A Living Magazine - Day 53 - Not Exactly Graceful

In the middle of the night I had gotten up and turned the sleeping bag around so that the slight incline made my feet lower than my head. After that, I didn't sleep that well, only getting some sleep for the last two hours. Even though it didn't bother me during the walk to Oregon City, I was stewing over money again. I had all these plans for Portland, but didn't know whether I'd be able to even buy a water once I got there.

My clothes were disgustingly dirty. So, I needed to do a wash and dry. At some point I wanted to take a shower--even get a room for one night once the Portland work was done. The sleeping bag had a constant wet spot down near the feet from condensation that didn't dry each day (because of being stuffed into the sealed backpack), and thus needed to be washed too. All of these things cost money. Just to use Wi-Fi anywhere but the library cost the price of a water or snack. The anxiety over money was by far the biggest thing that negatively effected my ability to sleep.

This work that I'm doing needs 24 hour attention. There isn't time to go around towns asking if I can rake leaves or something. I cannot do both. A few days earlier one of the people who is a "friend" at Facebook, but doesn't read the blog, asked me why I "...don't *work* like other people do." Nothing upsets me more than this question. [For the future, if you are wondering about this same thing, I encourage you to unfriend me, instead of asking.] All of this swirled around in my brain as soon as I woke up, just as it had when I went to sleep. My last resort plan was to simply go and do as much as I could no matter how much money I didn't have, until I could do nothing more. 

I knew that I faced a cascade of problems if I completely ran dry of funds. I wouldn't be able to keep the laptop charged on a regular basis, would not be able to use Wi-Fi unless I sneaked next to businesses to piggy back on their signals. But that is no way to spend 4-5 hours writing. I'm a worrier. And, I was worried.

I did very much look forward to the twelve-mile walk ahead of me into Portland. Walking is a meditative and freeing experience. When I'm walking I feel like I'm doing exactly what I should be. It is an act of innocence. By that, I mean that nothing feels wrong about it. Sometimes if I'm sitting somewhere I get antsy and feel that I should be "doing something". When I walk, I don't feel that there is anything better, more important, nor more productive that I could be doing.

So, I hit the road. Most of the trek was urban or suburban. There were no long stretches, before Portland, where I was unable to stop if I needed water or a rest. Plenty of stores, restaurants and gas stations were there to tempt me, should I need tempting. Low budgets have a way of controlling temptation. About six miles into it, I reached the the very edge of Portland. Here are some first impressions...

Some make an imprint, and some want to.

Now, here's the thing... I screw up all the time, navigating. I saw a sign for a frontage road, but at the time I thought it referred to Interstate 5. It actually referred to the road I was on--99E. So, I avoided it. My mistake only became apparent after another mile. The sidewalk disappeared, then the shoulder. There was a breakdown lane, but with traffic coming up behind me at a high rate of speed, that became a dangerous prospect. It sucked. The only alternative now was to walk along the rough, grassy, trash-strewn line of trees to my right...

Ah, trash! I felt at home again.

This madness went on for at least three miles. It reminded me of my walk into Salem, Missouri, months ago. I knew I was in the town's borders, but just getting into the town itself seemed never-ending. Finally, I reached a road that led off of 99E. And, I was rewarded for my trouble with a delicious bunch of seedless table grapes from a vine growing over the sidewalk. They were really satisfying. I ate them like one might eat a corn cob--just held it to my mouth and chomped away...

I was in the southeastern end of Portland on Route 26, and able to see the downtown area across the river...

I resolved to stop at the first place I saw to buy the day's meal. I was hoping it would be a Subway, but it ended up being a Jack in the Box. Whatever... I got a cheeseburger and fries. I had not been feeling very good and the meal really recharged me...

Once I'd eaten and gone online to look for the nearest library (which was located on Cesar E. Chavez Street), I Googled the best route and drew a map that I could use on the way over. Most of the way led me along Hawthorne (the area is called "The Hawthorne District"); a street that reminded me of 16th Street in San Francisco. It was lined with cafes, pubs, specialty stores, second hand shops and lots of interesting people...

Too bad Bernie never had a chance to speak. Apparently the event was commandeered by a "Black Lives Matter" protest. Ironically, Bernie probably has THE clearest vision for how to transform our economy into one where black people could achieve what they have desired for so long.

And, then there was the Portland Hostel...

I looked into the rates later that day. Bunk rooms were about $30 and singles were about $60 (comparable with a motel room). People often suggest finding hostels when I need a break from the road. It has gotten to be kind of a cliche suggestion. But, honestly, I just don't think they're worth it. They are usually booked solid (as this one was) with trendy, traveling, college students who are looking for a social environment. When I get a room it is because I want to be alone, wash my clothes, do my work; not sit around and listen to kids play songs incorrectly on the guitar, and use the word, "like", in-like every sentence.

Looking down Hawthorne Boulevard toward the bridge.

Ha!

The library was tiny; two large rooms and a meeting room. And, it was filled to the hilt with people. I decided not to stay, and walked back to a Starbucks, bought an ice coffee (my second coffee of the day) and worked on the day's post. I had $5 left, with about $4.00 in small change. Despite the fact that coffee isn't a "need", it certainly helps me energize (though, briefly), but more importantly it abates hunger. I worked really hard to get the post done, but kept being delayed by one thing or another. I even got a refill. I NEVER do that. Usually, I'm very sensitive to caffeine and if I have too much I get irritable and uncomfortable. This day though, it did what it was supposed to do--kept me awake. 

Before I knew it, I was the last person there, the patient baristas were sweeping up and washing down the tables. I asked what time they closed. The young man said, "eight o'clock..." It was 8:05 pm. This was a typical Oregon moment for me. I was the one in the way, but the staff was too polite to say anything. I apologized, gathered my stuff up and left without having published my post. Oh well... It would have to wait until the next day.

Using Google Earth, I had located nearby potential sleeping places across the bridge, somewhere along the riverbank. So, I headed down Hawthorne, and then across the Hawthorne bridge...

By the time I was walking on the pathways around the upscale hotels and restaurants of the west bank, it was nice and dark out. There was quite bohemian feeling there. A group of people was practicing a play--which I watched for a while. Others were playing guitars, singing, smoking, toking and generally enjoying each other's company. When I got to the end of the walkway, there was a small path that led down to the beach. There were already a few people sleeping there. I tiptoed as quietly as one can on a pebble beach, around them, over a large culvert and up onto an completely empty spot.

I was overjoyed at finding it. There was a large hill behind me, a tarp-like barrier in front of me, and thick plants on either side. Lying down, I was invisible. Sitting up, this was my view...

Here is the set up...

Assuming that I might be able to sleep in, I stayed up thinking. I was especially tired, having a deficit of sleep to pay off from the night before. Still I took the extra time to think out my plans, and perhaps to rationalize all the other issues that were dogging me the night before. Around midnight, I drifted off.

I felt good, and was dreaming about something relaxing, when suddenly it was as if a bucket of water were thrown over me! I sprung up. Everything had been doused. Thankfully, I always keep my backpack pockets zipped now. That's the rule, take out what I need and zip; put the thing back, and zip. I was so confused. There had only been a 2% chance for rain forecast. 

Then, I heard the dreadful sound of several large sprinklers slowly turning on the top of the hill above me. Shit! I worked at an insane rate to get everything bundled into my arms, but it was too late. The next deluge hit. I was angry, but also laughing at just how many gifts Murphy's Law was "blessing" me with. I did step over the barrier and on to the rough beach, before the next blast hit. I was frazzled and didn't know what to do. The sleeping bag was wet on the outside, but not inside. The tarp was mostly unaffected, with it being just damp. I was really over-tired at this point, and would have slept anywhere, just to sleep.

As I contemplated my next move, another blast hit me! I was still too close to the grassy bank. Looking like a pathetic sea creature, dragged out of the water, towing some kind of soaked blue and green material behind me, I moved closer to the water. The pebbles were smaller there. I didn't care how the ground felt. I was determined to get a couple more hours of sleep. I turned the tarp inside out, where the surface was relatively dry still. Then, I spread out the sleeping bag, dabbed myself off as well as I could with the extra pile of restaurant napkin supply that I always try to have on hand, and crawled in. I warmed up immediately, and tried to get comfortable enough to sleep, pushing my hips and shoulders into the pebbles, to create indents in the beach below.

I was teetering on the edge of sleep, when I felt something cold on my heel and toes. No!! I'd forgotten that the river had a tide. I sat up in the slapping waves of about four inches of water. Now I was past anger, and moving deeply into hopeless resignation. I pulled all my stuff out of the water, dragging it up closer to the bank again. The sprinklers were done with their thing, so I just stood there, wondering what my next brilliant idea might lead to. As I did, I looked where I had been on the beach and saw the hat I'd had with me since walking to Salem, Missouri, floating away. I said, "Goodbye hat, and thank you." It was about 2:30 am. I simply gave up the idea of sleeping, and planned out what I would NOW have to spend the day doing--laundry.

Sitting on a large boulder, I peeled off my wet socks, dried out my shoes with napkins, and when my feet were dry enough, put on a new pair of socks. Good thing I'd bought the six-pack! I was cold, hungry, broke, sleepless and moving toward depression. With all of my experience and a good amount of intelligence, I was still making major fuck-ups. I consoled myself by thinking that someday I would no longer be able to have these days of adventure. I knew that, in those future days, I would look back - even on this debacle - and smile. This made me smile right then, involuntarily.

Portland Sleeping Place 1 (Attempt)