly. I feel really blessed to feel so excited about the future—that’s also a new thing!
 
Footnote: I also wrote a big long thing on how all of this was accomplished by carving out any amount of time we could to drive to Vernonia and back while still attending to our responsibilities as parents and showing up for work and other obligations. It is no small thing trying to conserve fuel, time and energy—and I flipped out about it often enough. The good news: I’m getting tired of flipping out and doing it less. The reality though: I still flip out.