Sea Legs

It's been quite awhile since I have been able to stop and write, so I am grateful for the time I have now. I am tired, and I have a lot of ground to cover, but I also have a hot cup of coffee, and this great little room to write in. Never mind however, where I am today. Let me back up a good while.

I left you in Florence, Oregon. I had gone to a meeting and met Hank: an older guy with eyes that have that twinkle... the one that says they still love life, and that they know how to share that love with others. I liked him immediately. I asked in the meeting if anyone knew of a place I could get out of the storm, and it was Hank who approached me.

"Has anyone offered to help you out yet?" he asked me... and I looked at him cock-eyed. I had been pretty clear that I would only accept help from female people, or people who lived with women... just for my safety. I re-focused, assuming that he must live with his wife or something to that affect, and then he mentioned that he knew someone who would take me in. He made a quick phone call, and within moments a few of us were hauling my bike into the back of Hank's truck, and we were on our way to Alice's house.

I liked Alice immediately. I felt so comfortable so quickly I almost forgot to look around. She shook my hand outside, and hustled me into the house, striking up a conversation with Hank that revealed that he spends quite a lot of time at Alice's. A sort of on-going coffee-table type conversation... : "Did you see Chris today... How is Boston Alice doing..." Comfortable chatter between dear friends. Alice showed me to my room, asked if I had wet things to get dry and handed me a few coat hangers all before I could utter a word of thanks. Then she returned to her seat in the kitchen and her chat with Hank, and left me to my own devices.

Alice and I, we got on like peas and carrots. To be honest, I don't consider that all too much a testimony to my like-ability, as to Alice's. She's a talker, and a storyteller. A 73 year old women who stays up drinking black coffee until 11pm.

Her and Hank were standing at the window when I came back to the kitchen. There had been a bit of a fuss that afternoon about a leaf stuck on a branch that looked remarkably like a hummingbird, toughing out the storm. They couldn't be sure... and could I go have a look. The little leaf's resemblance to a hummingbird was dead - on, and there we were, three loons watching one tiny leaf tough it out against one hell of a storm.

After Hank heads out to his place out in "the boons", she offers to make us some dinner, admitting that outside of company, she mostly eats Ritz crackers and tuna fish. She lets me know where those are too, in case I get peckish in the middle of the night. She cooks up a pre-wrapped roast and some stove-top stuffing, and pulls a plate of deviled eggs out of the fridge. Another household stand-by... there are always devilled eggs in the fridge.

Alice grew up poor in rural Oregon, best as I can piece together. She got married five times, the first when she was 16 years old. She was married to her first husband, Glenn, for 20 years, and they had 4 children. She figures they might have stayed married, if they had the tools that are available to people now... counselling, and the like. They had so very little, and he worked while she took care of the kids. They went out together maybe twice in 20 years.

They moved up to Hillsboro, partly on Alice's insistence that they live somewhere a garden might grow. They weren't on good soil outside of Bend. Glenn complimented Alice on having lost weight, but she was losing weight because she was trying so hard to keep the kids fed that she was barely eating. This was the underlying reason for her interest in moving north, and in growing some food.

I can't offer every word of this as fact, because I am piecing together my notes taken late at night after I listened to Alice's stories. I am not the most reliable source, really, but what I want to offer is a light picture of this person. She really touched me.

Alice knows what it is to live without much of anything. She laughs about the economic situation, and explains that she can't imagine our generation without all of our comforts. She considers that we have never had to do much for ourselves, and imagines that we might learn a little something. She's not afraid. She's made something out of nothing nearly her entire life.

Alice keeps "totems" from her past. Artifacts that you might find in any farmyard antique shop. Old fashioned irons that you heat over the stove. An old washtub that you you clean a kid in. A washboard. All of these things remind her what her life has been like, and how good she has it right now. She doesn't forget what she is capable of. She's a strong woman.

Alice grew up in Oregon at a time when women were told not to travel on "the back roads", so she never did. Until recently, as she enjoys her developing friendship with Hank, there are miles of road right in her own backyard that she has never travelled.

Alice ended up on the coast because of her last marriage. She's afraid of the ocean, because of some trauma in her childhood, but she doesn't say much about that. She never imagined that she would end up by the water. She loves Florence. She loves her friends, and her community. It's one of life's little surprises.

I loved listening to her talk, framed by the cabinets over her head, and the wallpaper behind her, identical to that in my mother's bedroom or bathroom when I was a kid. Smoke curls up around her face. She reminds me of a little bird. Free, yet somehow always captive... She's made her space in life by stretching the boundaries of what was given to her. She's made a whole lot for herself, seeing what could be done with the material in hand.

Her kids are all still close to her, as well as a few others she's picked up along the way. Ex in-laws keep her in their lives. She's easy to love.

A friend of hers worries about the economy and says... "well, I guess I could always go and live with Alice... she has everything!". Alice gets such a huge kick out of this. She's living off of the tiniest bit of money a month, but if you look closely... her relationships sustain her. She helps people, and they help her.

She was mentioning how her old neighbor used to give her eggs. The new neighbor sells eggs, and doesn't give her any. I waited to hear any hint of resentment... I don't know why, it's just what I expected. Alice continues her line of thought, saying that she's started saving her empty egg cartons to give to the neighbor who sells eggs. I don't think she even realizes how different this is from most people. She has no sense of entitlement. I don't think I have ever sat and talked to anyone for any amount of time who has no sense of entitlement. That bothers me, and it also makes me feel really grateful to have met Alice.

In the morning I went to the library, and wrote the entry previous to this one. Then I wandered out into the library hall, and noticed that a talk was starting just at that moment. I slipped in the door, and got to hear Mitzi Asai... a second generation Japanese immigrant to Oregon, talk about her life growing up, and her connection to the Yasui family, from a popular new novel called Stubborn Twig. I was so deeply moved... to tears in fact, hearing what it was like for these young Japanese Americans in Oregon, living through the Red Scare. Growing up in work camps in America. Coming home to newspaper articles entitled "No Japes wanted in Hood River". Living through adolescence with no other kids talking to you, and having a neighbor curse you every day as you walk home from school. I recommend reading Stubborn Twig. I plan on it, when I get back from this adventure. I can't believe how little we learn of American history in our own schools. They teach us that history will repeat itself if we do not remember and learn, but we are so ashamed of what we have done wrong, and so proud, that we keep history muffled in the background for our children to ignore.

I stayed with Alice for one more night. Again we stayed up late and talked, swapping stories and laughing about the way things are. I stayed comfortable and happy, then the storm had passed. In the morning, Hank was in the kitchen.

"It came to me in a dream... We're driving you down to Bandon today."
"Oh no, Hank... I've got to ride it!"
"I figured it out... You want to ride? We'll rig up your bike in the back of the truck and you can sit on it the whole way there. Sound fun?"

Hank's idea of leaving me to "think about it" was to saunter out the front door saying thing like... "Pick you up in an hour! Get packed!". Alice is fretting because Hank has a tendency to change her plans at a moments notice, and I have to remind myself that Alice can make her own choice. I decide to take the ride.

Alice makes an air-pot full of coffee to bring in the truck.

Hank likes to tell stories about the old days. He's been building railroad bridges and tunnels his whole life. He just retired a few years ago. As we go along, he points out projects he has worked on, or that his father worked on. He seems to know every curve of road from one end of Oregon to the next. Alice is learning the back-roads for the first time in her life, on many journeys like this one. I am just an anomaly on one of their many adventures.

We arrive in Bandon, and stop to look over Face Rock... notoriously looking up into the heavens. Then we headed back into town and had a small lunch together before parting ways.

Alice insists on leaving me with a plate of cookies, which I am told I should offer to the couchsurf members I am staying with that night. I take the short ride up to their house on my bike, getting a few much needed moments alone, and then I am back in another persons home.

It felt awkward. I hadn't travelled that day on my bike at all really. Barely even a mile. I was clean and happy and well fed It took me a few moments to feel comfortable with the fact that I really hadn't ridden in days. Right away however, I liked the quiet of Ben and Riana's home. More than anything... I loved the view.

The house didn't look like much from the street, but when you step inside, and down the stairs, you find yourself facing a wall of glass looking over the ocean. You could jump off the bluffs from their back "yard", it's so close. On top of that, Ben and Riana don't have a whole lot to say.

They are easy conversationalists, and comfortable people to be around. Riana made us a light dinner of green curried vegetables, and I watched the sunset outside, entirely undisturbed. We had a nice time over dinner, and then each retired to respective corners. Riana by the fire with her book. Ben at the computer. Me with my journal and my maps. After all the smoke and storytelling, the endless listening and absorbing and trying to remember details... this was exactly what I needed. As I packed up in the morning, Ben gave me a piece of home-made bread with butter. I went on my way at my own pace, without fanfare, happy and feeling grounded by my stay.

Ben and Riana are caddies, and the economy affects them rather directly. People stop hiring caddies at the golf course, or they stop golfing all together. Ben isn't the type to worry too much about finances, but Riana is concerned. I ask her off hand if they own or rent, and she looks at me wide-eyed."Oh, we rent. This is probably the only time in our lives we will ever live like this" she says... looking out at the view. Something about this sticks with me.

The ride to Port Orford was fabulous. The sun was in good spirits, and I was moving along nicely. I love going to Port 'O'. I usually stop in on Paula, who owns a little restaurant in town. I had called about a week before to let her know I was coming, and asked if I could stay. She offered her trailer, and I was glad to know I had a place for the night.

Of course, I forgot to ask where her place was. When I got to the restaurant, her husband said she stayed home, because of pain in her shoulder. I ask which way the house is, and he tells me it's back in Langlois.... the town I stopped in for lunch a few hours back. Sigh. I asked about local camping and they told me which beach the cops wouldn't bother me for camping on. Then I stuck around, because it was St. Patricks day and they were having music. They asked me to stick around, and maybe play a little later on.

The music was fun. A local performer ( I didn't get his name!) had invited a bunch of his friends to come by and play Irish folk songs and reels. They invited me to join in, and I had trouble keeping up, but no one minded. We stomped and laughed and sang, and even played "Goodnight, Irene"... an old favorite of mine that reminds me of singing with my family. The asked me to play a few of my own songs, and I did, to warm reception. I have been working on this improv I started the night of my kick-off party - turning it into a more solid "song", and I tried that out. People really like it... It's kind of a spiritual; a cappella. After I finished, I gave the stage back to the local artist, and a woman approached me.

"Where are you staying tonight?"
"Camping on the beach, I figure..."
"Well how would you like a vacation beach rental for a few days...?"

Seriously!? I walk with Cathy, the owner of the aforementioned vacation beach rental, and her friend Gayle, just a few blocks over to The Powder House, and I am enamoured right away. On the walk over I say to Cathy... "it's amazing, how the universe sends us what we need..." and she says she knows exactly what I mean.

Her and her partner John came to town camping, years ago, and they bought The Powder House after a bit of thinking. She says that Port Orford is a town cursed by the natives to never prosper. She says she hopes that means it will never get big. I smile. I like Cathy.

The Powder House is bright blue, and there are colored Christmas lights in the windows. Inside there is a bed under some amazing skylights, and a kitchen, and a living room. There is a TV that only plays movies (my favorite kind), a little collection of VHS, a compost bucket by the sink, a garden, and a glass jar full of coffee.

Cathy, Gayle and I hung out for awhile. I played a song every so often, tangled in with all of the sharing we had going on. It was a fun evening. Cathy is a steward of our rivers... She is a river guide. She knows all about the rivers of this country, and the wildlife. She works with kids, and teaches people how vital their local watersheds are. Essentially, she's amazing. She showed me a book of local hikes and wildlife she made with a group of local kids. It's really pretty incredible to imagine some kids working on this project. It's a really good trail guide! Tons of local hikes, and descriptions of all the local trees, etc... I mentioned the Elk River, and how the locals are caught between wanting to protect it, and wanting to bring in tourists to bolster the economy. She completely understands, and admits that there are certain hikes that they omitted from the book, because you "have to work for them".

After that night, I didn't see Cathy again. The most amazing gift I could have received was this space to be indoors and alone. I did my laundry, walked under the stars, watched movies, went to the library.... I love that she just trusted me there in her space. She left me a key, told me which door to leave unlocked when I left, and said I could stay until the 25th if I wanted. I couldn't stay that long, obviously, but I did enjoy the extra day. My clothes had gotten seriously stinky, and it was nice to do laundry someplace where I could let all of my wool dry, and where I could refold everything neatly and get organized. I said goodbye to Powder House with a little effort... and headed to Gold Beach.

The ride to Gold Beach is a little harder than what I had been getting used to, but I did really well! I made good time, and I didn't have to push my bike up a single hill. Then, right as I came into town... I find myself riding into the lens of some one's camera. I'm coming down this great hill, almost in Gold Beach after a day of amazing views and sunshine. I'm hungry, and tired, and I feel amazing... but this man is standing by the side of the road, taking my picture. He's not just taking one, either... and by the time I get down to him, the camera is right in my face. I stop to ask him what's going on, and before I can ask, he asks if I am done for the day. I say yes that I am headed into Gold Beach. He says he is taking photos of this bike route for the New York Times, and gracefully invites himself to join me for lunch. He drives ahead and then stops again in front of me, and photographs me coming over the bridge into town. We find a place by the docks to get a good burger, and sit down to eat. I am famished.

Basil is a freelance photographer, getting photos for a New York Times writer who recently rode the Oregon Coastal route. He's having a hell of a time finding riders, because this isn't exactly bike season. He lives in Thailand with his girlfriend, and flies mostly, for photo assignments. We're waiting for our food, when lo and behold, another rider sees my bike and comes to park by me. We wave him inside to join us (I tend to park my bike under the window of whatever table I get in a restaurant, so I can look after my gear) and he comes in.

Jono is trying to make it to Chico, California in time for his midterms. He has already ridden from Bandon today, and will continue on to Brookings. That's three days by my schedule. He's pulling up to 100 miles a day... and he's totally loopy.

We are laughing about food, and about how all of our likes and dislikes have faded away with the riding. I'm telling him that I didn't pick the celery out of salad the other night and he says"oh yeah... celery... I don't think I remember what that tastes like. I think I'm still on my bike." He looks like he's still moving on the inside... you can amost see the road disappearing underneath him... but he's chewing a burger. There's just this rythym about him.

Lunch is fun, and we both give Basil our information for the photographs. Who knows! Maybe my picture will pop up in The Times. That would be kind of neat. If it does... someone grab a clipping for me? Thanks.

Basil heads out with Jono to get shots of him heading up Cape Sebastian... the biggest hill on the Oregon coast... that I have been dreading for days. I settle up my end of the bills awhile after they leave, and head to the Turtle Rock RV Resort and Campgrounds for the night.

I had never been to a private campground, and I had no idea how expensive they were. The woman feels sorry for me... I'm sitting on the sidewalk trying to figure out where else I can camp, too tired to head over the big hill, and hating the idea of going backwards. She gives me a hefty discount, and I tent down.

They have great showers. The woman told me they were great, but I didn't think much of it. There are two shower heads, at opposite sides of the tub. The waters get really hot, and the water pressure is great. These are little pleasures. I enjoyed a long, hot shower, cooked up some grains for a late snack, played my guitar for the stars, and went to bed.

Woke up in the rain, and broke done my tent by the bathrooms, getting everything as dry as I could. I started to ride into town to get breakfast and my chain came off the track... I thought... but then I looked, and no, my chain was broken. It was sitting in the road a few feet behind me.

I sat and worked it out, got the chain back on... but I put it on wrong.
I sat and worked it out, got the chain back on... but I put it on wrong. Again.
I sat and worked it out, got the chain back on... but I put it on wrong. Again. and Again.

I gave up and walked to a cafe with my bike, covered in grease, looking like a mechanic, but with half the know-how.

I sat and had lunch, and tried to call the bike shop in the next town. The lady in the cafe helped me out... I was using the wrong area code. A couple of us in the cafe mulled over my problem, trying to figure out which way the chain threads on my bike. Then we came up with a solution.

Then I put the chain on.
Wrong.
Again.

Sigh. One. Last. Try.

And off I go. Finally my bike is working properly again, and it is way too late in the day for me to make my full days ride. The gears are acting funny still, a little worse now, and there is this strange sound. I can't. however, bring myself to abandon the big hill. I had been dreading this hill, so I had to conquer it. I set out to do so, with my funny sound, and my not-quite-right shifting.

800 feet straight up over about 4 miles. I made it without stopping. I remember just a little while back, coming over that 700 ft climb on the coastal range bewteen Portland and the coast... I remember how many times I had to stop, and how my legs felt like they were crying lactic acid. Not this time!!! I rode and rode, moving along slow but steady, and I never even felt like I wanted to quit. It is so cool to feel how my body is changing on this trip. It felt so amazing to get over that hill.

Coming down the hill was a whole other story. Kind of terrifying. It comes down so fast, and I was getting up so much speed.... and there is so much wind out there on the coast. I felt like the wrong wind could send me sailing, so I rode my brakes the whole way down, praying a little under my breath... "Dear Sweet Universe, please keep my wheels underneath me..." My breaking muscles started to hurt even, and I think I have some new muscle groups starting to get a workout. My downhill muscles. You would think that would be the easy part.

After the hill, it was obvious my bike was still in poor health. Having done what I had set out to do, I hitched to the bike shop in Brookings.

Guess what... my chain was on wrong. I got it close enough to make it work, but one little piece was threaded wrong, making my bike sound like "a corn grinder..." according to the mechanic. He worked on my brakes, and lubed my cables, and tried to solve my shifting problems, all for a couple of bucks. My gears are about 90 percent accurate now, which is a hell of a lot better than before.

I caught an AA meeting in town when I got to Brookings, and then hoofed it 3 miles backwards to the Harris Beach State Park Campgrounds. Despite the rain, I can't imagine a prettier place to fall asleep, or to wake up.

I had an unusual experience, and I don't know how far into it I can get right now... but one of my old clients was camped next to me in the park. Some of you know I worked with homeless youth this past year in Portland. I hadn't seen this kid for a long time, and can't say I ever knew him very well. We were talking in the dark as I set up camp, because I had come in after dark, and it took awhile before we realized we knew eachother. Then suddenly he said "Damn, I know a Malcolm from Portland...." and I hear it dawn on him.

I am camping in my tent, with my fancy gear and my cozy set up. He cooks me a cup of tea over a campfire, with an old teakettle he is hauling around. He has his dog with him, and sleeps under the picnic table with a tarp. He tore a hole in his tent awhile back. He doesn't complain.

I have a lot more thoughts to gather about this moment, and certainly more to say, but not right now. It was hard... saying goodbye this morning. He's complimenting my gear, and my set up.... and I catch myself feeling ashamed at all the money I was able to put into this trip. I checked the weather for him, for his trip back to Seattle. He's heading north, thinking about going home to "be responsible" but kind of flitting around trying to avoid the weather....

"Maybe I should go south..."
I imagine a bird that missed an important migration, disoriented.

I will say, that I made it 27 miles today in the pouring rain. It took every tiny ounce of moxy I had to not hitch-hike today. I didn't give up. I got my sea legs. I didn't want to lose two days to the storm, and I didn't. I might take tomorrow off, but we'll see how the storm is coming along. For now I've treated myself to a hotel that has laundry, and a business center (where I am right now), and a bathtub. I crossed the California border 18 miles back, and I am celebrating. I can't believe I crossed state lines today. On my bike. It feels pretty cool. Especially since the guy at the agricultural checkpoint looked at me, all dripping wet and waved me through saying... "You're tougher than me!"

I do feel pretty tough. Tough, and lucky, amoung other things.

Sending Love,
xoxo Malcolm