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Field Notes: Colombia

An adventure in reconnection, renewal, & the Unknown.

I. We find our steps, again, in a lacunae ten thousand miles deep by seven years wide, but the same portal sun beckons there to the children of wolves. In the stillness now is not heaviness but a coarse patoi of courage, stumbling on tongue tips of burnt honey. Not an aimless idle, but an inner knowing that an invisible River never ceases, even in yearning, in restless drought, even where a sandbar erased the map.

Listen: Danza del Agua – Miki Gonzalez

Tayrona National Park, Magdalena // Caribbean coast
lagoon tatosunsetiguana

monkeyTNP TNP beach TNPsunsetII. We have learned how to look inside the hollow, rather than without, to find that it is not hollow at all but a prism bending this way and that, waiting to refract shivers of cerulean lemondrop dusk in late August if only these tendrils would shake the dirt and reach, just further. We fear the mirrorage and the apostrophe but we are learning to trust the rain.

Listen: Antenna – Bonobo

Minca, Magdalena // Sierra NevadasWATERFALL1 swimminghole mincastream


hammockIII. Behind traded verse, Quetzalcoatl drums a memory of the future into resounding silence–that voice-echoing-open-armed emptiness waiting to be found and filled with breath amidst a fray of nation-sized wounds, festering traumas, the perfume of homeless sorrows mingling with diesel exhaust, swollen bellies, transcontinental bloodlines seeking a womb, self-sabotage, exile.

Listen: Montañita – Lulacruza

Minca y Nemocón, Cundinamarcamincasunbursyt


mincasunsetsaltminepurplesaltoftheearthminegreenIV. Hip to hip through jungles of monkey vine and slave-shaped stone, sabanna brush and virgen blessings, we walk and I burn blood from my cheeks. I see, now. My ghosts are not gone; they are dancing in the palm fronds but oh how I sway with them now, twirl my fingers through their hair, build miniature altars to honor the softened skin I wear from their bright bones.

Listen: Pools – Glass Animals

Suesca, Cundinamarca // Sábana de Bogotásuescatracks

suescacrag macksuesca2 tatosuesca macksuesca tatoclimbingnemeconV. Underground, underwater, under canopy, under flame four feet crisscross fallow fields with the mother tongue of coded dreams. Whether the planting is of peonies or cloud forest is not written; for now, the task is to lick salt from old wounds and trace their patterns with a firm hand. But in the scratch of bare shoulders to a thatched floor, in the red embers drawn to the breath of ocean in coastal darkness, there is a planet reflecting back the sunlight.

Listen: Burning Stars – Mimicking Birds

Bogotá y beyond

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Five courses, forty feet

A Friendsgiving adventure from Pickett Butte Lookout in the Umpqua National Forest

We woke up early and threw bags of clothes, sleeping bags, and food into Sara’s jeep, and rolled over to the local coffeeshop to wake up a little bit more. Four hours of driving later, we reached Tiller, a don’t-blink town at the edge of the South Umpqua River and the national forest that bears the same name. From the lonely highway that curls inward toward the Cascade range, we could see where the forecasted snow had settled, a couple thousand feet higher. We checked the gas gauge, filled up our water jugs, and headed into the forest.

After miles of pine-needle-covered washboard ruts that rattled every bolt of the jeep, we laid eyes on The Tower.

A_snow clouds B_tower

The snow had melted on the road, but blanketed everything else in the ethereal gauze of winter. What luck, we thought, taking in huge lungfuls of cold, clean mountain air and raising our faces to afternoon sunlight. After unpacking the gear, and hauling it up with the surprisingly strong milk-crate-on-a-pulley rigged up on the catwalk, we settled into our 12×12 hideaway. We had a simple agenda: cook, eat, explore, reflect.

C_snowy road D_pulley system E_on the catwalk F_leaves n sunladies cookin But lest you believe that feasting in a secluded, off-grid cabin must be limited to simple one-pot meals, let me set you straight. With a little bit of propane (thanks NPS!), adventurous ingenuity, and friends who appreciate both a culinary throwdown and the beauty of Second and Third Dinner, there really are no limits. Behold, the menu:

First course: mussels in creme fraiche and hard cider with rosemary, served with Fremont sourdough 

Second course: pearl onions in balsamic and white wine glaze 

~ Intermission: running around in the snow with thermoses of Glühwein, to ‘make room’ for more. ~

ladies on the catwalk intermission intermission2 silohuette

Third course: agave caramelized candy beets, pomegranate, and greens in balsamic dressing &

sweet potato salad with fried green onions, raspberries, and goat cheese,

Entree: roasted duck with poached pears, roasted red turnips, and Glühwein glaze

Dessert: pear ginger pie with streusel topping 

All paired with: a seemingly endless supply of Bulleit-spiked mulled cider

Pomegranite onions F_mussels G_Duck dirty bird

Needless to say, we rolled into our sleeping bags later that night like tired puppies with full bellies, already daydreaming about plans to outdo this adventure next year. We’d found a Mancala board in the cupboard, so we passed around the last of the whiskey while attempting to outwit each other. Eventually, we fell asleep laughing about the strange and occasionally debaucherous entries written in the Visitor’s Log by previous guests (and thankfully, saw no signs of the infamous ‘Deer-Man’ whose legend was referenced on several pages).


In the morning, we awoke inside a cloud. What had been forecast as a blizzard came only as a delicate dusting of powdered sugar over the evergreens beneath our airy perch. I reluctantly drug myself out of the warm cocoon I’d made on the floor next to the heater, and went out to the catwalk to stare into the Void.

The only sound punctuating the silent stillness was that of frozen water transforming back into liquid, descending from the branches and railings back down to the earth. Deep breaths. Stretch.

I walked back inside to the morning greetings of my fellow adventurers. Water was already heating on the stove to be made into coffee as the clouds ebbed back toward the higher ridgelines. I rewarmed my toes, and then we cooked breakfast from the misfits of the night before: roasted lamb chops and leftover pie. The sun came out. 

I_wake up

morning ligh

This is what I remember, this is what I long for, from those childhood winters that were still free from the harsher noises of adult life. This is what pushes me forward in cultivating a lifestyle centered on reconnection with the instincts of an uninhibited youth—back when things were wild and free.

J_The End



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The mountains in us

Another season of gathering is here, only this one takes place not indoors around stoves and fireplaces, but out in open spaces. Instead of wrapping blankets around ourselves, we spread them on the ground and lay back with our eyes wide to the heavens. This is the season that reverts everyone back to their 8-year-old selves, floods us all with a heart-punching nostalgia for the simplicity of being young and dirty and half-clothed and free.

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