Oregon Asleep

From: adventures in August 2009.

I arrived to Portland late that night and took the train down to the Pearl District. The weather was pleasant, and the air still. A sweet old lady directed me to the Tri*Met out in front of the airport. “You don’t even have to get a ticket or anything,” she said. “You can just get on and go…” She wore lots of jewelry and make-up, but seemed genuine. Sometimes I wonder when that point in life is when you go from being a middle-aged mom, to a “sweet old lady” with gray hair. It makes me want to stay young forever. When do people become adults anyway? It’s just natural progress I guess.

After hearing that I could just “get on and go,” I kindly reassured the gray-haired woman that she was waiting at the right carousel. Flight 621 from Las Vegas. The sign hadn’t changed yet from the previous flight, so she came across as flustered in thinking her luggage might walk off without her.

I headed to the train and got on with a few minutes to spare. A clock read 10:56pm. No one around seemed to know anything about Red lines or Blue lines or ticketing, so I just walked on and sat down. I fumbled through my papers in hopes that by looking at them once more I could navigate my way through the city. It was no use. So, I just decided to ask around. Just as I put my directions away, a man walked in who looked even more confused that I was. He was in his mid-forties I’d say… gray handlebar mustache with a matching goatee, not rough looking, but hard to read. He was sporting jeans, a hippyish-type peasant shirt that had drawstrings at the chest, Sperry boating shoes, and a camouflage Harley biker bandana. He had a laptop, suitcase, and guitar in tow. I know we’re not supposed to judge people by appearances, but at first glance, this was a guy I didn’t particularly want to make eye-contact with.

I overheard him talking to who I assumed was his girlfriend, but come to find was actually his fiancée. In the middle of his conversation, he lifted his head up and asked, “Does anyone know what train we’re on?” The ladies to my left believed we were on Red. He continued to inform his fiancée where we were at each stop until his cell phone battery got too low. He shut his phone off and turned his attention to me. I thought to myself, “Hey, if nothing else, I guess we share our ignorance regarding public transit in Portland.” Right about that time he started to make small talk. “You know, they should have this kind of system in Hawaii.” I glanced over assuming he was talking to me. “Why?” I say, “The Bus isn’t good enough?” He laughed. “That thing doesn’t get you anywhere.” I told him that I lived in Hawaii too. Through our conversation, I learned that he lives somewhere south of Hilo on the Big Island (though I didn’t catch the name of the town), that he has a new fiancée (but he’s not sure how it’ll work out with her living in Portland and all), and that his wife of twenty-two years passed away on Christmas Eve two years ago (and how he slowly got back into dating). “When I met this girl, I just couldn’t let her go,” he said. “So, I jumped on a plane to Portland and hoped that she’d still be here. I told her I’d come to her if that’s what it took.” He seemed very passionate. Then we got to talking about me and what made me want to come to Oregon. When he found out that I just came to the city not knowing anyone, he said he had to respect that. But like most people, he thought I was crazy and he gave me a lecture on being careful and watching my back. He even gave me his cell phone number. The scratch paper read: “Jeff & Shauna, just in case… Good luck! Have fun! Aloha.” I appreciated that, at least I knew one person in Portland...

Jeff got off at Pioneer Garden Square, and my stop was a few after his at PGE Park. I stepped outside into the crisp night air feeling alive in this new place. The streets were quiet, the air was still. I kicked my suitcase into rolling position and just started walking.

The blocks in Portland are small, and like most downtown areas, the Pearl District is arranged in a grid formation with lots of one way streets. The Hostel I was headed to was about 6 or 8 blocks away, not too far. I didn’t know if I was headed in the right direction on 18th Avenue. Should I have gone left or right? After a few phone calls to the front desk and with the help of a man outside the Hookah Bar, I made it to Northwest Hostel just before midnight. All I could think about was sleep. I was the last one to check into the dorm room, so after being issued my lock, key card, sleep sack, and towel, I tip-toed into the dorm, crawled up to the top of the only available bunk and shut my eyes. I had a bit of trouble falling asleep though because the lady below me was sawing logs. Eventually, however, I flickered off to dream of something pleasant.

There's more if you guys want it :) Let me know...

pearl district

1st night, and last night

Ready, Set… Go

In the morning when I woke, I had a few hours to kill until I picked up my rental car. I showered, arranged my suitcase, and just before I checked out of the hostel to explore on foot, I met this guy from Paris (we’ll call him Pierre). From what I gathered, he was a school teacher on summer break. Late 40’s to mid 50’s at least… but what I couldn’t figure out was why he was staying at a Hostel in Portland of all places. I thought the point of summer vacation was to see new sights and discover new things. All this guy was doing was lounging on the Hostel couches. I don’t like to judge people or jump to conclusions, but I have decent radar for the safe and the sketchy. Pierre was leaning toward the sketchy side. We exchanged a short conversation and he gave me his email address so I could send him pictures of Hawaii. He leaned in more than once for a kiss… and with that, I was more than ready to hit the road and leave Pierre to man the Hostel.

I ventured upon the World Cup Coffee Shop where I stopped in for an enjoyable medium roast. I added plenty of half and half, four Splendas, and a pinch of cinnamon. As I sat there enjoying my coffee, I wondered how many of the people sitting there actually knew each other? Everyone there with their own agendas, and each with very important engagements. It was in the midst of these thoughts that I felt completely free. I had no agenda, no plans, nobody to answer to, and that fact alone was scary yet liberating!

As I sat there, I wondered what it might be like to live in Portland. How it was to be a Barista at that particular coffee shop and interact with those particular people. I wondered about a lot of things. What do you do when you grow up in a city like Portland? What do you do when you grow up anywhere? We don’t have a whole lot of choice in that matter. Still, someone or something will someday either keep most people in the area where they grew up or draw them away to new places and new people. It’s inevitable.

Noon was drawing near, so I headed back to the hostel where the Rent-a-Car Shuttle was scheduled to pick me up. I was hoping not to see Pierre again, so I sat on the street corner away from the Hostel a bit. A cheerful talk with my boyfriend left me in good spirits as the shuttle arrived. I had this feeling of invincibility. I was equipped with my rental car, some clothes, a sleeping bag, a tent, and a map of Oregon. I was ready for the mountains! After a few wrong turns, I finally found my way to Eastbound Interstate 84. I opted to take the scenic route to Mt. Hood via Hwy 26 with hopes to find a place to make camp along the way. After stopping for a healthy lunch at Wendy’s in Gresham, I turned up the radio and opened the sunroof to let my hair blow in the mountain air. My adventure had commenced.

Open Country

As the Subaru gained elevation with each mile, I began to start thinking about where I would make camp. Right about that time, on the side of the road, I saw a sign that read: “Pick your own blueberries, one dollar per pound.” I had to stop. I was getting hungry, and the blueberries would make for a great snack. Almost missing the turn off, I skidded down a dirt driveway. Despite my efforts to drive slow, the Sube still kicked up a little dust as I coasted into the gravel parking area next to the barn. There was a sign posted on a large tree displaying the rules of blueberry-picking. When I stepped out of the car, I was surprised at how much the temperature had dropped. I felt foolish in my tank top and jogging shorts. There was a thick blanket of moisture in the air. The ground was dry, but it wasn’t going to be for long. All day, the sky seemed as though it was on the brink of releasing a down pour, but the rain never came, not until now. It just hung in the air, like a ceiling fan cord waiting to be pulled. But it held off just long enough for me to pick twenty-five cents worth of blueberries. And I must say they were delicious. I knew before I paid for them because I took a few samples as I was picking. I thanked the owners for letting me pick their berries and they saw me off out of the long driveway.

cute little house on blueberry farm

blueberry farm

My next stop was the Zigzag Ranger Station. There’s something about ranger stations that are unsettling and almost eerie. I wanted some advice on where to camp, but I didn’t want to make any decisions then and there, just in case some creepy serial killer dude was listening in on the conversation. Maybe I was a bit paranoid, but I’d rather just show up to camp somewhere than tell someone where to find me in the night. At least keep them guessing, right? I was unsure for a while where to go. I hadn’t even made a decision when I went back to the car to start driving again. After hearing my situation, the Ranger offered me a few suggestions. He said, “Well… you can go up to Green Canyon. All the sites there are non-reservable. It’s the closest campground to the station. You just turn left at Mt. Hood Foods and follow the road till it T’s. Then take another left and you’ll see the grounds. It’s back in the woods a ways… or…” he said, “you can take Hwy 26 up a bit to Camp Creek and Toll Gate Campgrounds. It runs right alongside a creek. There’s some nice hiking up that way too… And there’s always Trillium Lake or Lake Timothy. With good visibility you can see Mt. Hood from both those spots. Just keep in mind the higher you go, the colder it’s gonna be. Don’t know how prepared you are. I’m just lettin’ you know.”

I thanked the Ranger for all his help, gathered up the eight pamphlets I accumulated during our conversation, and walked away with no more clarity on where to camp than when I first arrived. I thought to myself, “I can camp somewhere in the woods right off the highway for easy access, or I can make the extra 40 minute drive out to a lake.” I decided the latter would be a better choice.

Fog and Cold Feet

I arrived to Trillium Lake a little after 4:00pm. After driving through the grounds and seeing the campsites and lake, I decided that this was the place. This was where I wanted to make camp!

As I pulled up to the entrance, I saw a sign posted: “$17 Single, $34 Double. See campsite host for payment and permit.” Seventeen dollars to camp in the woods!! The way I saw it, I didn’t have much choice at this point. I could always pull off the highway on the shoulder somewhere and illegally sleep in the car. But that seemed more sketchy than camping in the woods. Besides, I didn’t bring a tent and sleeping bag 5,000 miles across the country to keep them in my suitcase…

I pulled into the RV Host camp site to pay. That’s when I met Roy. Roy was a weathered man, probably in his late 60’s. He looked tired and worn, but he seemed patient and kind. I asked him if he had any sites available just for the night and he directed me to #17. “Check it out… if you like it you can set up and I’ll be by later on to give you the permit… You by yourself?” “Yes sir… couldn’t convince any of my friends to come this time. Kinda expensive to travel these days.” “Alright, well I put you next to a guy and his son, so you should feel pretty safe, but if not I can move ya.” I thanked him and waved as I drove off.

#17. Equipped with a picnic table, charcoal grill, fire pit, and tent space. I don’t have any use for the first three, but I do have a tent… Before Roy made it over, I already had my tent set up, my sleeping bag unrolled, my head lamp by my pillow for easy access, and I even said hello to the neighbors. I assured Roy that this spot would do just fine and I joked about going down to the lake to meet some people and get invited to dinner. He chuckled at my enthusiasm and told me to watch out for the boys at #31. His nephew and a friend were up for the weekend and he didn’t want them giving me any trouble. And with that, Roy revved up his truck and drove off to the next site to collect their dues.

i am lame, it was kinda boring by myself... i'm not gonna lie. i made some friends at the lake though

:) it was cold

Trillium Lake is a beautiful campground. There’s a dam on one side of the lake with a little fishing pier. The opposite side buts up to an open field with what I’m told to be a spectacular view of Mt. Hood. It wasn’t visible that day, however, because of the fog and mist. Around the entire lake is a trail for hikers and bikers. Kayakers can also enjoy the peaceful grounds by gliding through the water alongside the ducks. Trillium Lake is serene and secluded, and in the summer makes for a perfect family get-a-way.

sign speaks for itself

on a clear day... supposedly you can see mt. hood, apparently this was not a clear day

i try to be artistic

Chicken and Beans

I started getting hungry, so after an hour or so of exploring I left the lake without making any new friends. The air was cold. I thought that it had to be at least in the 50’s. When I got back to the car, the temperature read 48 degrees. It was going to be a long night.

On my way back to my camp site, I stopped by Roy’s to ask where the closest town was and to see if he had any firewood for sale. “Yeah, I got firewood. Six bucks a bundle. And you don’t gotta carry it. I can put it in the truck and drive it down if ya want. Got a lighter too.”
Alright, well… I’m still trying to decide if that’s what I wanna do. I’ll be back if I decide to make a fire.
“Did you meet some people down at the lake?”
No, I think it’s getting a bit too chilly. Not many people down there.
“So, you didn’t eat yet?”
No, I was thinking about going into town for some food.
“Well, you’re welcome to eat with me if you like chicken.”
I love chicken, are you sure?
“Of course, I got plenty.”
That sounds wonderful. Thanks Roy.
“Come back in about an hour or so. That’ll give me time to finish my rounds and heat up the food.”
Ok, I’ll see you then…

I headed back to the tent to do a little reading. It was cold. As I lay in my tent, my numb hands thumbed through the pages of my book. In the background, I watched as my neighbors warm themselves by the fire. “It’d be nice to have some friends here,” I thought. “Then a fire would be enjoyable.” An hour passed and I walked over to Roy’s RV and knocked on the door. He greeted me with a smile. You could tell he wasn’t used to having company. He put on a little music from the Broadway Chicago and warmed up the chicken and beans in the microwave. We talked about our jobs and how they’re similar. Then we talked about family and travel and places he’s lived and how he loves cars and worked for Walt Disney for a long time. He informed me that Trillium Lake campground gets locked up and shut down on October 1st. “They turn off the water and everything… nothing but snow around here.” He wants to move to Las Vegas next season. He informed me that there’s an RV Campground resort that’s right inside the city. “The maintenance job there would be a cake walk compared to this,” he said. Our thirty minute dinner was interrupted at least 5 times with knocks on the door and walkie talkie static.

I didn’t want to prolong my stay, but I didn’t want to eat and run either. We chatted for a few minutes longer, and then I asked him if he’d take a picture with me because I wanted to document my trip. I thanked him again for inviting me and he said he was glad to have such good company.

and this is roy. the camp ground host. he invited me for dinner in his RV... i think bc he felt sorry for me. understandable. i gladly accepted the pity meal.

Abandoned Snow Plows

After leaving Roy’s, I wanted some dessert. It was still early, and still light out. So, I decided to leave the campgrounds and explore. About 4 miles up the road was the snow boarding and luxury resort town of Government Camp. It’s a wonder that people still live there in the summer. You could tell the place gets decked out in the winter. Abandoned snow plows on the sides of the road, kids that looked like ski bums playing basketball outside the general store, and a skate park that looked brand new… probably just there for the summer. I went inside the general store and looked around for a bit. Not a whole lot to see, but I was intrigued by the size of it. A grocery, convenient, and liquor store all rolled into one. I grabbed an ice cream bar and went to the counter. The cashier was friendly, so I asked her who lived around here in the summer. “The year-round population is about 200 or so. Mostly the owners of the stores and stuff… can’t really leave a business when this is your home.” I guess she’s right. It’s like a little village. I tried to imagine life in Government Camp—where kids went to school and where the houses were, but I left still baffled. I was amused by Government Camp for the rest of the night.

On the way back to Trillium Lake, I saw a sign for Timberline Lodge. Curiosity got the best of me and I made the 6 mile journey up this foggy mountain just as it was getting dark. I shifted the Subaru into sport mode and hugged the curves tight. I don’t know how much elevation I must have gained, but when I got to the top, the temperature read 39 degrees. Pretty cold for a summer day in mid-August. I checked out the ski lifts, took a few pictures, froze my butt off and decided I should probably get back to my own campsite. I turned in for the night, brushed my teeth, and laid down in the darkness. I was looking forward to tomorrow and the great adventures it had in store.

ski lifts in summer. 40 degrees still, but flowers instead of snow

Free Coffee and the Open Road

My alarm went off at 6:00am. I didn’t want to move. I spent the night like a caterpillar in a cocoon wrapped up tight in my sleeping bag. I curled up in a ball on my side, then laid flat alternating positions when I got uncomfortable or cold. I slowly started gathering up my things and loading them into the car. The rain of last night left a soft layer of mist on my tent. The combination of 45 degrees, a wet tent, wet ground, wet dirt, and no form of running water made for an enjoyable wake-up activity. I wanted to be on the road before 7:00am, so I could get to Vancouver at a decent hour. It’s a 6 hour drive from Portland, and I was at least 2 hours east of there. But I made it happen. I took the scenic Route back to Portland and made a loop around Mt. Hood through Mt. Hood Territory and the plains below. Along the way I stopped at Horsetail and Multnomah Falls. Both very beautiful. After that, I took I-84 west to I-5 northbound, drove straight through Washington, past Seattle, and right into Canada.

i would go back. nice place.

taaaadaaa

postcard, i know

I only have a little more if you want it... :)

Canadian Money

I sailed right through border patrol and followed signs to Vancouver. I had to keep looking down at the speedometer to make sure I wasn’t going over 100km/hr. After sitting in traffic for about an hour and a half outside the city, I finally crossed Granville bridge leading into downtown Vancouver.

Most downtown areas are set up in a grid-like formation. Vancouver is no exception. With one-way streets and small blocks, this city is a melting pot of culture. Tourists swarm the summer streets like disturbed bees buzzing from a fallen hive. Shopping, dining, and street merchants seem to dominate the night life.

I was able to navigate through the madness of tourism and construction to meet my brother Johnny outside his apartment just before 5:00pm. Johnny lives on the 4th floor of the typical high-rise apartment building. A studio apartment, just big enough for him and his cat, Ging. Being the dedicated art student he is, he has art work displayed throughout the room and on most of the free wall space. Screen printing is his current specialty. Bob Marley in bright colors is plastered on a scrap of leather to make for an interesting texture and design, and a self-constructed robot sits in the corner… the project remnants of past semesters.

We chatted for a while then walked over to meet his friend, Boris, at the apartment building across the street. Boris lives in another high rise, except this time on the 25th floor. We all exchanged greetings and the three of us headed out to explore the city.

The nice thing about downtown Vancouver is that you can walk just about anywhere. And if you can’t walk, you can take an electric-powered city bus. Thick cables line the space between the buildings like a spider’s intricate webbing. Death by electric shock is just waiting to claim its next victim.

Vancouver isn’t all concrete jungle though. What Central Park is to New York City, Stanley Park is to Vancouver. One thousand acres of trees, sidewalks, forests, ponds and botanical gardens gives Stanley Park its pull. Picnics, morning strolls, romantic walks, skating, and jogging make for a typical day at Stanley Park. English Bay, another quiet and serene spot is home to one of the largest firework displays in North America. But “second beach” as it’s commonly called didn’t look too inviting. I was bundled up in one of Johnny’s hoodies and wishing I’d worn jeans and sneakers rather than shorts and slippers. Aside from the occasional jogger and dog-walker, there wasn’t much action at second beach. We sat on a row of logs watching as the sun sank below the horizon and the barges passed beyond the large rock barriers. It was like a scene from a movie. Three faces staring out into the distance.

We left second beach in a trance and decided to head back to town for a sit-down dinner. After much debating and passing all sorts of dining facilities, Boris finally made the decision for us to eat at Simba’s African Restaurant. We walked in and were immediately greeted my Simba himself. He took our drink orders and made suggestions for dinner entrees. He brought me some sort of delicious sweet, spicy, and creamy chicken curry over brown rice. He brought another type of chicken curry for Johnny, and encouraged Boris to try the goat with brown curry. We were restricted from ordering the same thing. Simba wouldn’t allow it. He said that we could share with each other and experience more for our money. How could we argue with Simba? Everything he brought out was delicious… We left the restaurant with a feeling of contentment and delight, and then turned in for the night.

I slept in for as long as I could the following morning, but I was still wide-awake at 7:00am. Johnny didn’t wake up for another 4 hours. In the mean time, I took a shower, read my Bible, wrote in my journal, and surfed the net for a few hours. Later that day we visited Boris' and Johnny’s Art College Campus on Granville Island, perused the indoor market, visited the IMAX Theatres, and dined at a local Japanese restaurant. At this particular restaurant, a writing pad wasn’t necessary. The server’s simply shouted their orders at the top of their lungs until the cooks responded in jumbled Japanese. Note to self: never again order sashimi shrimp. Marinated or not, it’s still raw with eyes and whiskers.

Overall, I had a wonderful little visit to Vancouver. Spending time with my half-brother I hadn’t seen in 12 years wasn’t awkward, but surprisingly enjoyable. I saw enough of the city to enjoy it, but not too much to never want to go back again.

vancouver has a crazy bus sytem. lots of electric current.

i'm standing with 2 cupcakes ;) that's for you johnny...

black and white from boris' apt.

part of english bay

north van

eeeeewwwww. raw scrimps

Missing Church

The next morning was Sunday. The rental car had to be back in Portland by noon. Just to be on the safe side, I left Vancouver at 4:30am. Still dark outside, I once again drove straight through Seattle all the way back to Portland with the exception of a few Rest Area pit stops for free coffee.

I drove straight to the Northwest Hostel, checked in and got my bags settled. Once I cleaned out the car, I grabbed my purse and jacket and returned the rental. Dollar Rent-a-Car was only about a 20 minute walk from the Hostel, so I took my time coming back stopping for food and cupcakes along the way. Again, I had nothing to do, no one to visit, and nowhere in particular to be… a feeling I’m not accustomed to, but a feeling I enjoyed nonetheless.

When I arrived back at the Hostel, I ran across Pierre again. He was lounging on a couch. It had literally been four days. I wondered if he had done anything while I was in Vancouver and camping at Mt. Hood. Why couldn’t I meet some neat people around my age that wanted to hang out? Instead, I met a creepy old guy from France that probably swims by himself in the nude. Every room I entered, he was there… napping, chatting, eating. All I wanted to do was get my pictures posted online, and all he wanted to do was talk about how much he wants to visit Hawaii one day. Finally, when I found a room where Pierre wasn’t, two guys walked in who looked friendly and from what I could tell—pretty normal. I overheard them talking about checking out early in the morning, so I chimed into their conversation asking how long they’d been there. Their names: Nick and Stan from California. They went to college together and decided to take a weekend road trip to Oregon because neither of them had been before. I’d guess that they were semi-recent college grads, probably in their mid-20’s. If not my age, then maybe a few years older. Stan lives in the Bay area and works at UC-Santa Cruz in the HR department, and Nick lives in San Francisco and works as an IT guy for some local company. We shared a little info about our trips and how we ended up at the Hostel, then the three of us walked to Powell’s bookstore about 8 blocks away and cruised around for a while. Powell’ claims to be the largest new and used book store in the country, and possibly all of North America. I was glad to have good company my last night in Portland. We talked about Hawaii and teaching English abroad, climates, word puzzles, careers, and vacations. I felt like I had known these guys for years. It was a pleasant ending to my trip.

Headed Home

In the morning, dark and early, I woke up and headed to the Tri*Met station bound for the airport. Just as quickly as I had boarded the train 5 days earlier, I was back on it. This time there was no Jeff, only workers getting back to the daily grind. In a few short hours I’d be back to the grind as well, only reminiscing on my adventures. I was Oahu bound, and I was glad. The end.

beautiful flower shoppes in Portland

Portland's bubbling fountains