Apologies

To those thousands of you breathlessly awaiting and anticipating my next update, I apologize. The return to my "normal" life, along with a side trip to the "other coast" (NYC), has complicated my schedule more than I'd expected and delayed me finishing my travelblog.

I WILL, however, finish and address the outcome of the quest(s) and objectives I stated in the first entry. I may even toss in a little about my trip to the Big Apple.

For those of you who have read the blog - either as an invitee or through a complete accident - I appreciate your interest and tolerance.

Stick out

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.

Stick out

Onward Through The Fog in Crescent City, CA

8/31/06, 1812, Bastrop County, TX - OK, picking up where I left off, 8/15 in Crescent City, CA…and-a one, and-a two….

My final day in Crescent City was somewhat of a “clean-up” day, revisiting areas and sites that had been obscured by fog during my drive up from Patrick’s Point two days before. My key objectives: the bridge over the Klamath River and the Klamath overlook (where the river empties into the Pacific). I awoke early and – damn! – fog again. Grrrrr…

There were two things to occupy my time, one of which was taking advantage of the WiFi service. So, I wrote a bit, ever watchful of the thick cloud cover overhead. Once I’d exhausted my creative juices on that task (I’m sure Marc in Anaheim is thinking, “After about 5 minutes, if that.”), I commenced to reorganizing my gear in preparation for the next day’s trip to Oregon and the associated camping. Upon completing that, there appeared out over the Pacific a streak of blue sky. In other words, hope.

I mobilized quickly and headed south on Hwy. 101 through the soupy fog (what most people would encounter on foggy mornings in many areas of the country) toward the Klamath. The turnoff to the overlook seemed to be one of those “Are you SURE about this?” routes, but the map said what the map said (you’d think after my Ship Mountain experience, I’d have been a little more dubious). This time, however, the map was correct and I climbed upward toward the edge of the cliff overlooking the alluvial fan of the Klamath (my wife came up with that one, I’m not nearly that creative). There were two other cars in the parking lot, one of which had two men seemingly intent on the same objective: photos. The other car – which was pulling in just ahead of me – was packed with a family. They’ll come into play in a moment.

The “blue streak” in the sky was still offshore, almost teasing me. So, I bundled up (it was a bit chilly) and hunkered down, parking my butt on a picnic table. The Klamath overlook was on my list and I’d be damned if I was going to let it slip through my fingers. Mother Nature and I had played other games along this journey. I was willing to have as stare down. I summoned my stubbornness streak and sat there.

In the meantime, a small-but-mildly-entertaining string of people – including the two carloads that preceded me – carried on behind me. The two men seemed as intent on waiting out the fog as me, though one was somewhat less patient than the other and attempted (with varying degrees of success) to find something to keep himself occupied. The other, like me, just sat there soaking up the subtleties of Nature’s display. Whether he was trying to listen to the silence or not, I’m not sure. For all I knew, he, too, knew my friend Brian and was on the same mission. We stoically stood our ground.

The family, however, was a constant stream of activity. While the mother and father unpacked a lunch upon another picnic table, their young son ran about happily distracting himself and worrying the father with every distraction he discovered. Their slightly older daughter – who appeared and sounded like a “’tweenager” – seemed bored, restless, and somewhat upset because her father encouraged her to take in the view and natural wonders instead of listening to her iPod. Eventually, “nature” did catch up with the young girl and she announced her intention to use the “bathroom,” which, for those of you familiar with state and national forests/parks, was a “pit” toilet.

You see this coming, don’t you?

The young girl entered, closed the door behind her, and about a half a second later I heard, ‘Oh…..my….God!” She exited, horrified. “I am NOT ‘going’ in there,” she emphatically stated.

The mother – either a veteran camper or concert-goer, in her not-too-distant past – replied, “Oh, don’t let it bother you. Just don’t look down into it!” I don’t think that soothed her daughter’s concerns, though. It turned out I wasn’t the only soul involved in an intense standoff with Mother Nature that day.

Mine was no less uncomfortable, though. While I have gained some weight over the years, little – if any – of it matriculated to my butt. “Bone on picnic table .” Think about it.

Eventually, the two men gave up and left (“Amateurs,” I thought to myself). The family also finished up and departed (no doubt for a destination with a clean restroom), though another family in an SUV pulled up and immediately started preparing for a hike. They were a disciplined group, led by a focused and disciplined father. With military-like precision, they geared up in near-silence, broken only by directions from the father. It was an impressive display. The only member not “suiting up” was the grandfather, who – it turned out – was the shuttle driver responsible for delivering the vehicle to the trail’s end. He quietly watched as the family hit the trailhead and disappeared for 10 or 15 minutes, then briefly reappeared quite a distance away. He kept an eye on them with field glasses, then eventually departed for the next stop. Quite an operation.

My patience – and pain – paid off eventually. I was convinced it would. The fog started drifting westward over the ocean while simultaneously burning off (from the still-hidden sun), revealing just enough visibility to warrant some pictures. It remained overcast, but the scene I was after – that ancient meeting of river and ocean among California’s coastal mountain range – was finally offered up. The parking lot overlook was 600 ft. above the ocean. I immediately began my descent down the path to the lower overlook – 400 ft. below – for a better shot. Along the way, I shed two layers of clothing adjusting to the temperature increase, which I gauged (unofficially and unscientifically) at roughly 10°.

At the lower overlook, the view opened up considerably. Rock formations not visible from above came into view, as were several sea lions darting among the rocks, the thin beach that jutted out from the south shore of the coast as though it hoped to shut off the Klamath’s flow, and at least two small whales feeding in the waters just off the Klamath’s mouth. Mother Nature rewarded my patience again. Thanks, Ma.

Click, click, click.

After that, I just leaned on the railing of the wood fence and took it all in. Here was yet another scene I’d studied at length on the Internet come to life before my eyes. Bruce Springsteen’s line from Spirits In The Night came to mind: “Stand back and let it shoot through you.” Beautiful. The Pacific’s endless waves lapped at the beach south of the river while the sputtering motorboat sounds of the sea lions mixed with the slapping of the sea against the rocks below me. The overcast skies didn’t detract. In fact, it almost seemed more natural than a clear blue sky (which continued to tease me from off-shore). This was, after all, Northern California. And, oh, was it.

Ah, but the bears awaited me. No, not those Lazy Bears from Guerneville, but the Golden Bears silently and steadfastly standing guard at each end of the Klamath River Bridge. So, I hoofed it back up to the parking lot – 400 ft. of elevation and two returned layers of clothing – and was passed by a couple of young Asian women heading for the lower overlook. I tipped them off on the whales (the mere possibility of seeing whales excites most humans, and these two women were among them) and wished them a good hike. The trip back down to “sea level” was quick, and soon I was crossing the Klamath. At the south end of the bridge, a young hitchhiker marred my shot of the new bridge’s bears, so I opted to shoot the old bridge and its bears.

The old bridge, the Douglas Memorial Bridge – located just west of its new replacement –was built in the 1920’s and had stood for nearly 40 years until a freak rainstorm dumped 24 inches of warm rain (the heaviest rainfall ever recorded in the area) on the mountains during Christmas week of 1964. Snow packs melted, flooding resulted, and hundreds of trees – many of them redwoods – were swept away and into the raging Klamath. As a commemorative plaque states, “ Logs and debris swept away roads, livestock, and structures, including the town of Klamath and the Douglas Memorial Bridge.” A quote from the Del Norte Triplicate news read: “The 420 foot center section of the span broke apart under hundreds of tons of pressure as the giant raft of redwoods smashed its way west toward the sea.” Eventually, both the town and the bridge were rebuilt upstream.

The bridge entrance on the south shore, however, remains. Flanking it are two gray concrete bears, silently holding their ground and faithfully guarding what remains of the Douglas Memorial Bridge.

Click, click, click.

I returned to the new bridge relieved to see that the hitchhiker had successfully flagged a ride and the new Golden Bears were ready their portraits. Click, click, click.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in Crescent City, a locale I “misunderestimated” (if I may use a Bush-ism) on its tourism points. Sundance – my lovely and wise wife – informed me that CC also had an agate beach. So, with directions in-hand, I sought out the location and spent a couple hours sifting through a mixture of sand and stones seeking the translucent beauties. That blue streak that had teased me all afternoon near Klamath was a clear sky in Crescent City, so caught a little sun with my agates. About 20-30 feet away, a young woman with an adorable 4 year-old daughter also combed through the stones. The mother was seeking agates. The daughter was focused on finding shark’s teeth and – I was told by the mother – squealed with delight whenever she found one. Naturally, I “donated” both shark’s teeth I found and received shy-but-heartfelt “thank yous” from the little girl in return. No squeals, though. I was, after all, a stranger. Still, what a cutie!

For those of you wondering, head west on 9th until it dead ends into Pebble Beach. Turn north on Pebble Beach and drive about a mile. On your left will be a small parking lot with steps to the beach.

By the time I departed, the sun was starting to make its descent toward the Pacific horizon and the mid-to-late afternoon light was just right for photographs. I caught several shots of the Crescent City lighthouse (c. 1850’s) – built upon Battery Point, a rock island (well, it’s an island at high tide, at least) located in the harbor.

On the way back to my room, lo and behold, I spied the Surfside Grill & BREWERY (!!) on Front St. Though dirty and sweaty, I quickly turned into their parking lot and entered. Nice place! Nice bar! Nice menu! Sadly, the “brewery” portion of the operation had been shut down. It wasn’t a money-maker, I was told, so the owner ditched it in favor of the restaurant operation.

I told the hostess that I would return once I’d made myself more presentable and returned to my room. After a quick shower, a check of e-mail, and a call home, I returned to Surfside Grill for dinner.

Again, the Austin connection came into play. Sitting beside me at the bar was a man who was in the process of relocating to Austin. He’d moved to Buda (just south of Austin) temporarily while scoping out a place to buy. “I have to be near water,” he told me. “I’m looking at this place called Lakeway. Ever heard of it?”

O, to be in that income bracket!

We chatted about Austin and what he should expect (lots of construction and new toll roads, for example…charming, eh?) and how housing prices have shot through the roof (not a problem for this fellow, though). BBQ, music, swimming holes, etc.

My fish and chips was (were?) tasty, as was the Alaskan Amber Ale. A fine culinary ending to a fine day. Scenery, some quiet contemplation, photo ops, agates, sun, food, and an amber ale to polish it off.

Crescent City, you surprised me. It was a wild time, perhaps bordering on too wild at one point. From the heights of Ship Mountain to the gravely beach along Pebble Beach Ave. and a stay at the Curly Redwood Lodge. It wasn’t just a “place to stay” while visiting other sites.

Stick out