The California Colloquium

In continuum, I have longed for a way to describe my umbilical attachment to California. My mother had reminded me of the old adage referring to Cali as the as the land of milk and honey. It is true that this land holds inside it the joy, beauty, and nourishing qualities of milk, and the sweet honey stored between the granite gorges towering above the giant sequoias that line the mountain sides. It is a land of passion, exploration, exploitation, adventure and humbling expanses, as well as experiences. Although the state offers the widest array of appetizers mother earth could serve, I have become quite content with California’s healthy serving of its rowdy whitewater, which is where the adventure begins.

Heading south out of Oregon our 15 passenger caravan could be easily mistaken for a band of psychedelic gypsies gearing up for a meeting between the Hell's Angels and the Merry Pranksters. Over 20 oddly shaped kayaks, ranging in color from manic mango and luscious lavender to circus yellow and candy apple red, protrude from the roof racks like fingers outstretched through a jail cell’s metal bars. Each of our worlds has been condensed into a single 18 gallon Rubbermaid bin which stacks like Leggos into the box trailer in tow. Van number 2 extends its colorful array as the trailer in tow harbors another 15 stubby kayaks for our eventual surf sessions off the rocky cliffs of the northern California coast. The passengers themselves sport mohawks, flat billed caps, oversized hoodies, 10$ designer sunglasses, skate shoes and the overall mentality that these white west coast water boys are gangsters,….more likely wanksters. Hip-hop reverberations fill the van…..we roll.

Passing into California in the midst of an afternoon snowstorm we pass towering pines holding snow on the palms of their limbs like a baker's hands and coastal mountains peaking through the falling flakes inviting our curious stares. As we descend from the overland pass, the clouds clear and we are graced with the warm California welcome of sun and green grasslands extending like an ocean of green through the low valley.

An outsized snowy mass far in the distance is stretching its girth into the clouds above, nearly creating its own weather system. I would soon come to realize this was Mt. Shasta, one of California’s 14,000 ft. peaks I plan to ascend later in the year. That is another story.

As we drive deeper into the heart of the state, inclement weather becomes a thing of the past as the skies opened into an inverted blanket of blue. Passing by our nation's fruit plantations, I stare down the perfectly spaced rows of endless trees, watching them flash by me like an old fashioned film reel.

My thoughts stumble at how incredibly far our insidious farming methods have strayed from the primitive high mountain terraces I had been marveled by in China. What enormous amounts we waste.

Thousands of ripe oranges, peaches and lemons lying in the ground - just far enough away from the automated machines reach that they will rot away, fortunately fertilizing the next batch. In disgust of this agricultural ignorance, I pull over the van and hop out stretching my shirt out as a fruit basket - throwing in as many juicy oranges as I can before it becomes completely obvious that we are not having an automotive quandry…. merely an ethical plight.

We divide to make a dinner stop in Sacramento, home to the lower stretches of the American River. Flashback to a few year ago: I was doing a photoshoot on this river for Wave Sport on the 4th of July and witnessed the largest concentration of overly intoxicated and under-privileged yuppies tubing and rafting down the mild riffling stretch of River escaping the burning California sun. During 4 hours of taking pictures, there were so many people floating by that an aerial view would suggest an army marching across a marshland into battle. I was ready to head back into the mountains and realized professional kayaking was taking me away from the kayaking I learned to love. That would be my last year paddling on Team Wavesport.

Fast forward to the present, a good friend named Woody at Liquid Logic Kayaks arranged for me to pick up my new kayak at "The Rriverstore" in Coloma. Coloma is a quaint river town nestled between the lush vegetation and granite-filled hills of the lower Sierra Mountains. It's one of my favorite places in Cali and holds memories of spending my birthday there, paddling waterfalls, steep slides and jumping off the high bridge over the Rio as the burnt-orange sun was settling into the valley below. It just seemed right that the new Liquid Logic Grande that I picked up was as bright orange as the sun I remembered.

The light bulb over earth was tucking in for the evening, and my driving partner and I decided to fill up our gourds with tasty Chilean matte and hot water to freshen up the night leg into our final destination, the Kaweah River. Road signs for Yosemite, Stanislaus, King's Canyon, Devil's Postpile, and Mt. Whitney light up as our headlights pass by igniting the flame inside me that continues to burn my memory with the incredible Sierra whitewater waiting for my return.

Click Here to see the video of our California river running so far (courtesy of my boy Shon Bollock, seen in the green Magnum. )