Author: thelongmosey

As previously mentioned Katee and Johnny are pretty fine folk. We met at the pub, bonded over fire, food and vans and thought “you know what, we’re all doing this, so whilst our paths are intertwined, let’s do this together”. Well although that was never actually said, I would like to think it was the general jist of things.

Johnny. A very spritely nearly 42 year old with a penchant for a good beard, a good hat, some strong coffee and the odd toot of a pipe. It’s ok for those of you frowning in disdain, he has a card. Years of him working at his moving company have left him with “chronic back pain” so he is more than entitled to his toots. He is also very knowledgeable about the various ways of application of his favoured medicinal herb.

Katee, an even spritelier twentysomething (one doesn’t reveal a lady’s age does one, but Johnny beams gleefully with the pride that can only be associated with the “he’s done well for himself there” trick of nabbing a younger lady) is very warm, interesting and certainly an individual. Part hippy, part ditzy (in the nicest possible way) blonde, entirely adorable. She is more ethereal than us gruff men, and that is no bad thing.

We decide to stick together as we head across the Colorado Rockies and onwards, separating as we head for Chicago and them for the plains of Minnesota.

They are living what was in fact my initial plan. They bought a cheapo (yet beautiful) old van, that they are improving with love and elbow grease along the way.

Their “Old Goat” (I just gave it that name, it’s not official, but I like it) is an early 90’s Dodge Ram with an unfathomably deep fuel tank and a ridiculously large fuel displacement figure, but it is a picture in bright blue, with that kind of leather/vinyl/carpet/wood awesome interior that the Germans would not dream of throwing in a van. Johnny works on bits here and there, he spent many an hour outside home depot patching this and that. Anyway, I digress.

The morning after the night before, we all wake to coffee. Proper coffee. French Press style. Conny and I have been longing for the french press but so far has eluded us. Boy does that go down a treat. Not only that, upon hearing our desires for the French Press, Katee throws a look and a whisper at Johnny, he mumbles…moments later they have given us their “spare” Bodum. RESULT! I fucking love these people. We get to making breakfast. Eggs with vegetables, a few bangers for the omnivores pancakes with maple. Jobs a good’un talk turns to the route. Really, we let the ladies look at giant old fashioned fold away maps and then tell us roughly where they think. Johnny and I glance at phones, a cursory nod and all is sorted. We head to Vail, then to the West side of the Rockies, camp, then head over said Rockies, camp again.

Vail. After traipsing around for an age trying to find a car park to fit our height and the length of Johnny’s trailer, we succeed. We head in for a coffee and a nose. What we find is an oddball Americain interpretation of a quaint Swiss mountain town. The dimensions are all too American. The paintings all too American. The idea quite pleasant but the execution a bit shoddy. It’s like a cross between the Alpina in Gstaad (which although being in the quintessentially Swiss mountain town is itself a piss poor appropriation of the classic mountainside chateau) and Disney.

It’s like the X5 BMW of the Alpine mountain town. The concept and idea were German, most of the design inspired by Germans, but essentially made for Americans to assemble and aimed at the American market.

Onwards we head into the night looking for our camp ground, but requiring supplies we follow the Old Goat as it turns into a Whole Foods supermaket. Something Conny and I had been looking forward to since our arrival. Johnny and Katee actually met working in such a store in California. Johnny in the bar and Katee a checkout girl. They did actually tell us how even the originally community centred supermarket is being corrupted by the need to put profit first, and that as they left the boss’s were revelling in pitting the staff against one another in their deathmatch for the ever dwindling number of positions. However, their food does come from a better place than many so they and we were happy to buy our goods. Johnny even slipped me a card to use at the checkout in one of those too late to tell what was happening just go with it moments. It was revealed to me upon payment, that he had slipped me a voucher for 20 bucks. During his service, his corporate overlords, whilst trying to fire him for downsizing purposes, were also patting him on the back and throwing gift vouchers at him. He chose to throw one my way. I am genuinely honoured!

Night drew in, I took the lead as we headed for the forests where free camping is quite abundant and…erm…free. We struggle a little as the forest however ain’t too wonderfully signposted. We wander up a rough track and at the fork in the road, we pick an even rougher one. A many pointed turn or two later we head back to the other road and follow it right to it’s conclusion. A staging point for excursions in to the wilds. Perfect. Johnny builds a fire we briefly natter, then head in.

The next morning, oblivious to the odd pick up and ATV bowling past, we relight the fire, breakfast to day is sausage, veggie sausage courtesy of Whole Foods for me, eggs and bacon. Even I love the smell of camp-bacon. Not sure anything could smell better. I’m sure that was what our little uninvited guest was thinking too. We four stood puzzled as a little rodent blighter cleaned home, popping in and out of his hole with mounds of dirt. And then to just have a gawp at us four weirdos gawping at him. Still not sure what he is but cute as a button.

We decide to tackle the mountains, do a short walk and perhaps a coffee. Which is what we do. Old Goat is not as nimble as he once was though, and I fear was of the paddock variety as opposed to the mountain variety. Crawled up, crept down but he got there. The roads were stunning. The light and the colours magnificent. We crested the peak, it was almost like if you lifted the Roaches from where I grew up in the Autumn and plonked them atop an already existing Alpine range. Quite bizarre. As we made our descent the weather rolled in. We crossed paths with the odd Elk and the storm clouds were fantastic. We headed for the forest to find camp, but all we found was a picnic place called Sleepy Hollow. We dined on a mismatch meal that went down a treat and decided from there we would part ways as they were slow and finding a spot for the two of us would prove tricky.

Our merry band was gone, but shall not be forgotten!

As much as we enjoy the journey so far, we are aware that cruising the highways means we might skip by the real life America and some of the more interesting sights. Obviously the pay off is getting from a to b in a much more efficient manner. The goal is to mix it up where we can and today we started to find some balance.

Taking the windy road into the Colorado Rockies through the Gunnison national forest is like a mine of colour for the Autumnal painter’s palette. Ruby red, deep rust, bright gold, double-yellows yellow, with greens from faded lime to emerald and that deep dark evergreen pine.

The towns we pass have names like Hotchkiss, Paonia, Somerset and Bowie, really just ramshackle collections of shacks and stores at the roadside. Every few metres is a different fruit and veg grower plugging their wares. A far cry from the arid desolation of the desert mere moments away. One thing I do notice is I let things pass by, I need to stop the car and get out to take a moment to marvel Like the old classic car lot in Delta, I gazed in awe at the rusty old beauties from the thirties through to the probably seventies or eighties, but I failed to stop and capture it. All rusted and ruined but probably still fully functional, lined up like the dad’s army of American motors on parade. It was a sight to behold for sure, hopefully we shall pass more obscura and take the time to document it accordingly.

For your info, this post is being written somewhat more in real time than previously. Somewhat in the vein of the post, we stop at the roadside to photograph what look to be giant beehives in a line. It transpires that these are not beehives but ovens for making the coke that powered US industry for so long. We notice a discreet sign saying turn left for one of America’s best kept secret small towns, but keep it quiet. How could we refuse. From the Redstone Inn at the start to the little lodges at the end and all in between it is exactly what it says on the tin. The first building is a shop of wonderful decorative things, closing down after thirty-three years as the owner fancies retirement. The items are delightful as is the owner and Conny cannot help but buy the only thing we can fit in our (probably my) bag. More people enquire about the wonder of Black Beauty, so I give them the tour and the full story, they wish us well on our journey. Even the lamp posts in Redstone are fantastic.

Next up is Carbondale, a little larger but still with a quaint historic high-street and more importantly Beat Cafe, and entirely vegetarian salad, toast and shakes cafe from where I am sat writing with my Avocado, sesame and seawead toast. A veritable delight!

Onwards towards Aspen. A little known fact, as a little David, I always wanted to live in Aspen. I wasn’t aware that it was a wealthy town. I wasn’t really aware of much other than that it was in the mountains, had snow in the winter and I thought I could live out my lumberjack dream.

Turns out Aspen is a great place, lovely folk, nice houses, some odd architecture and design (I saw a full medieval suit of armour in someone’s window, but most importantly a pub.

Pubs, as we know are places of wonder, where even a non-drinking odd ball like me can feel at home at the same time as enjoying a night out. They are where people go to be alone, they are where people go to meet friends, they are where people go to eat, drink and be merry they are a place for all occasions.

We happened upon Hops. You can probably guess it focuses on beer (hundred and something varieties) we sat outside. Hogging the long bench to ourselves, in fact myself, as conny had been sent back to the car for ID…at 29 years old this astounds me. It was at this point a giant black dog chose to sit himself in the mini river next to my bench. The couple attached to this beast studied our table and the cluster of stuff I had spread all over it. Of course, I bundled it together and gestured to them to take a pew, which they did to my left, thanking me for sharing, which I thought was nice!

To my right a couple got up and another couple who had witnessed the dog’s selection of the bar decided to follow suit. And there we were. Our new table of fast friends.

The dog was, and is, called Cain. The man and woman who claim him as theirs are called Chuck and Alison, two young and lovely early twentysomethings I guess. We tentatively throw single lines across the table about the menu items, not wanting to interrupt each others quiet time we keep the talk small.

Until it turns to what we are doing here. Turns out Chuck and Alison dream of doing what we are doing, they offer us a tip on a camp ground an hour or so from here…at this point from my right I hear “Hey, I think we need in on this. Not eavesdropping, but we are also in a van and need this information”

Meet Johnny, he is one of the couple that sat down after witnessing Cain in the drink, and finding it “too cute”.

Johnny is with Katee. Katee is awesome.

We six plus dog spend the afternoon and evening discussing the world at large, the small stuff and much in between, and as we decide to call it a night, we all decide to head to the campground.

We head off in convoy, Chuck leads the way, with Johnny and Katy in the middle and as ever, David and Conny take up the rear. The Aspen leaves that have made it to the ground dance in the headlights as our motorcade trickles through the mountains. I am somewhat glad the night is upon us as the roads are windy and one laned with no barriers, the only time I saw over the edge my bum went all a quiver at the sheer drop to my right.

Continental divide crossed, campground reached, we men headed into the woods headlamps on, with axe and my swiss army knife to gather wood. The ladies drove to the entrance and picked up a couple of the prepared bundles they spotted on the way in. Either way, between us we had wood and fire. When there is fire and campers, inevitably next up comes food. An all-pitched-in effort of starter of fried-ricey-thingy, followed by sausages and bread for the omniverous, and potatoes accompanied by merlot-cheese to finish…’twas a delight!

Chuck and Alison were, I am guessing the youngest of the New Bunch. A lovely pair of young folk too! Not long married I think the two of them would love to just jump in a van with their trusty hound and tear up the open road. Who knows, maybe our little band of gypsies has encouraged them, I do hope so!

Katee and Johnny are equally as lovely…but they became our companions for a few days following and get their own post!

Colorado, it transpires, is a weed legal state. Our cohorts knew plenty of this, and Conny and myself had said we should sample the delights once and once only in our trip. Our friends, the experts offered us a little toot on their pipe. How could we refuse?

About three minutes later, after the coughing subsided, I was at the point of only hearing incomprehensible snippets of conversation. I was fully aware that I could offer nothing in the way of intelligent speech and could hear the call of my bed loud and clear. Now I remember why I don’t smoke weed.

I gave up and headed off as the paranoia set in and I could half hear discussions of suitably random stuff that I can no longer even remember. I did however drift off nicely.

As Conny crawled into the bed what seemed like three hours later (apparently it was 10 minutes) and then the car pulled off (which seemed like ten minutes later but was hours later, it’s all very confusing!) I needed a pee, was wide awake and feeling the appropriate highness from my little toot. Sadly David missed the party. Fire out and all in bed. I think I’ll leave the sticky icky from here on out to the professionals!

It had been a couple o’days o’stinkiness amongst some hot and sticky heat, Conny, in her infinite wisdom, decreed “We need a shower.”

Campsites around Price were scarce, let alone ones that offered either reasonable amenity or sensible pricing. We had struggled with this also the previous night and ended up sleeping amongst the truckers on a roadside, we also learned that a shower, for a non professional driver, costs 12 bucks. Yes, 12 DOLLARS for a shower. Fucking bonkers. Intent on not repeating this experience Conny pulled a diamond from betwixt her cheeks in a somewhat Eureka! moment. She had requested, and indeed been accepted for a couch surf of someone’s driveway, and shower! Franky in Price was a Godsend! We headed that way, but not wanting to invade someone’s home for longer than necessary, we went to the local dinosaur quarry. Yes. I said it. Dinosaur quarry. For that is what it was, is, and probably forever shall be. It is, you guessed it, a quarry. The stone there holds a precious find however. The largest concentration of fossilised Jurassic era dinosaur bones in the world. Mostly allosaurus (think T-Rex with Dame Edna horn-rims) but a few other more familiar things like the brontosaurus. Thoroughly intriguing for those of the geek orientated mindset such as myself, plus, strolling around the desert looking for bones is not my usual pass-time, so when the opportunity arises, one must take it!

Now. It turns out that Franky was in fact Jay, but Jay was away, so we were hosted by his delightful wife Becky. She suggested pizza and a movie for the evening entertainment, which was just about perfect for us. We got to meet her grandkids and their mother, we picked up said pizza. From a plethora of various local pizza houses offered to us by Becky, we opted for Little Caesar’s, pretty sure its the bargain basement of pizza house offerings, but it didn’t half fill a whole and was more than acceptably delicious. We also had the most delightful of showers to remove the stink and the aura of unwashed from our persons (Becky, graciously told us we didn’t smell bad at all, I didn’t believe her) and we hung around with Becky and her awesome stunt dog Scrappy*

Camping on the driveway was exactly as one expected. Becky liked her coffee strong in the morning, as do we, and she likes a chat, also as do we, so with coffees downed and discussions of the ways of the world, and beyond, behind us we bid adieu to Becky and on to Moab.

Moab is that place you see in movies, pretending to be Mars with the red rocks and monoliths, sweeping rockscapes carved by the water, with arches and gullies, much like the one from 127 hours (look it up if you don’t know it).

Armed with a penknife and an aversion to falling rocks, Conny and I, intrepid wanderers as we are, set out to walk the various walks** and hike the various hikes*** of the Moab and Island in the Sky areas. The gentle walks are a little overpopulated for my liking, hardly the best way to enjoy the area, following a herd of large Americans, gaggles of Germans and troupes of Chinese along the path as we all “Hike” to the vistas at the end. We did however meet some good old girls from Conny’s home town coming down the desert slopes. Unsure as to where they were from upon hearing their German, Conny asks “Woher kommen Sie?” The reply in thick Vorarlbergisch dialect was “I kumm vo Dorabira und Sie vo Breyagatz”…who’d a thunk it, these lovely dames enjoying their retirement (they were a widow club apparently) would bump in to Conny and I on the side of a hill in Utah.

We nestled down for the night somewhat illegally at the side of the road given the occupancy of all the camp sites (who knew this place was so popular?!), contemplated a swim in the Colorado, but were halted by the NO SWIMMING AT ANY TIME, DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS sign. We opted for an al-fresco shower by the river bank. Again Conny’s idea, this came late in the day, when the sun was already set. Given that our portable shower is a solar one, you can imagine this was not as warm and delightful as the last. I may have in fact turned into a lady for a split second as my man bits cowered in the cold then inverted to be come lady bits. Add to that the voices in the bushes that Conny and I could hear, but neither could see, we think someone probably got quite the show! So, clean, we hoisted the tent and got to bed for the next morning it was up at dawn’s arse crack for the morning long hike ahead at Devil’s Garden.

If indeed, as the name suggests, Devil’s Garden is under the procuratorship of Beeslebub, it would appear that he is a fancier of rabbits. The little blighter’s are everywhere. I’m not sure that these are evil attack-rabbits under the Fallen’s will. They are just too cute, the abundant ravens flitting and barking around as they do, yes, Lucifer’s creatures…but not the bunnies. I even remarked at their cuteness for a fleeting moment as one leapt in to the road in front of me (this was swiftly followed by thoughts of “NO don’t move I’ll save you” and then “Dammit, you moved”). Sadly Bugs was swiftly and too soon taken from this world by Black Beauty’s thunderous right hind quarter. Yet none of his cousins jumped toothfirst for my jugular during our treks, I am convinced the Dark Prince has a soft side…sorry, I went off on one, back to the Moab…

Stunningly vast, desolate areas, largely untouched by man but carved effortlessly and magnificently by natures hand. These places take your breath away. In the morning as sun rises over the horizon and between the towers the colours are mesmerising. The photos we manage do this place no justice.

The red and the rust, clashing with the green from the half dead, fully twisted and contorted trees, we scrambled like cats over the rocks and across the ridge line as the sun crept up. Then down into the gullies and cracks, with the sandy path crossed by the trails left by the local rattlers.

It was indeed a workout, but cripes, it was a fantastic way to attack the man handles that make my frame a rotund one.

Next stop Colorado. Let’s see what she’s got to offer.

* Scrappy is no kind of stunt dog, nor does Becky claim him to be, I made that up. But he does have a couple of neat tricks and looks super cool with his mohawk.

** American’s seem to call anything over ten footsteps a hike. Perhaps it is the love of the large that I spoke of previously and they they just talk this shit up so people feel a sense of achievement after going for a stroll…who knows? They definitely ain’t all hikes though.

*** That said, some of them were most certainly hikes. The “Hikers” or walkers amongst the crowds often turn back when things get hairy, leaving the real trails to the likes of Mick Dundee, Conny and me.

In addition to the above, just as I was about to read this piece to Conny, she thought she’d check how bad my feet stink. She got a little close and was shocked by what she found…and admittedly by the static that had accumulated within the powerful hue of cheese.

Awe.

The sheer vastness of this place demands it. We have barely tipped toe on this vast land and it’s hugeness bewilders us from our pokey little nations across the pond.

The seemingly endless fields of sage brush flit by our window as we head for Salt Lake. The preacher on the radio talks in circular fashion about god’s love and infinite forgiveness no matter what the percieved sin, yet also tells us we must behave and not let god or Jesus down. This shit winds me up. I flit to the next station. 45000 wild horses are to be culled… 45000! We have seen 7, maximum. Where on earth they are gonna find these surplus horses is anyone’s guess, apparently it is to “make room” for cattle farmers. One thing they ain’t short of around here is space. It somewhat beggars belief. But as I say, this is the land of the large. Go large or go home I suppose.

The Salt Flats of Utah are immense. Brilliant snow white desert stretches until it meats the haze under the hot sun. Between the salt air, sun and the vast apparent sea from which the mountains emerge from as Islands amidst dead calm waters, one could be forgiven for thinking that this was indeed the coast.

The sea is a fickle one though. As Beauty blazes down I80 in the heat of the sun we cross like Moses, the ever retreating sea disappearing before our eyes and turning into the iridescent sparkling salt laden earth, shimmering like Cullen-skin in the sunlight as we pass.

Once we reach the capital of Utah, we head for the state building. Again huge, but beautifully built. Shrines to the pioneers and the likes of Brigham Young. The sheer number of churches, both existing and in the process of being built amazes Conny. By the end she is pointing out each one incredulously and vocally “Look David, another bloody church, what tdo these people bloody do with all these churches, they’re bloody everywhere?”

“Why they marry their sister-wives” is my reply.

“What they can do that here?”

“Yup, shall we find a sister-wife? Go big or go home?!”

Now. Let’s talk about food.

Land of the large definitely applies. Yes each house is ginormous, and each house has a fleet of ginormous cars/vans/trucks outside (which particularly boils my piss in these days of climate denial and such) but the food. Holy shitballs. I am not known for my lack of appetite. Rather the opposite is in fact true. I am a veritable vegetable dustbin, of industrial proportion. Attested to by my not insignificant girth (around the waist ladies, keep your minds out of the gutter please) and impressive man-rack. But even I, David “Never let a meal beat me yet” South opt for the small option where possible. You see ordinary folk walking around with buckets of beverage. A “light lunch” grilled cheese and Tater Tots fills us both up. Pizzas so big they don’t fit out the fridge door in Walmart without an angled tilt. Bottles of pop or juice that could last a family a decade…it’s incredible.

The propensity for disposables also hurts my brain but I shall leave that for another day.

Conny cooked pasta today. Enough to feed 30 I think. Something must be rubbing off on her.

Amtrak trains are made for Americans. Large. If anyone ever complains about leg room on one, politely, stop him or her from doing whatever it is they are doing, kindly ask to see their side arm (they almost invariably will have one) then turn it on them and use it. Those seats are fucking ginormous, I couldn’t even reach the footrests.

Amtrak, awesome as the seating was, was also, clearly made for Americans. Capitalist. When booking “Free Wi-Fi on Amtrak trains*” clearly, although I didn’t see an asterisk, there must have been one. Reading in very fine print “Except yours, it’s only in business class, for which you can pay to upgrade”. I had allocated the 16 hours or so to get this blasted website up and running…but if you have a grumble at my tardiness, please point it in Amtrak’s direction.

So, Sacramento in the AM, we ride the Graffiti Train and the Urine Bus to our destination. JUCY Campervans USA. We rolled up, watched the Austrians struggle loading their mountains of luggage from the ginormo non-camper van they had rented into the not so ginormo Jucy Champ. But soon enough they were away in their lime green and grape beast. Then there was the German girls, who knew nothing of the insurance bond that had to be on hold on their account and had to figure out what they could afford on their student/mother’s cards. They were sent on their way in their tree frog and aubergine wander-wagon. Then we were up.

We did the necessaries, cards were swiped, no credit limits let us down…hurrah, on to the walk through.

We strode outside expecting a wasabi and plum combo BUT BEHOLD! What a beauteous creature stood before us! None of that day-glo Hi-Viz and Vimto paintwork, but a sleek black and shiny steed, waiting to whisk us away. We were ready to go, the walk through done, our Jucy guide explained how to hoist the tent but said, she couldn’t be bothered, but we can do it if we like. I was all “Fuck it…let’s go” but no, Conny insisted. Crank and wind, as predicted it worked a treat. Right, time to crank it down and hit the tarmac…three cranks and the 4^th turned into a clunk. Oh. Shitballs.

The tent has broken, and we haven’t left. A few hours later, even with a broken tent she is drawing some jealous regards, and with the eager beavering of the on site mechanic, Beauty was ready to ride. And ride she did.

To the snow capped peaks of Luther’s Pass on night one, down the rainy mountain, past the sunny shores of Lake Tahoe with its Blue Jays/Stellar Jays (help Uncle Werner, see photos?!) and chipmunks galore, onwards over Mount Rose (taking a whipping from the hailstones!) to Washoe Lake State park, complete with its interesting flora that I feel must be called Horsepiss Brush. Here I cranked the tent up with some trepidation (first night we slept inside), but no, Beauty was solid as a rock. The showers were sent from the gods themselves and the tent was a wonder to sleep in, only mildly disrupted by a pack of coyote’s on the hunt at stupid o’clock in the AM.

She is a head turner. Everywhere we stop, the locals are asking if “Is it yours? Can we buy one like this? Is it a rental? Where are the beds? Who do we rent it off? etc etc…to be fair, its pretty clear if they took the time to read any one of the 53 stickers emblazoned on her flanks and rear end…but hey, we’ll forgive them that as they are just interested, perhaps blinded by our (by that I mean her) Beauty.

Today was all desert, quite breathtaking to see the salt flats and the vastness of it all with the red rock mountains all the way to Reno and beyond, but really nothing to write about. We are currently at a rest stop, no idea of when I can get the internet once more for long enough. You will know when I do I suppose and this darn website finally goes on line! But I am about to hoist the sail once more and bury my head for the night.

Not the Connells of the 74-75 fame, but the O’Connells. The wonderful family of my sister in law.

They put up with us across two locations and were nothing but wonderful hosts!

First up was Erica in her Portland flat. Her and her dogs two cats, plus the parents hound, she was very kind to accommodate us! Right by the river, a perfect spot for us to wander in and see what Portland had to offer. An aerial tram took us to a hospital, and back. We had an awesome coffee, at the Simple Local Coffee place. Oddly I broke my own rules, where normally I would go for a simple local coffee, instead the marketing got me and I opted for a Salted Caramel Latte. Who’da thunk it, it was bloody lovely. There were some more beards, Some more Utilikilts and some more artsy things.

Erica was kind enough to lend us her car. We headed out to the waterfalls in the gorge by the Columbia River. It was indeed beautiful. I couldn’t help the theme from Last of the Mohicans playing through my head on repeat (it also happens in real life occasionally too, as I found a three hour loop of the theme on youtube…it really is a wonder I tell you) as I bounded through the forests to the tops of the cliffs. I’m pretty sure my head music got audible a few times via whistles and hums but who cares.

I am forever enamoured by the hugeness of some of the trees and the imagery of the mosses blanketing whatever they touch. You will probably note in the photos. The ones that are poorly shot, with nothing but a bit of moss or a tree in. That’s me that is. But that’s enough of that. Conny saw a snake, shat her pants and jumped behind me. She walked behind me after that, refusing to go first.

While chatting at home, Erica pointed out that the first person is usually ok…its the second that gets bitten as the snake is disturbed by the first and lashes out at the second. I will be walking at the back from now on apparently.

We met Tania and Maddy at the flat and ate pizza, I discovered that Conny had no idea what peperoni was.

We hopped on the Bolt Bus and headed for Albany where Bobbie and Dan hosted us for the weekend. They ordered pizza. We were housed in the caravan (practice for our camper on the next leg) we hung out with the sister in law (Kerry) and the kids. Erica came down on the Saturday and we went to the beer festival. Conny and Kerry got drunk on a couple o’ pints. Dan and Erica sampled some tasty brews. I ate a veggie burger. All in all pretty good. We walked in a forest, Jem sat on my shoulders most the way, refusing to walk. He is also a big lad. I am not very strong. Basically that hurt. Elouise was a grump. But she’s cute so that’s ok.

We went to the market. I picked up a guitar, and got a free t-shirt to boot. I have to say the Fingerboard Extension in Corvalis is my kind of music shop. All old stuff, some classics, some unheard of brands, some weirdo custom mades, all reasonably priced and full of character, I could ave doubled my collection for a couple of grand there. Conny prevented this.

All in all it was a cracking few days taking it easy and it was really nice that although we have only met a couple of times, Kerry’s family made us feel so welcome, and indeed part of the family.

Muchos Gracias O’Connells, you are awesome.

From the Inn, we needed to get to Portland to stay with the sister in law’s sister. This called for Gretta the Jetta. A beautiful beast. Loaned from the kind folk at budget rent-a-car. An unusual method was employed. We rented our car online at one location. We got to that location to find a couple of staff dealing with people who had come for their cars, all booked in advance. However they didn’t have any cars. They did however know of another local budget rent-a-car, that had plenty of cars but no staff, only one guy was working. So our guy drove us and another Japanese lady from their empty car rental lot, to the other guy with his abundant cars, only no time to do anything with them.

You would have thought the prerequisite for a car rental place would be rental cars. But this turned out not to be the case.

We mounted our trusty grey steed and headed for the coast.

We stopped off at a diner, ate one meal between two of us (grilled cheese and tater-tots. We had no idea what Tater-tots were, but they turned out to be delicious nuggets of deep fried potatoness, what’s not to love. Anyway, someone offers you something with a name such as Tater-tots, it is imperative one must give it a whirl). We have learned that man portions, despite my overly healthy apetite, are big enough to feed the two of us. It really is no surprise we have seen some especially large units over here. One could very easily become a hefty specimen in no time I fear.

Long Beach.

Not California, Oregon. It boasted Labor Day crowds, the worlds worst nachos with rubber cheese and an arch to the beach contentiously claiming to be the World’s Longest Beach.

It was a long beach indeed, but I have a feeling that is a spurious claim on behalf of the Long Beach tourist board.

We got ice cream. Conny opted for the junior option(a classic mint choc chip choice). I thought the single would be appropriate. I was wrong. Never have I seen such an awkwardly disproportionate globule of frozen delight (Root beer float flavour, ‘twas delicious) sat atop such a tiny wafer construction. Plus, I am a bearded man. When said ice cream is as big as ones face, one can not help but look somewhat the fool. I was however a delightfully messy fool as we strolled to the beach.

The beach, on Labor day, allows Pick Up Trucks. This was taken advantage of in the fullest. Ginormo beasts with huge kites (A big squid among them no less) attached to them and fires galore. Now the fires despite the signs saying that they must be 100 metres from the dunes started about 10 metres in. I think this is the golden accepted ratio, as at many restaurants and rail stations similar signs say no smoking within x amount of distance, for example 20 metres, for the most part I think it is considered appropriate to go exactly 10% of the stated distance and you’ll be grand, most smokers make it 2 metres at a 20 metre sign.

We departed the lies of Long Beach and headed South. A night of rough sleeping. I say rough, hardly, but Conny is not keen on sleeping in anything but a bed. I however used to regularly sleep in my Fiat 126 with my legs out of the window, back in the good old days after a session and no way to get home.

We parked, facing the sea and a great bridge across the estuary. We watched a movie. Then curled up for the night. Me in the front, Conny in the back. It was a bit cool, a bit of dead leg here or there but all in all, Gretta was grand. Conny I fear would beg to differ. She will never do such a thing again.

However, waking up to the view on the morning was pretty fantastic. We headed off with the intent of hitting the first diner we could for breakfast.

We were not let down. Diner breakfasts are awesome.

On to Portland, slowly, we were the only people observing the speed limit all the way. We drew some frowns, and 55 is ridiculously slow, but hey, I don’t want mahussive fees on my card now do I.

Gretta made it, we were soundtracked by my youth with a 90’s Alt Rock radio station all the way. Pretty good day I’d say.

Too easy? Yes.

A little trite? Sure

Apt? Most definitely.

Did I have a choice? Not one bit.

Anyway, to business.

First weekend in September, public holiday, who knew?

Most of America it would appear. Plenty of whom chose Seattle as their vacation destination.

Add to that the hoard of tech-wizards and kids emerging from their dark rooms and basements for their singular extracurricular excursions to the game convention (don’t worry they were both appeased and easily identifiable by their headphones, mobile gaming, ill fitting attire and low capacity for social interaction). Combined with the cities trendy folk attending the urban music festival (really, what is a music festival without a campsite) you could guess that lodging would be hard to come by.

You would be correct. We opted for a basic (not so basic in cost) inn a few miles East of Seattle proper, took a shuttle ride from the airport with Shuttle Express, whose driver was a proper character and a great welcome to the city. All in all though, amongst the throngs of sweaty kids with their bleeps and blips to the freshmen at the university doing their level best to woo the 17 year old girls(“really?! Thats like awesome you think I’m 20! I’m 17, she’s nearly 18 and these are just 16”) in hotpants and what looks like tip-ex face/body paint as they collectively head toward the aforementioned faux-festival and chatting about their first “rap” concert experience, the public transport system holds up well. And at 2 bucks 50 a pop one couldn’t complain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We met up with the sister in law, saw some of the city, we saw some sights (space needle), we followed the herd through the bright lights, big colours and bold smells of Pike Market (and sampled some delicious apple and blackberry cider, of the non alcoholic variety…zero wagons were fallen off of). Had some good coffee, saw a bunch of food trucks, we saw some mumbling dudes sitting in the square building cigarettes from filtered papers and pipe tobacco (I tried to ascertain exactly what was going on, whether it was indeed just tobacco or not, but the chap, I’ll call him Bubba, just mumbled and laughed and as I pushed further, mumbled and laughed some more, as Bubba was a big dude, I left it there and moseyed along. I have a feeling he had a sideline in some other products as the bags I saw some of his customers walking away with most definitely did not contain cigarettes), many beards and even the odd utilikilt (look it up if you have to).

The problem is, we’re not really city folk these days. For all the character and choices and art and wonder and Pike Markets and Bubba’s in the park, there is so much misery and stink and filthiness and sorrow.

The smell of human piss slaps you in the face like a great slimy kipper. And walking with my niece, having to explain when she asks “why are there tents under the bridge?” and “why is there a person in that sleeping bag, just lying across the pavement?” doesn’t sit well with me.

All these people doing so well, more often than not stepping over or deriding all these people who have nothing. When a person on the floor in the street is merely an obstacle to navigate I struggle a little inside.

There was a ray of hope, when at a distance we saw a herd of goats grazing a patch of brush in the city, but as you get there all hope is dashed as you see there is more litter and detritus in their pen than actual food. The people next to us, the lady says to the man “should we feed them something?” now I didn’t see them carrying any bags marked goatfood but the lady persists “I don’t see a sign saying we shouldn’t, so we can feed them anything, no?”

Now excuse me, but in what fucked up place do we need to think of a sign to tell us everything that we shouldn’t do? How the actual fuck does that work as logic?

Anyway, my point is that we needed to get out of the city.

We headed to the docks at Fishermen’s terminal.

I saw the Brenna A getting a refit (was even asked on board but I am pretty sure the guy who asked did not have the authority to do so, so for his job’s sake, declined) and the Time Bandit (I even think I saw Neal Hillstrand in the wheel house. Now, if none of that means anything to you, fair enough, if it does, you probably understand my geek joy at this point! We ate fried gerkins. Fucking delicious. Whoever thought that up was a genius.

Here we bumped into Rich. Moseying on his electric sit down scooter (chain driven*makes it dangerous and has that fun factor, do you know how many people are trying to work on the equation to figure out the fun factor…no…me neither, WHO CARES? Can’t account for the fun factor…Chain driven)

Rich is an oddball of the highest order. I think he knows it too. I like that about Rich.

Rich, assumed I was a fisherman, must be the beard, but I took it as an affirmation of my potent masculinity.

“Oh you quit your jobs to wander around the world? Ha ha…RIGHT ON!! That’s awesome! Are you educators? WHO CARES? You should be, I was and educator. SO FUCKING WHAT?”

Rich was a philosophy teacher. His results were too good. His students did too well. His bosses didn’t like it. He thought he might have to go to war with them.

“SO FUCKING WHAT?!”

Rich is a sailor, but he is only allowed in the lagoon he “took too many big risks”.

Rich is a “commando*. He is connected to “central”. They give orders, but he doesn’t follow them any more. They know who he is. He knows who they are. They leave each other be.

“WHO CARES?”

Rich is a musician. I asked him. He told me he was in a band called Tiger, he was the “violinist on guitar”. He was a real musician. That day he had even played “someone like you” all the way through. It might have been good, it might not he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know how to play it and doesn’t really know the song but he thinks he played it, but “SO FUCKING WHAT? WHO CARES?”

He says “SO FUCKING WHAT?” and “WHO CARES?” an awful lot. He says these things are part of his thing. He asks if I know what he means, or if we understand.

Frankly the answer was invariably no, but his response was always pretty predictable…

So fucking what? Who cares?

Not me Rich, I don’t care, I salute you, Sir.