You've Been Served (gasoline, that is) & Other Roguish Behavior

9/1, 1820, Bastrop County, TX – The original plan was to drive from Crescent City to the Port Orford area the morning of 8/16. For the first – and, as it turned out, last - time during the adventure, I altered my plan. There was method to my madness, though.

The Ship Mountain experience had left me a tad gun shy when it came to unpaved roads, especially when the road was in a wilderness area. The itinerary had me driving to either Humbug Mountain (just south of Port Orford) or Cape Blanco State Park (just north of there) for two nights of camping, with a side trip (on an unpaved road) to Agness, OR in the lower Rogue River valley, on my way to Ashland. I thought better of that while making my final plans the night of 8/15, and called them into Sundance at home base. The Oregon coast between Gold Beach and Port Orford (including the offshore rock formations near Port Orford known as “The Heads”) was going to have to be 86’d.

I did so reluctantly. So much – hell, everything! - had gone so well during the trip up to that point, even the death- (and logic-) defying ramble up Ship Mountain. But, in fact, the only road from Port Orford to Agness was unpaved and went through some pretty rugged territory. I knew that going in, but Ship Mountain changed my perception of things. I was not ready for a repeat performance (little did I know what awaited me a day or so later).

So, bid my farewell to the Curly Redwood Lodge (I spoke with the manager and praised them heavily) and headed north. Soon after crossing the Smith River, I crossed the border into Oregon.

The first two things I noticed about Oregon were A) the price of gas dropped about 20¢ a gallon and B) you couldn’t drive more than a mile along Hwy. 101 without seeing a sign pointing out a state recreation area with a scenic view. I must’ve stopped at four or five in quick succession. Click, click, click. I’m a sucker for big rocks in the Pacific’s pounding surf.

After passing Cape Sebastian, I arrived in Gold Beach and stopped at the local grocery for some fruit, a deli sandwich (peppered turkey, haven’t had that in years), and some juice packs. I asked for directions to a liquor store to replenish my bourbon (the Maker’s Mark bit the dust at Patrick’s Point) and followed them to yet another hideously ugly courthouse (Curry County…perhaps even uglier than the Mendocino County courthouse in Ukiah) which sat across the street from a small gift shop, knick-knack store, and distilled spirits emporium…all in one. The Gray Whale Gallery & Gifts and Village Liquor Store). It was literally a “mom and pop” store, with “mom” (Maggi) taking care of the gift shop/gallery and “pop”(Ed) taking care of the liquor store. These were really sweet people running a really strange, but workable mixture of retail outlets. Having watched the Chicago Cubs-Houston Astros game the night before at the Surfside Grill in Crescent City, I responded favorably to the Ed’s expression of delight that his beloved Cubbies had been victorious. I matched his enthusiasm by stating that, as a born and raised, diehard Cincinnati Reds fan, I rooted for the Reds and whoever was playing the Astros that day or night.

We discussed baseball (I was faking part of it, having not closely followed any contests beyond whomever was kicking Houston’s ass at any given time) and eventually we got to discussing what, among his admittedly small selection or liquors, would meet my needs. I mean, let’s face it, the Maker’s Mark is a hard act to follow and, judging from what I saw on the shelves, there wasn’t much in the way of a follow up. This was going to take some time and effort on my part. After all, life is short (getting shorter all the time, in my case) and one should not be subjecting oneself to bad wine, beer, or liquor. But, a compromise had to be made here, because a small bottle of acceptable whiskey was, well, not exactly present and accounted for here. This was not a fully stocked liquor store (and I believe it was the only liquor store in town), which either says something very, very good or very, very disturbing about Gold Beach, OR. I’ll err on the side of very, very good.

After some input from Maggi, I decided on a small flask of Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey, which – though not my first or second choice under normal circumstances – was the best fireside sippin’ whiskey for the price at the Village Liquor Store that day. I’d not had Black Velvet since college, so there was a bit of nostalgia involved.

By the way, the Gray Whale/Village Liquor store is – as of this writing –for sale. $650,000 and it’s yours. Maggi and Ed, if you’re retiring, best of luck and Godspeed to you both. I may have only spent 10 or 15 minutes with you, but you folks were damn nice to a stranger from Texas. Go Cubbies!

So, with foodstuffs and liquor in-hand, that left fuel. So, I cruised the main street (Hwy. 101) and located the best priced gas. I pulled in and here’s where the fun began.

As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a sign stating that self-service was illegal in the State of Oregon. No, I’d not started drinking the Black Velvet. I’m serious. Before I was able to open my car door, an “attendant” (just recalling this is weird enough) appeared at my door and asked how much fuel I wanted pumped and how I’d like to pay for it.

I stared at the guy in disbelief. Was he an apparition? He couldn’t be an acid-flashback. I never did acid! “You’re joking,” was all I could say to him. “No, sir,” he replied. “State law. You can’t pump your own gasoline in Oregon.”

So, for the first time in over 30 years, someone other than me pumped my gas. What a strange experience. On one hand, I was semi-embarrassed and afraid that someone I knew would pass by and my reputation in Texas would be ruined forever. “Elitist,” I could hear them saying. “He’s been pussified by those Northwesterners” (God forbid my Texas friends should see the Black Velvet!). On the other hand, I felt equally uncomfortable because…well…what the hell do you do while someone else is filling up your gas tank? I was so unaccustomed to this situation, I felt naked. Killing time in one’s car at a gas station is totally foreign to a Texan (or a former South Carolinian, New Yorker, and Ohioan, too). I felt self-conscious. What do I do with my hands? Play with the radio? Check my map? Sort the currency in my wallet? I was afraid to get out of the car for fear that such a provocative act might also be against state law!
I opted to sit still, act like this kind of thing happens every day, and move along. I also decided to look into this strange phenomenon at a later date. Oregon can’t be alone in this strange prohibition against self-service. What prompted it? Hmmm…file this one away for future reference.

Got food? Check. Got sippin’ whiskey? Check. Got fuel? Check. After a quick drive across the Rogue River bridge (a bit of a work of art in and of itself) and back to mail a postcard or two, I took in Gold Beach’s small-but-active harbor.

Based upon what I witnessed, fishing and boating are passions in this part of Oregon, pursued with enthusiasm and vigor bordering on a religious fervor (similar to Texans’ devotion to BBQ and executing convicted murderers). I saw more professional and recreational fisherman in boats in Gold Beach’s harbor and at the mouth of the Rogue River than I’d seen at any other point during my journey (and that observation held to the very end of the trip).

Supplementing the fishing trade is river rafting and “jetboat” trips up the Rogue, wherein boats able to handle 15-20 tourists are outfitted with massive engines able to overcome the Rogue’s current and deliver said tourists upriver for sightseeing (and, it turns out, mail deliveries to places like Agness, OR). It seem to be quite a successful business.

At the south end of the bridge, I turned east and headed up the road hugging the south shore of the Rogue to find a campsite. It didn’t take but a minute or two before I was again surrounded by mountains. Big, beautiful mountains, at that. The Rogue cuts a mean valley.

About 14-16 miles upriver, I turned into the National Forest Service’s Quosatana campground. Nice digs. New facilities, campground hosts, shaded campsites, and right on the river. I drove around both campground loops, noting several open sites, and returned to the host’s site. “Depends on what you’re looking for,” the host said in reply to my query about how this campground stacked up against two others further upriver. Illane had campsites, but the facilities weren’t as nice. Fosters Bar had fewer campsites, was more of a boat launch, but had new facilities, he said. I had the time – and curiosity – to check them out, so I said I’d return if I didn’t find anything.

I was back within the hour, picked out my site, paid my fee (NFS camping is the best deal going), and went to set up camp. I was met at my site by two deer casually munching wild blackberries (which seemed to be everywhere along my journey, by the way). I took that as a good sign, and established myself in site #36. I wasn’t directly on the Rogue, but right across the narrow campground road from the sites that were. Close enough, I thought, and I didn’t have a public walking path right behind my tent.

Five dollars bought a healthy-sized load of good, DRY, seasoned fire wood from the host (the campfire, in retrospect, was a luxury, as I sit here writing in drought-ravaged Central Texas where a burn-ban remains in effect). I hiked down to the river with my camp chair, picked spot next to the rapids, and sat. I wanted to hear what the Rogue had to say to me.

The Rogue spoke my language. I could’ve easily fallen asleep, lulled by the sound of the rapids, the occasional Osprey call, and the breeze that occasionally blew up the narrow valley from the ocean. Instead, I took a mental snapshot and realized what a fortunate human being I was. Here I was, virtually alone on a peaceful, scenic stretch of an ancient and wild river in the wilderness of southwest Oregon. I had time, tranquility, and was alone with the thoughts I’d come to sort out.

And that’s when I heard – off in the distance, at first – the jet boat.

As I mentioned earlier, Rogue River tourism is a mainstay of the region’s economy. It is a beautiful and fairly navigable river, especially the lower Rogue. So, the most efficient way for people (who aren’t into whitewater or semi-whitewater rafting, or want to be delivered upriver to start a rafting trip) to see it is in groups and the best way to deliver groups upriver is with the powerful “jet” boats.

The low roar of the jet boat reverberated around the canyon and made it to my ears about a mile before the boat arrived. Just the sound alone gives you some idea of just how powerful these boats are. They ply the waters (and I have seen them in both shallow and deep waters) with ease. So, I waved to the passengers as they went roaring by and they waved back. I figured if I was part of the scenery, I might as well be “pleasant” scenery.

Over the next hour, two more boats passed. The stretches of silence between them were more than adequate for contemplation. The rapids had their say and I listened intently. About 50-60 yards away, and older couple were also enjoying the mild temps and cool waters. The woman took a couple swims, which reassured me the conditions were right for a swim the next day. I looked forward to becoming – if only briefly – a part of the river.

I returned to the campsite refreshed and prepared the campfire. I gnoshed on beef jerky, cheese and crackers, and sipped whiskey until nightfall, satisfied that I’d finally invaded Oregon and that Oregon was gradually invading me.

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