On our way back to the trailhead, as we crossed the river over the wooden bridge, I looked over the edge into the rapids, waiting for the waters to rise and the white faces of horses to appear under Gandalf’s spell, washing the black-cowled Ringwraiths into a watery oblivion and dispatching them back to their dark lord in Mordor, their shrieks echoing between the sheer rock scarps. Alas, no such luck. Instead, I was brought back to reality by a hippie dude in a skirt:
Seeing the mammoth Douglas Firs in the Pacific Northwest makes you realize that every single tree is like its own mini-ecosystem, supporting millions of smaller lifeforms, from the bacterial and fungal decomposers to the dense layers of hanging moss to the giant 5-inch slugs leaving thick trails of slime along the deep nooks of the tree bark. Sometimes, the trees’ vast root systems are large and shapely enough to provide shelter for a passing vagrant, or even a rogue earth science teacher:
They also work well as supportive apparatus for the practice of Yoga:
But needless to say, the hike was absolutely gorgeous. The trail weaves back and forth between views from the steep precipices dropping off into the ocean and the old growth forest of Douglas Fir, Red Cedar, and Western Hemlock, along with the forest floor blanketed in thick green mosses and clusters of waist-high ferns. Along the coast, jutting straight out of the ocean, are protrusions of regolith, whose resistant igneous rock has enabled them to escape the wave erosion that has torn down the surrounding rock layers, leaving seastacks hundreds of feet tall.
The tip from our friend, Phil, led us to an outcrop of broken and weathered boulders of vesicular scoria, piled up on the beach, covered in barnacles and spattered by a spray of whitewater every time a large wave bombarded the natural volcanic breakwater. Phil suggested we find a nice perch set back from the splash zone and sit back, watch, and feel the tremors, which we did and the rocks beneath us did indeed shudder.
It was another beautiful summer day, probably around 75 and still sunny. Miraculously, no rain thus far. But by mid-afternoon, our camera battery was dying, and it was time to get back on the road, bound for Portland. We set out and, in a little less than two hours, Cate Blanchett had led us to our next camping destination. Unfortunately, that destination turned out to be about the ugliest RV and mobile home park imaginable. It was located on the main drag of shopping centers, about 8 miles south of downtown Portland, between a Wal-Mart and a fast-food restaurant which I won’t bother to name (because I can’t really remember which). For you Quakertown natives out there, just picture the stretch of 309 between the Wendy’s and the Hess station, and plop a seedy RV park where the now-defunct mini-golf place it. Needless to say, it was not a pleasant site, especially since it appeared as if a fair few of the “campers” were actually claiming the site as their normal place of residence.
The good news is, our friend and recent Oregon-transport, Rachel, was kind enough to hook us up with a place to stay for the night. We met up at a restaurant she used to work, called Andina, a pretty upscale place, specializing in Peruvian tapas, which turned out to be excellent. Included among our various courses were a ceviche of Ono (a Hawaiian whitefish) and a grilled octopus salad. Rachel being in good with the wait staff, they even hooked us up with a mango prawn appetizer and shortbread cookies.
So after going from having no idea where we were going to stay, to going out to a nice dinner and crashing on a floor for free, we were in pretty high spirits, if a little exhausted. Rachel and Chris were extremely gracious hosts and we are very thankful for their hospitality and their company.
This morning and afternoon, Sarah and I got to experience at least a couple hours of the hippie wonderland that is Portland, OR. We started, of course, by cruising the local coffee joints, of which there are roughly 10 million. Based on Rachel’s advice, we stopped at one of the Stumptown roasters places, for which many Portlanders supposedly have a refined taste for. So we sat in the window, enjoying our coffee (I got the Stumptown “Hairbender” blend; Sarah a chai tea) and watching the local tattooed hippies carry about their daily Monday morning routines.
“Hippies” might be a gross generalization. The Portland 20 and 30-something crowd (maybe even the 40-somethings) is really a blend of punk, hipster, beatnik, indie-rock listening, highly literary starving artist types, and everything in between. Not that I’m making fun. They seem like a really interesting genre of human being, and I’d imagine they probably make for pretty scintillating conversation over a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon (which strangely, and perhaps a little too deliberately ironically, is evidently a favorite beer in this town).
I might also point out that this faction has way more tattoos per capita than any biker bar, east coast or west. To hit the point home further, here are a couple tracks to remind you all of some of the musical offerings of this fine city.
The Decemberists - The Wanting Comes In Waves
Blitzen Trapper - Destroyer of the Void
Elliott Smith - Son of Sam (acoustic)
After the morning fix, we hit up a couple other spots, including a bookstore called Powell’s, which took up the first two (or maybe three?) floors of an entire city block. We got lost in there for an hour and then hit the downtown street-food venders for lunch (falafel pita… mmmm…) And finally, Voodoo Doughnut, where we not only got to check out the celebrated west coast doughnut Mecca and taste a couple of their specialties, but even witnessed a derelict musician try to start a fight with someone in line on the sidewalk. One of the doughnut shop guys (a thin, but tough and tatted Hell’s Angels looking dude) poked his head out of the bakery door to break up the scuffle, while the bum angrily shouted and gesticulated and threatened to “f---ing kill you”. Hilariously out of place (but somehow not) the biker-looking doughnut man flashed a kindly smile from within his little bakery window and genially apologized to everyone in line.
See if you can pick out the bum. He’s balding, grey-bearded, and is standing directly beneath the “N” in “DOUGHNUT.”
So all in all a good day, and a nice change of pace (and the doughnuts were spectacular!)
As for tonight, we pitched our tent in Metzler State Park, 45 minutes southeast of Portland. Decided to just take it easy tonight and hold off on Bagby until tomorrow morning. Having hit up a Whole Foods on the way out of Portland, Sarah made a wonderful little dinner here at camp:
It’s a spring mix and arugula salad with poppy dressing; pan-seared Sockeye salmon, deglazed with a local Oregon India Pale Ale, over lentils. I mean, I’m partial to roasting dogs over the flame, but I’ll take what I can get.
As I watch our fire disintegrate into glowing embers, I think it’s time to head back to the tent, where Sarah has probably fallen asleep with Anthony Bordain (his new book, that is). In the A.M., down the Clackamas River to Bagby Hot Spring and hopefully halfway down the Oregon coast by tomorrow night.
-Josh
