Geoff Holstad, who used to write a post once in a while on this here rag (ahem), is off on his second Cabin Time adventure as we speak. If you’re not hip to CT, here’s a little more info:

Cabin-Time is loading up a caravan of vehicles to leave from Grand Rapids, Michigan, picking up 18 artists on the way through Chicago and Minneapolis to finally land in a small hand-built cabin outside of Grand Marais, Minnesota.  Nationally and internationally regarded artists are coming from around the U.S., the list of which can be found on the C.T. site.

Cabin-Time is a roaming artist residency to remote places.  The first C.T. trip was with seven Michigan-based artists this past January, to an 8-bunk C.C.C. cabin in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park.  The artists spent 5 days making work both independently and collaboratively, entirely off-grid in Michigan’s northwoods.  Photos, videos, and work made during and responding to the residency can be seen here.

Have fun out there. Congrats, GH.

MP3: Todd Rundgren – We Gotta Get You a Woman

MP3: Michel Ploraneff – Né Dans Un Ice-Cream

MP3: Michel Ploraneff – Petite, Petite

Waking up to a hot breakfast is one thing. Waking up to a Mike Smith breakfast burrito is another.

As the sun came up over Hurricane Deck and the goats started moving about camp, Mike was scrambling eggs and grilling tortillas, putting the oversized mounds of Mexican food in foil and keeping them hot over a predawn fire. By the time breakfast was eaten, it was already scorching hot outside, still well before 9am. It was trail restoration day, so we split into three groups and got on the trail early so we could get in as much work as possible before the heat really descended up the San Rafael Wilderness. Though by the time my group – which consisted of Matt, another trail volunteer (and the fastest hiker I have ever met), Obi and Hall – finished our four mile hike, it was already blazing. We sat and shot the shit at an old cowboy camp before we started heading back down the mountain, chopping away at anything that could impede a nice hike, slowly making our way back down to the other groups at Vulture Springs.

We did a lot more talking than cutting for the first few hours, and when Matt ran down the mountain to get more tools, Obi, Hall and I sat under the little shade we could find and ate sunflower seeds and drank water. By the time Matt had returned, we had taken another break a few minutes down the trail where we all sat for a good half hour telling as many horrible jokes as we could think of. A few hours later, as our skin turned the color of Indian Paintbrush, we met up with the rest of the crew and filled our water bottles at the springs.

Matt and I continued on back to camp for a cold beer (thank you, goats), and as we were talking nonsense, Matt calmly yelled “SNAKE.” I had unknowingly stepped on a rattler, and the snake, not surprisingly, had started to get a little angry. There were ten people headed down the mountain behind us, including children and goats, so Matt and I decided to take our Smitty Blasters (a Mike Smith patent pending tool) and kill the snake so it wouldn’t cause any problems. It was unfortunate as he was doing nothing but being a snake, but after all was said and done, we felt like we had made the right decision. A pissed off snake resting on the trail could have been a recipe for disaster. No one wanted to get air lifted out of camp, and hell, there was beer, dinner and sunset to be had.

Dinner that night was chicken and garlic bread with Mike’s self-described “molten butter.” (And for my idiot ass who doesn’t eat meat, an avocado sandwich and oriental salad.) Mike surprised us with a few bottles of Figueroa Mountain Brewing Company’s Hurricane Deck IPA, which supplied a good buzz as we all congratulated each other on a good day’s worth of work. We climbed up on a nearby ridge, watched the sun go down, then retired to camp for a nightcap and chit chat. After that much work in the sun, hiker’s midnight came especially early.

A truck pulled into the campground around 6 am, and like any early morning movement outside, it was loud and woke up the soft sleepers, myself among them. The truck belonged to Mike Smith, the Forest Service volunteer pictured above that would play host for the next three days. Mike had brought along his son, his daughter in-law and his five goats. The goats would carry in a few camping supplies, tools for trail work and all the food and (COLD!) beer. Those goats were annoying as can be, but how can you possibly be mad at an animal that’s carrying your alcohol?

As the rest of our group finally started waking up, bagels and oatmeal and almond butter were being eaten, tents were being taken down, the van was being packed up and backpacks were getting loaded. By the time we got on the trail for our five mile hike to Mike’s very own Twin Oaks Campground, it was already hot. Very very hot. So hot that after a half mile in, we stopped at a watering hole for an hour to go swimming and shoot the shit. Because, hell, if all you have to do is get five miles in one day, you take your time. We took off our clothes and dunked ourselves in a few times before drying on the rocks.

Juniper Ridge takes their time hiking. You don’t ooh and ahh at the views of the California mountains. You don’t talk about girls. Or movies. Or whatever you talk about when you’re hiking with buddies. You stop and identify plants, pick them, rub them between your fingers and bask in the glory of aromatics. You talk about the Salvia family being The Beatles, you explain how making natural essential oils works and you ask if any of the plants around are natural laxatives. I learned (and probably forgot) a ton about California wildflowers, all while cooking in the hot sun, waiting for the next Coulter Pine to present itself for a moment of shaded glory.

After a long lunch, the group split up a bit so that some of us could walk a little bit faster in the hot sun to get to camp and drop our packs. Obie, Hall and I hurried ahead, getting to Mike and the goats, who had gotten on the trail a few hours before us, around 3pm. We took our shoes off, laid under the big oak trees, and when Mike got back to camp, brought us over a few cold beers as we waited for the rest of the gang to show up. It’d be a while until everyone was finally there, and when we were all settled and done ringing out sweaty clothing, the fire got going for chili and tortillas. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, California is quite a lady.

After a long early morning run that I had hoped would rid me of the too-much-sugar-in-those-pitchers-of-margaritas hangover, I took a blurry BART ride to Oakland, where I was greeted by Obi and his California Subaru. We went straight to the Berkeley Bowl for coffee, almond butter and portabello mushrooms, where we ran into Hall, who was buying fancy cheeses and smoked salmon for our camping adventure in the San Rafael Wilderness. After lugging some firewood into the car, we drove to the Juniper Ridge headquarters in Oakland.

If every room that I walk into for the rest of my time on Earth smells half as good as the Juniper Ridge offices (even the bathroom!), I’ll be a happy man. Piñon pine and black sage fill your nose at every corner, a transported mountainside in a shitty East Bay neighborhood. You’re in Big Sur while taking a piss and traveling through a field of Death Valley wildflowers while sitting at a computer checking your email. I stayed in the factory while everyone got ready, hovering over a huge pile of bundled sage that I would hope linger on my clothes until I washed them again.

We loaded up the Juniper Ridge Ford Econoline with a week’s worth of cold beer, food and camping supplies, got on the road and started driving south. Power pop and Kyuss filled the speakers as we got out of the city, and within a few hours, we stopped for a shitty (awesome) meal at Chevy’s, sitting outside with margaritas, beers, and a special concoction of Camarones a la Diablo made by our host/companion/lover, Sunny. More car salesman than server, Sunny and his devil shrimp concoction would be discussed at length for the duration of the trip. He left a mark.



A couple of hours later, after long music exchanges and a quick drive by Neverland Ranch, we made it to the Los Padres National Forest, where Hall quickly drove Alli, Obi and I up to the Figueroa Lookout. A narrow, bumpy side road led to a peak covered in California Poppies and downed Coulter pines. The wildflower bloom is a reason for anyone to celebrate, but when you’re with three people whose lives are dedicated to such happenings, it’s extra special. We laid in an ocean of bright oranges and purples, made sure the car sickness had subsided and continued down the valley to our campsite as the sun was just about to go down.

We grilled chicken and the mushrooms from the Berkeley Bowl, popped open countless bottles of Lagunitas and sat on park benches while we waited for the rest of our party to arrive from Los Angeles. The sun was long gone and the three hour sleep I had the night before finally caught up to me as the food slowly finished digesting. I’m not sure the exact time I fell asleep, but when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, a watch is the last thing you need to pay attention to. (Says the first guy to pass out in his sleeping bag, only inches from a large group of people drinking tequila.)

It’d only be a few hours until the goats arrived….

In Volume II of Notes From Deep Springs, Bennet Bergman talks about the Eureka Dunes. Bergman attends Deep Springs College in California and will be writing about his life in the Sierras. Stay tuned for more “Notes from Deep Springs” in the coming weeks.

Last July, nineteen of us took a trip to the Eureka Valley sand dunes on the night of the full moon. Eureka is just the next valley over from us, but the drive takes a couple of hours over roughly-graded gravel roads. We’re lucky to be so close—Eureka is in the northernmost region of Death Valley National Park, and it’s a pretty low-traffic area, even though it’s home to some of the highest dunes in North America, and on the full moon it’s totally gorgeous and prehistoric.

What else? These dunes sing. If you hike up the steep face of the highest dune and slide back down again, the avalanche of sand produces a sound “like a bass note of a pipe organ or the distant drone of an airplane,” according to the Park Service. If nineteen of you hike up and swim back down the slope on your bare bellies and backs, the dune groans like California is coming loose from the contintent and it rattles your body like you were lying on a giant tuning fork.

Randall Henderson started Desert Magazine in 1937. You can see every page of every issue printed over the next 21 years by clicking here.  Have at it.

As mentioned below, Cold Splinters spent the last week in California with our friends/lovers/teachers/healers, Juniper Ridge, cleaning trail and learning about coastal plants and flowers. Long drives filled with endless discussions of power pop, the manager at a local Chevy’s, and of course, coastal flowers and plants (I bet your grandma never started a sentence with, “If the Salvias were the Beatles, black sage would be…”), made for one of the most enjoyable adventures I’ve had in a long, long time.

Next week is going to be the real recap (see: photos) of said trip, but for now, if you’re going to be out in California camping, make sure you know your Salvia apiana and Salvia mellifera. Because I have truly found very few things in life better than rubbing a piece of black sage between your fingers on a hike to a backcountry sunset.

MP3: The Beat – Rock N Roll Girl

MP3: Brendan Benson – Tiny Spark

Cold Splinters is back from one of the best trips in a long while. Just what the doctor ordered. Much much more to come next week, but for now, connect with us on Instagram (cold_splinters). It’ll be a good time. I promise.

MP3: Sugar – Gee Angel

Cold Splinters is off to California tomorrow. Lots of ground to cover in the week we’ll be gone, but couldn’t be more excited. We’ll be with our very good friends at Juniper Ridge and a group of about 15 people, so lots of pictures and new friends to follow.

If you’re in San Francisco, drop me a line and let’s grab a drink. In the meantime, take care of yourselves and see you soon.

MP3: David Ackles – Oh, California!

MP3: Ron Wood – I Can Feel The Fire

MP3: Beechwood Sparks – Confusion Is Nothing New

MP3: Harry James and Helen Forrest – I’ve Heard That Song Before (from Hannah and Her Sisters)