I was glad to have spent the night in the same safe and reliable field as the night before. This time the mosquitoes were a bit of a problem. I know how they operate. (1) They use infrared vision to find the heat signature of warm blooded birds and mammals at night. (2) They use a very sensitive chemical analysis of the air to follow the carbon dioxide (CO2) exhaled by animals of all kinds. (3) They also use similar olfactory cells located around their mouth parts to hone in on body odor (and conversely also the fragrance in deodorant). Since I was the producer of all three of these things that night, they saw the free all-you-can-eat buffet served fresh on a green tarp.
I countered this with questionable effectiveness, by getting in the sleeping bag, but still had my dumbass head sticking out. I tried several times to zip all the way around my head, with only a breathing hole (like I did on frosty nights during the Manifest Destiny journey). But it was just too hot and sticky. A mosquito net has been added to the couple dozen items on the wishlist. I killed more than the ones that got away. But it is just another stressor when all I really needed to do was sleep. The other thing I understood was that mosquitoes are usually most active at dusk and dawn. The cool of the night slows them down, and eventually - once I cooled off and stopped sweating - the biting diminished, until the dawn brought them back. I rose, packed up quickly and was out of there by 6:00 am.
I remembered from the map that I must have been close to the intersection where I made my wrong turn. And, this time I knew good and damn well what to do when I reached it. Along the way, I was impressed again by the miles and miles of blackberry bushes, frequently going off to the side of the road to gather fist-fulls of the sweet fruit. I was hungry and needed sugar energy. My water was almost gone and I had 20 miles to cover yet. I knew what the likely consequences of this gorging would be. But, again, I couldn't help myself. When you're hungry and food is available in such quantities, you eat...
Tempted by the fruit.
I got to the fabled intersection with Route 99 and went the right way this time. This is a really nice walk, if anyone is ever interested in a day hike through the Rogue River basin. Here are some images from the 15 miles I walked, through Gold Hill and up to Rogue River (the town)...
First stage cement processing plant.
Geese taking a break and posing for the backpacked paparazzi.
Oregon white oak (Quercus garryana); a tree I've affectionately nicknamed "the craggly oak,"
because of its rough appearance. These usually have patches of moss further living up to my label.
I can understand this message. But, since I am now in a "legal" state I find it funny too.
Where Interstate 5 and Route 99 come close together.
This land owner made "V"s in his fence--this one having fallen open a bit.
[Later I discovered they weren't "V"s, but boards to tighten the wire in the fence.]
[Later I discovered they weren't "V"s, but boards to tighten the wire in the fence.]
Typical view along the way. Could be a road in Cumberland, Maine.
I've been trying to think of a way to describe why I feel more comfortable here in Oregon than I was in California. Naturally, its similarity to Maine in plant life (rather than the Mediterranean and semi-tropical environs of California) makes it more familiar to me. The alpine aspects of the foothills and small mountains, the evergreens and deciduous hardwoods, the fields and two story farmhouses--for some reason appeal to me more than the thousands of transplanted species found in California, all watered and kept alive artificially.
This is not how I thought I would feel. I was so blown away when Patrick McNelly drove me around the hills of Fullerton, in Southern California, for the first time. I had been so long in the deserts of New Mexico and Arizona, that to see such a botanical paradise as was found in California (especially for a plant lover like myself) was an almost mystical experience for me.
But - and this is the odd part - after spending time in the East Bay region and valleys of Northern California (for six months), all the amazing varieties of plants and prolific flowers, fruit and nut trees, got tiring for me. It was like an overload--too intense.
Yes, the beauty was outstanding, yet the millions of miles of subterranean irrigation, the fact that no one took care of their own plants (I heard one stupid woman say to her equally pretentious and pampered, sprayed-on tan friend, "Landscaping? Gardening? No way! That's why God created Mexicans!"), the lack of rain and the subsequently ultra-soft, highly processed drinking and reclaimed water, the sharp, hard gravel (there is no black soil as in New England), and that constant sun, pounding heat and ultraviolet light at the ground like a punishment... Maybe I'm just too old now to get used to all of that?
Complementing this synthetic "natural" environment, were the hordes of upper-middle class people who, like the plants around them, looked beautiful on the outside, while they secretly judged each other's material fitness every single day, ran from conflict rather than facing it, and simply lacked the fortitude and genuine sincerity of, for example, Midwesterners. Of course, there were very, very kind and Real people (the friends I've spoken of here many times).
I came to the West Coast with a real desire to learn if my childhood fantasies about a natural sanctuary of free-thinking people was accurate. Final analysis? Yes, IF you like your beauty so thinly worn that one scratch reveals the same mediocrity and insecurity as anyone else in the nation--maybe more so. Many Californians have been spoiled by being the result of generations burdened by over-much comfort, and utterly lack the ability to deal with serious struggle (both environmentally and socially). Livermore-Steve (you have to look for past references of him here--it isn't worth my time to link to them) was the quintessential example of what I'm talking about.
There seems to be only the most distorted and cursory understanding of the difference between excess and frugality. Steve, for example, thought that being frugal meant eating one of his 3 full meals a day at home. He left his sprinklers on a small patch of grass for two days straight, turning it into a swampy, muddy mess; a $5,000 fine-worthy offense in a state dying from a long drought. This is the kind of grab-what-you-can, for mostly appearance sake, while you talk fast and smile your way through any embarrassing questions; questions that rarely arise since all your friends are doing the same thing.
The backpack was feeling really heavy now on my shoulders. The blue foam noodles I'd duct-taped to my straps way back on the road to Petaluma were wearing thin and digging into my shoulders. I stopped at the bridge that led into Gold Hill to see what I could do to alleviate the situation. By tightening and shortening the straps, I was able to get the pack to ride higher on my back, partially held up by the base of my spine. This was a great improvement. I'd walked with it mis-positioned for over 50 miles in the last 2 days and the adjustment made the difference I needed to keep going on through the morning...
I would vote for a $500 MINIMUM fine for any cell phone use at all while driving.
But maybe I am just jaded from almost being killed a couple times
last week because of this irresponsible and immoral behavior?
The bridge to Gold Hill.
The beautiful Rogue River.
I assumed this was the "Gold Hill" of the town's namesake?
Right after going over the bridge, a man in a Ford Taurus pulled over and offered me a ride. I thought I'd already reached the day's destination, so appreciatively turned it down.
Then, I learned that Gold Hill was cute, but unspectacular. It consisted of a one mile stretch (Route 99) as a kind of Main Street, with no general store. I was thirsty and hungry, but the only restaurant that was open there had a line of people down the sidewalk waiting to get a table. I passed it by.
Having planned to stay there the night, before actually seeing the place, it was now easy to make the decision to keep going. There were two more towns I knew I would run into before Grants Pass (Rock Point and Rogue River). I thought I might find an alternate feeding and watering source in one of them...
Leaving Gold Hill.
The main tourist trap in the area. I'd never heard of it. Researching later, I found out more.
Interesting, but not THAT interesting.
On the town line with Rock Point, I found this deceivingly encouraging sign outside one of the riverside properties. I say "encouraging" because I thought it would actually BE a town, with things like stores, etc... It wasn't...
Another interesting thing about these riverside properties was the enormous lengths people went to, to keep others out. I learned why from a guy who offered me a ride, in Rogue River. They are cannabis growers--licensed dispensary suppliers. I saw one guy's small ranch-like house, surrounded by a huge, thick wooden wall, with "No Trespassing," "24 Hour Surveillance" and "Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again!" signs alternately nailed into it.
Finally, after what was becoming a hotter and longer hike as the sun rose, I recognized the hills I'd seen on Google Maps Street View, indicating that I would soon be in Rogue River...
Coming closer to Rogue River.
A gravel processing plant conveniently located right below its own quarry.
Just as I began to glimpse the buildings of Rogue River, a little, old-school, convertible Jeep passed me, and immediately pulled over. A shirtless man a few years older than I, asked if I wanted a ride into town. Thinking he meant Rogue River, I said, "Sure!" But he was going even further, all the way to Grants Pass!
I put my pack in the back and climbed into the passenger's seat, buckling up and happy to be off my feet. He introduced himself as Ernie, and he was a hoot. Originally from Santa Cruz, he moved up here when the life there became irritating. I'd seen the fishing rod in the back, and figured he'd been enjoying the morning fishing.
I asked him how his day was going and he said, "Great, until the worms fell out of my pocket somewhere!" He talked about the fishing around this area. I know about saltwater fishing, but have not done a lot in fresh water. I asked him if he caught fish to eat or release. He said he did both. He said he could always catch enough to eat--I believe he said he caught 8 rainbow trout that day, so releasing could be done after he got his fill.
As we passed various places, he told little stories about each. I learned a lot just listening to him. We drove past a nearly dry part of the river. He said it used to be more like a lake until they blew the dam. The houses we saw along the bank once had docks that would now be about 12 feet above the water level. The problem was, as he explained, that now the salmon run straight through each year instead of meeting the bottleneck of the dam area where they could have been caught. Secondarily this allowed all the "trash fish" to enter the river.
It didn't take us long to reach the Grants Pass town line, and Ernie pointed out the small mid-river island, telling me "...the bums have taken over there!" He used to fish along the banks but the homeless began to congregate there to camp, making it inaccessible to fishing. I'm glad he told me about that, because I might have sought it out as a place to rough camp, but wouldn't have enjoyed sharing it with too many others.
He asked me where I was going, and I let him know that anywhere near the chain restaurants would be fine. I had to charge the laptop and do a bunch of work. So, he drove me to McDonald's and we said goodbye. It was great to shave a day of my planned trip to Grants Pass. I'd lost 10 days, basically for nothing, in Redding, California and any time I could make up was time well-appreciated.
As is typical for the McDonald's in the West, this one had no outlets. I got online for a short amount of time and touched base, also starting my post for the day and searching for coffee shops or cafes that might have outlets. It was Sunday, and disappointingly, the local library was closed. Even worse, it was closed on Mondays too. So, unless I found a solution to my power problems, I'd be shit-out-of-luck until Tuesday. I located Starbucks at the Safeway. It was a place to start.
Memorizing the streets that I would need to take, I set off into the 100°+ F afternoon. It took exactly one block to feel the drips running down the sides of my face, and the sweat soaking into my hat. Starbucks was a disappointment, being just a counter with no seating. I asked if they had another location. The guy behind the counter said they did but it didn't have Wi-Fi either. Apparently, only the corporate stores have Wi-Fi. He did suggest a place down SE G Street, called Rogue Roasters. He was sure they had outlets. It was a lead.
I walked several blocks and entered the narrow building. It was Sunday, and apparently they were the only cafe open in town. In fact, nearly all of the businesses were closed for Sunday. I hadn't seen that since before reaching California.
Rogue Roasters was packed. People who had obviously been there all day were leisurely tapping away on their various devices, all of them plugged in. I'd bought a coconut water, thinking I would nurse it there. But it was not to be--not yet...
Exasperated, and already overheated, I walked back out into the oven of the street, resolving to return within an hour to check on outlets again. There was little to do but walk and take pictures...
I loved this!
Every town and city has a unique motif. Here, is was bears in various poses.
Naturally, there is always a slogan...
I saw a sign for the library and figured I'd at least check it out so I'd know its location. I walked, and walked, and walked--no library. Somehow I'd messed up or missed a sign? On the long and frustrated way back to the center of town, I passed a closed beauty shop with an AC exposed in the back alley. I slithered through the alley and plugged the laptop in. It began charging and thought myself pretty clever, until... A neighbor appeared in his tiny front lawn, staring me. Shit!
Hoping he would just go inside, I stood in front of the backpack, with the cord running up and into the outlet. It takes about 3 hours to fully charge it, and there was no way that was going to happen. When it runs completely out, it won't even start up until about 10 minutes have passed.
So, I disconnected and walked back into town to check if there was an extra outlet at Rogue Roasters. there was. I nervously bought an iced coffee. I'd already had a coffee in the early morning and I can't handle too much. It makes me irritable, uncomfortable and anxious. Still, it was the cheapest thing there. Settling at the table, I plugged in and immediately worked on my half-done post. They had a nice fast connection and the pictures uploaded quickly. Because, again, it was Sunday, they closed at 4:00 pm. At 3:59 I clicked "Post" at the blog and stuffed my now fully-charged computer into the backpack.
The folks at this place are super attentive, very friendly and not as bourgeois (pronounced "BOO-zhee" in this context), like some cafes I've been to. Of course it was a mix of middle-aged and young people. The older folks were as "in the know" as the younger. In fact, they alternated playing chess together--young vs. old. It was comfortable and I was determined to come back the next day if needed.
The temp had fallen a few degrees to...
I headed back toward the chain restaurant area, stopping by McDonald's again to get out of the heat and download pictures from my camera SD card. When the power on the laptop fell to about half, I left and began my search for another place with outlets, passing this really cool tree. It was a mirabelle plum tree, with a table grape vine all twisted around it and heavily producing fruit (though still not ripe yet)...
Wandering around and also scoping out possible sleeping spots, I unintentionally ended up walking the entire perimeter of the eastern part of town...
Love it when this happens... NOT.
Uncomfortable and looking for distractions to ease it, I stumbled across this water conservation project...
Agave as a root water holder.
The flower spike and large seed pods of a yucca.
One woman went from doorway to doorway trying to open the locked doors, until the Sheriff drove by and slowed down near her, at which point she straightened up and walked forward down the sidewalk, occasionally looking back over her shoulder at him.
A couple of 20 somethings - male and female - smoked a pipe of something that wasn't weed. Then, she, a pretty brunette, staggered into the middle of the road, pulled down her already short shorts and adjusted her thong underwear as if she were standing in the middle of a private dressing room. He had gone over to a group of similarly tattooed and pierced fellows making some kind of deal, and then returned to his girl who had parked herself on the curb, head up toward the sky soaking in the reflected light of the steadily gathering evening clouds of orange and pink. He reached out, she took his hand and they disappeared down an ally, happy and singing the Extreme song, "More Than Words."
I liked this because of the cat.
It was not a long walk to the area I'd been interested in. The only tricky part was blending into the shadows. The unfenced off-ramp of Interstate 5 had a few small trees and pine cone covered flat areas. I wasn't overly choosy, but still settled on the second of three possible spots. I was adjacent to the Holiday Inn, but conveniently hidden behind a hedgerow. Since it was an off-ramp, cars could only go from the freeway into town, and not the other way around. Blocking their view was another bigger bush. I was open to the ramp itself a bit, but drivers were neither looking for nor caring about that area. It would work. And if need be, I could probably spend several nights there, as long as I was careful.
The tarp went down, the sleeping bag was rolled out, and I sat down--finally, in my own private space. The night was still soupy and overly warm, but within about an hour, a very cool blanket of air settled over the ramp. I fell asleep on top of the sleeping bag, but woke about a half hour later to what sounded like a dog leash out on the ramp. I turned over and slipped my glasses on to see the silhouette of a tall man with a huge backpack on. He stood there, I think wondering what I was. Then, he continued on down the ramp toward town. I believe he had actually walked the freeway.
Content that he would not be a problem, I slipped back to sleep.
Grants Pass Sleeping Spot
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