1,700 miles into aught nine

Gibson is covered in grime and proud of it. I wore everything in my suitcase, including the extra hats. This was a four-hat trip. The weather cooperated beyond expectation, so we didn't even need to dip into the emergency food box my brother made me pack (along with a sleeping bag, extra oil, extra windshield fluid, chains, wool socks, and flares). OK, I didn't have flares.

The only letdown was forgetting extra camera batteries, but I managed to squeak a few shots out of the old Pentax toward the end. Coming soon.

Eugene is a sweet town, complete with friendly displaced hipsters, a great dive bar, and a bakery with blueberry–cream cheese vessels for sale. There's no cell reception in Fox Hollow, but the woodstove rules. I slept in the standalone hut and wore giant galoshes to get around. CE's people are generous with their space and their mad culinary skills.

We made road mixes to help ease out of last year. I sang with Dolly Parton and Bonnie Raitt in the car along 5, for hours. Those ladies can bring it.

Mount Baker is covered with tightly packed Douglas firs, heavy with crystallized snow. Their roots must be impossibly tangled. The drive to the lifts was like passing through Narnia.

We took a hike on the second day, after a lazy morning. I tried to make a snow angel but Avi said it looked more like a butt angel. Josh is still fierce when he channels Wham. I'm glad we've grown seamlessly into our adult selves.