Oct. 11 was the last day of predicted dry, nice weather in the high country. I did some chores to prepare for winter and built a new weather-proof box for an elderly relative's well pump.

You want to get away from the noise and bustle of the city? I have just the campsite for you. It's called Coyote Lake, a dry mini-desert in southeastern Oregon.

In April, my son, Kevin, and I spent two weeks riding the waves in Mal Pais, a laid-back surf town at the southern tip of the Nicoya Peninsula in Costa Rica.

Castle Crags is perhaps the best-kept secret in the State of Jefferson: a state park in Northern California, just below Dunsmuir, about 100 miles south of Ashland and visible from I-5.

Edginess is not foremost among the character traits embraced by the general aviation community. Once you've ventured to the precipice, however, it's hard to disagree with Kurt Vonnegut's astute observation that, from the edge, "you can see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."

In contrast to most of the expeditions I do with my teenage son, Sam, we make absolutely no attempt to get the proverbial early start. Our goal — my goal anyway — is to hike under the pale white light of the full moon.

Last September my wife, Barbara, and I took a week-long, self-guided bicycle tour of Burgundy.

Beginning this May on Alaska's Mount McKinley, otherwise known as Denali, the highest point in North American at 20,320 feet, I will begin a quest to climb the seven summits, the highest peak on each continent.

From five miles away, the New Dungeness Light Station looks as small as a bar of soap in the shape of a lighthouse. That's the kind of gift — lighthouse refrigerator magnets, lighthouse candles, lighthouse candy bars — my family has been giving me since I developed this thing for lighthouses.

A blizzard at the Grand Canyon was the last thing we expected. A little blast of winter, perhaps. But a bona fide blizzard complete with 15 inches of snow, wind to suck your breath away, and zero visibility?