Portland and beyond

I was sorry to leave fallen leaf, well aware the city would seem a shock after a full week in the mountains. We said our goodbyes over lunch in the nearest town, even this felt a little alien after the peace of the cabin. I rode the amtrak to Portland eager to spend a few days in Powells, the worlds largest bookstore – it occupies a whole city block, 600 x 600 feet, on four floors.

For nostlgias sake I chose to stay in the same hippy hostel on Hawthorne.

I was placed in the same room, again quite by chance – though this time in the bed my comanion had slept in on the last trip.

There was to be a book reading on Powells top floor, a romance novel about entheogenic plants, a subject I have always been fascinted by. I asked if there were any questions she would like asked, it is often reassuring to know at least one person in the audience will ask something you can speak at length about. Though I doubt silence ever follows a reading, it is a fear the debut novelist could do without.

She read aloud a description of the production on sensimelia, a potent type of marijuana produced by mistreating the plant, and keeping males far from her, so in frustration her colitas engorge and become sticky with trichomes in the hope of receiving pollen. I had tingles hearing it, I had always considered MJ is a very feminine herb in every sense, but never thought to use such racy verbage to describe the herbage.

She signed a copy of her book for my lovely writer friend from Oz and gave me her email to post some of my own experiences....

Powells is a great resource, particularly for my writings on improvisation, after two full days there I came away with 25lbs of books that eventually got posted home. It is hard to beleive the post office was closed on a saturday.

Readers will know I am not much of a fan of hostels, prefering to stay with locals or camping out. I tend to use them on the first day in a new city, or if I have spent a long time staying with someone and fancy a fairly anonymous time. It is nice to feel one is not in somebody elses space, and free to roll in late. In the West they are an expensive option, I do not know how people manage to afford long trips staying in them exclusively.

I have not been traveling on an absolute shoestring, a bottle of wine, a jar of preserve and picking up the occasional lunch tab or grocery bill for someone kind enough to offer sofa or floor space is something I am pleased to do, and still costs less than a night in a dorm bed and queue for the shower.

The people I have couchsurfed with are a self selected group of people who share similar values, I wonder if that will continue as the phenomenon becomes more widespread. Most of these people buck the dominant trend in not having a television, they love cooking and have travelled widely themselves. We have all it seems spent a large amount of time sleeping on friends sofas long before the www.couchsurfing.com network was created.

From the hostels now free internet service I sent out a number of requests, and got a prompt response from one member living within walking distance of the hostel. She was very busy, working 12 hour shifts and moving house, but very kindly offered me a place to roll out my sleeping mat and left the door open for me!

On my last trip to Portland my travelling companion remarked that they must have but Prozac in the water as everyone seemed so cheerful. There are towns that seem to get things right, and this is one of them – they are places where people have chosen to relocate, are easily accessable on foot or by bicycle and have many locally run enterprises.

I felt a bit funny entering a strangers empty home. It was tastefully decorated with my hosts own paintings and wall hangings from India; looking over her extensive bookshelves I recognised so many familiar titles we were sure to have a lot in common. She did not have a mobile, so I answered the telephone, wondering if she was trying to contact me. It was one of her friends, when I explined I was a couchsurfer, his fond description of her made me feel even more at ease. He was ringing to invite her for an art walk I had heard about.

Though it sounded fascinating it felt rude to arrive late at night so I rolled out my mat on the floor and began reading one of my many purchases from Powells. I awoke as she came through the door, greeting me with such warmth, quick wit and infectious love of life I felt charged – and understood how she could juggle so many comitments. The next evening as we packed her belongings up, we sang folk songs, a friend turned up to play guitar as she tackled the kitchen, who says moving has to be one of the most stressful times of life?

Last time in Portland I spent a wild time with folks who Andy from Dryad had met on an internet forum. He had asked for reccommendations for places to camp out, and potentially run bushcraft courses overseas. The majority had recommended Oregon, one larger than life character from Portland kindly offered to put us up on his floor and even to drive us way out into the woods.

We were both amazed by the friendship and generosity extended by him and his family. We had a blast drinking bourbon, eating deer and salmon he had caught, target shooting and camping out in pristene wilderness. The children were not at all like we had been led to beleive American youth were like – being courteous, interested, and unfazed by the arrival of two strange Welsh folk in their home.

I called Sean, hoping to catch him for a beer before heading north. Since we had last met he had not had a great deal of work, but had used the time to spend with the children, hunt and soup up his already rediculously powerful Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. We visited a number of dive bars in the area of town where he grew up, drinking strong black porter with bourbon chasers, and talking up a storm.

Despite the nights excesses he arrived at Leo's house in good shape ready for a days wheeling around the forests near Tilamook. In the company of a Mormon rock musician with a Toyota Landcruiser retrofitted with a powerful diesel and 39” tyres we tacked Airplane Hill. A steep ascent through trees over huge boulders, no photograph could do justice to the seeming impassability of the trail. Driving over the boulders required planning and great communication, I was glad to be able to enjoy the ride without that responsibility. When he let me have a go, driving the overeager beast between the trees and over potential diff hangers I understood his description “Terrifying at two miles an hour”!

We called in on one of our hosts oldest buddies and his familyAndy and I had met on out last trip. Dave's family had been in the Washington area for generations, a knowledge of which he shared as we retraced the cruising spots of his youth in his fathers 1957 fuel injected Corvettle, several shots of bourbon inside me, without seatbelts of course.

Though well educated and knowledgable in many fields my host has an uashamed redneck streak. We certainly undulged that side, changing the

His suburban – a huge 1980s family beast, the last of the metal dashed cars was now a $500 dollar truck he lamented.

“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 transmission in it. You know what you got?”

Answer “A $500 truck!”

“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 worth of tyres on it. You know what you got?”

.......

Sean and Dave worked under floodlights getting the huge transmission, power converter and shaft re-fitted in a spirit of affable companionship, while I worked the jack, found wrentches (spanners) and fetched cold beers.

The coming Forth of July weekend was set to be a scorcher, 90 plus farenheight in the city. The transmission fitted successfully we headed to the coast hoping to catch some sturgeon.

We caught three, I say three – I mostly slept, montion on the sea does funny things to people – to the extent that I beleive there is only one way to cure seasickness – and that is to sit under a tree. I have known people, who were totally comorttable in the worst rollers, wind against tide around landshead, loose all desire for survial evaporate on a right swell in the mediteranian. Clearly the motion, helmsmanship and conditions were perfect, I fell asleep soundly for much of the day.

Sean baited the trace with an anchovy, and whipped a live shimp to it. At anchor we ledged in the deeper holes, though fishing relatively shallow at thirty feet. Our target, the sturgeon is a royal fish in Britain, meaning any caught in UK waters have to be offered to the Queen. This one happened in Swansea, Wales.

The fisherman caught the huge fish, and telephones Buckingham Palace. A fax by return allowed the fisherman to keep his catch. The fish is a protected, and there was talk of a case being made against the fisherman. The valuable fish dissappeared before proceedings can begin. An interesting constitutional point, I wonder who got to eat it.

We were rewarded with three good sized specimens and a dungeoness crab. I had heard of these crabs, and had lond wanted to try one.

We only had one pot to boil the crab in, so we washed out the pee can we had been using for the week and set him on the barbeque. We took the grill out, upturned the flame speader and made a good seal with wet carboard and a breezeblocks. We put him on the last of the ice and looked forward to breakfast....