Frustrations

 Writing a daily blog is not always easy.  The writing is not so difficult, there's plenty to write about, but accessing the Internet can be.  I travel unusual paths.  There are two places I can figure on getting on line, the public library and McDonald's.

In most cities, the library keeps the WiFi system going 24 hours a day as a service to the community, but there are still libraries that shut everything down when they close.  McDonald's are few and far between in remote areas.  That's the way it was yesterday at Estacada. 

So, I have been missing chunks of the story.  I've yet to write about the Redwood National Park, campgrounds I've stayed at, and the many people I've talked to.  Those stories will have to wait until I return from this tour and fill in the blanks.  Today, I will write about Oregon, leaving Nevada and California for later.

Soon after I crossed the border into Oregon, I fell in love.  I took Highway 101 along the coast, going from little village to little village with ocean scenes in between.

I camped west of Gold Beach on the Rogue River at Lobster Creek.  I spent part of the morning wandering along the creek looking for agates, but had no luck.  Then I told stories at the library.  Everyone wanted to talk to me afterwards, so I had a late start getting back on the road, and that meant I didn't get as far as I wanted.  It meant I had to "settle" for Cape Perpetua near Yachats.  Settle  This is the view there:

I asked Gary why I had to return home.

At the grocery store in Yachuts, I asked the checkout clerk why young people ever left the state. 

"It rains six months a year," he said. 

Never mind, I thought, this place is beautiful, but with regrets I tore myself away from the coast and headed north.  Then at Portland, I met the mother of all traffic jams.  I amended my Oregon-lust thoughts to exclude that city. 

I camped at Lost Bend west of Estacada last night, lucky to snag the last free campsite on a Friday night.

It began to rain at 1:00 a.m.  I finally gave up at 7:00 and packed up in the pounding rain.

One of the other campers walked by and shrugged.  "It's Oregon," she said.

Oregon, you were one cruel lover this morning. But I still hold you in a corner of my heart.

Fish and Chips

 I came into Oregon at Brookings Harbor, along Highway 101, grooving on the spectacular scenery.  Down by the shore I came across a fish and chips sign and knew what I wanted for supper, but it was only 3:30 and I wasn't hungry.  I would drive on to Gold Beach and get my fish and chips there.

But there were no fish and chips stands at Gold Beach.  The chamber of commerce visitors' center could only suggest a sit down meal and a fancy restaurant.  Cloth tablecloths and fish and chips do not go hand in hand.  What was needed was some kind of ocean fish dripping with grease through a piece of newspaper.

I went to the laundromat to do my laundry and think about what I wanted to eat.  There in the parking lot, a girl was hanging swimsuits on a line strung from car door to car door.  Hmmm, I thought.  Where have I seen that before?

"Have you found a good fish and chips place?"  I asked her.

"No," she said, "my mates and I were just wondering about that."

Australian, I knew it!  We began to compare great pieces of cod, memories of walking down streets with our friends munching on grease and fish.  But we came up with no place to eat.

They took off, heading north.  New people, locals, came into the laundromat.  I asked them about fish and they pointed to a Mexican place across the street.  "They serve fish, too."

I went over and sure enough, the little snack shop had exactly what was required.   So I ate and did the laundry and was satisfied...except I felt guilty eating my fish and chips without those Aussies.

Fast forward to today.  I was still grooving north on Highway 101 enjoying the scenery when I spotted a sign:  Crazy Old Norwegian Fish and Chips.  I pulled over and went in to order a sandwich.

"By any chance, did some Australians come in here last night?" 

"How did you know?" 

So now I feel better. 

P.S.  I have problems finding Internet access the past two days.  I am getting way behind on this journey so will just tell the stories as they come and do some remedial storytelling later on this year.

Little problems

I told stories at a nursing home in Reno, Nevada.  The receptionist sent me to a spot that seemed reasonable enough, with a baby grand piano behind me and the residents in a half circle.  I started.

That's when I found out that the path through the performance area was a main thoroughfare for nursing home traffic.  The residents wandering through and nurses administering medications were bad enough.  I was used to that.  But then a moving company began to bring in the furniture for two new residents, a man and his wife.  That room must have been enormous.  Mattresses, a television set, dressers, a desk, and more came through, all while I was trying to perform.  In the end, we made it into a running joke.  I told the residents about the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee.  That city is a major switching yard for the railroad.  Whenever a train came through, the storytellers simply stopped and waited.   Same thing for the moving guys.  We all were good natured about it, I thought. When the two guys finished, we all gave them a round of applause.

In the end, the residents asked me to stay a little longer and sing more songs for them, and I did.

After that, I took my car to Jiffy Lube to double check the work that was done in Golden, but they steered me to a garage a block away.  Those guys were real sweeties.   They decided the overheating was not due to the thermostat but to the radiator...and even that wouldn't be a problem when I got the old car back to Wisconsin.

Their advice:
1.  Watch elevations. Mark summits on the map.  That's where I could expect to have problems.
2.  Pay attention to the big rigs.  If they are having problems, so will I.   
3.  Travel when the weather is cool.  They figured that heat was my biggest problem.

Then they told me the routes to take to avoid high elevations.  They thought the worst would be getting to Gold Beach, Oregon.  I will try to do that route early in the morning to avoid the heat.

So far so good.  I am in Weaverville, California and haven't had a problem since I left Reno. 

Two Tales

First Story:

When I camp, I take my car keys into the tent at night, not worrying about car theft but figuring in case of a bear deciding to visit, I could hit the car alarm.  I figure the siren plus flashing lights would deter any bruin.  That plan proved useful two nights ago.

Some teenagers were setting up camp next to me.  I thought nothing about it, they seemed quiet enough.  Tired, I went to bed about 9:00 pm.  That quiet ended at 10:30 when they started talking loudly, playing their stereo and welcoming more young people.  It was a full scale beer party in the middle of Mormon Utah.  This went on and on.  I kept thinking they would start to take the post-10:00 pm quiet time seriously, but no.

Around midnight I began to wonder about our camp host.  In most of the western national forest campgrounds there is a senior citizen host who checks on bathroom supplies, collects fees and is supposed to keep an eye on things.  Where was he?  I looked over to his camper.  His SUV was there, but the lights were off. 

I couldn't figure it out until I visualized our conversation when I signed in.  He kept fiddling with his hearing aid.  He must have taken it out when he went to bed.  I bet those kids knew that very well.

Well, I know just how to wake him up. I hit my handy bear alarm, lights flashed and the siren blared.  I left it on for five seconds.  When I stopped it, all the lights next door were out, the stereo was off, and not a peep could be heard, not even a whisper.  It reminded me of Bilbo Baggins and the wood elves in the Hobbit. 

Next day other campers thanked me.

Tale two:

I was in Winnemucca, Nevada scouting out possible places to stay overnight.  I saw a sign that said rooms could be had for $25 a night.  I went over to check it out. 

"Is that true?" I asked a man and woman sunning themselves at the veranda. 

"Are you one of the regulars," the woman with the low cut top and too much makeup asked.  Then she took off her sunglasses and took a look at me.  We both started to laugh. 

$25 a night was a good deal for the owner because she would rent those rooms out several times a night. At my age, I wouldn't be able to make enough hustling to cover the $25.

A Tale or Two

Just a few tales.  I will do my best to write another tonight, but finding access is always difficult.

I went to the Dugway Utah base, passed the security checkup, filled up with cheap gas and went to the lovely base library, only to find that most of the base's children were on vacation.  I wound up with three children, one a two year old with a zero attention span and another, a little girl, who really wanted to take a nap.  That left one boy who wanted to be a writer, so he got my full attention. I've had audiences of over a hundred.  An audience of one is much more difficult, but I managed. 

Next it was on to Ogden, and Anderson Cove, but I had no idea how to get there, except that zen driving usually get me where I want to go.  I wandered north of Salt Lake City,turned off on what looked like a promising highway,  went a few miles and pulled into a Sinclair station. 

"How do I get to Anderson Cove?" I asked.  None of the clerks knew  but the guy waiting in line behind me said, "I live there.  Just follow me."  I did and found the cove, but the campground was totally full.  I am finding that to be true whenever there is water involved. 

The rangers pointed me to Magpie Campground.  I found site no. 1 and there I was for the night. I explored the Huntsville area for a while, found a great ice cream place and the awesome library. I am told there's lots of money in Huntsville and the library reflects it.  It has an art gallery, a movie theatre, a coffee shop, and about 16 computer carrels with the fastest wireless connection I've had so far.  

When one crosses the Missississippi, water rules (riparian rights) change and that was obvious here.  I spotted a beach sign and drove right in only to find out that I would have to pay $10 for the fifteen minute dip I intended to take. 

Every camp site, every trail, every point of interest had a "host" whose main job was to collect money.  No forest rangers here, the forests are maintained by a private company out to make a lot of money.  Never mind.

I slept a solid ten hours in nice cold temperatures. In the morning, another adventure.

This past winter, Tim Meier urged me to read Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams who wrote about the period in the late 1980's when the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge was flooded by the waters of the Great Salt Lake.  The refuge had been around since 1928 and no one thought it would ever come back.  Nature surprised everyone and once again, it is one of the great sanctuaries.

I arrived to find that a tour would take place in half an hour and there was room for me.  While I waited, I bought my own copy of Refuge and Sibley's Birds of Western America.  I had left my copy in Colorado with Betty. 

For three hours a long time birder, three novices and I road in an air conditioned van with an expert.  He knew where we could find all the species.  We saw baby coots (orange while their parents are black), the avocets I came to see, a Swainson's Hawk I had been observing in Utah and could finally identify and so much more.

In the end, I marked  26 species on my checklist, good for a hot Utah day.  Of those, fifteen were new to me.

It was a good day.  Then the thunderstorms hit and my next adventure.