Hairy Luxury

Short Version:
Clean, fed, and watered, we soak in a hot pool, sleep like the dead, then hit a mobile human zoo before going feral again

Long Version:
Most people checking in to the Old St. Francis School Hotel probably don't look - or smell - quite so feral as we did. To his credit, the bloke at the front desk* took it in stride, and gave the impression of taking a shine to us. He gave us the facilities talk, and the art tour basics, and set us free to roam around and do stuff.

And boy, did we do stuff! We clogged their internets, and we showered**, and then we went to the front pub and we drank delicious beer and we ate delicious foods and then we repeated both of those things. In response to a slightly wishful-thinking question, our helpful serverman*** told us we were not allowed to take glass into the soaking pool, nor alcoholic beverages, but suggested that if we were to pour our recently-purchased pitcher of brewed-on-the-premises delicious Terminator Stout into the handy, opaque paper cups he just happened to have lying around, nobody in a position of rule-enforcement would be any the wiser vis our nefarious activities. And he was mainly right, as the challenge, when it came, came from front-desk* man, and consisted of a smiling "That's water in those cups, right?"

A mumbled reply saved us from outright lies in the pursuit of libation, and we were soon making our circuitous way past two separate outdoor smoker-banishment areas, one theatre-pub, and one busy bar to the soaking pool, which was Turkish-styled, with tiled frescoes on the walls, a fountain in the middle, and stone lion-things spouting water from their mouths. Oh, and a skylight open to the stars.

It was very cool, but was almost the scene of a horrific occurrence; I realised just as I started to remove my hotel robe that when we'd gone back to our room to change from fashionable**** out-in-public clothing to swimwear-under-hotel-robes, I'd neglected to complete the transition, and was, in fact, not wearing anything under the hotel robe. Which suddenly felt awfully flimsy and hospital-gown-revealment-inclined as I scuttled back through the bars, and the corridors, and past the women who said I was cute and tried to peek under my robe, and eventually to the Dolores Friberg Room*****, which has, I`m sure, never been quite such a welcoming sanctuary as it was for me that night. Finally, pants were mine! I almost stopped at the bar on the way back to the pool, such was my newfound chutzpah. Instead, I slipped into the pool area, conducted one final make-sure-there-are-pants check, picked up my paper cup and stepped into the pool, and into bliss. Nene was already zoned-out on how awesome the hot water felt on sore muscles, and it didn`t take me long to catch up. Before long, though, the warm water on top of the hardcoreness of the day had us drowsy, so back to Dolores Friberg we trundled, and into the enormous bed, where we both crashed, near-instantly, and slept past the alarm I`d set for the morning`s mass hot-air balloon launch.

When we did arise, there was a flurry of activity, mainly from Janine, who`s planning our Mexico trip. Eventually she tired of the whining, and we went and ate delicious foods, then she did some more planning while I made some sneaky feral-preparations in cahoots with the morning front-desk* guy, who was only a few months into a 'normal' lifestyle, having lived free in the woods for the last couple of years.

All-too-soon it was time for one last pool soak before checkout and then we were paying our bill and hauling our crap to the van. Set off - in the SUN! - to see the town, and walked straight into the Team USA - World Beard and Moustache Championships Procession. We just about died from the sheer awesomeness; hundreds of fantastically-bearded and -moustachioed men (and a few women) parading through the city centre en route to the (massive!) convention centre, where the competing and judging - by Miss USA herself, no less! - and all-night partying was to take place. We tagged along, massive grins alternating with wonderment on our faces as the fluidity of the procession brought an ever-changing spectacle of hirsuteness before our wandering eyes. Before long, we`d walked a mile in their company, and were a-thirsting. Luckily, `twas the day of good things happening to those who are clean, and 'our' parade ran headlong into the Balloons Over Bend Festival, where we found a) a place to stop, and rest a while, and photograph the beards as their caretakers paraded them past us, b) refreshments, and c) delicious hot sauce in a bottle, which we purchased from a cheerful blind negro man******.

All bearded out and hot-sauced-up, we meandered back to the van, drove out to the woods via a laundromat with free wi-fi and a by-the-slice pizzeria next-door. Pitched our tent in an isolated spot and slept like logs til late the next morning.


* = Which was kind of at the side, and visible from the back, but not from the front.

** = probably clogged the drains, with the amount of forest and planet that came off us

*** = I've long been an opponent of tipping waitstaff, on the grounds that they're being paid already out of the moneys I'm already laying down for my drinking/dining experience; i.e. I'm already giving them moneys to service my needs. I'm starting to change my tune, though, as I'm exposed to the kind of service one receives when the amount of moneys the servitor receives is directly pinned to the type of service they provide.

**** = May not have been fashionable.

***** = Named for the school`s first secretary, who held the post for 25 or so years. The portrait in the room made her look like a very nice lady. From the photos we saw elsewhere in the complex, I think I`m glad we were in Dolores, and not in Father Luke.

****** = may not have been blind.

Janine's Thoughts on the McKenzie River Trail

- Muddy fun
- The forest was amazing
- The force of the river after the rain was crazy!
- Nick is cool
- Technical dream track
- Just when I'd had enough of the technical stuff, it switched to being flowy
- Nick is awesome
- In the dry, it would be stupidly fast, with lots of near-misses with trees
- I wish I was as cool as Nick

We Like the McKenzie River

Short version:
The McKenzie River trail is a must-do for anyone who likes to ride bikes in forests, and is fit enough to ride for a few hours. Seriously, go do it.

Long version:
Woke bright and early, apart from the bright part. I'd been awake off and on all night, what with the downpour going on outside and the random firearms discharges coming from somewhere to our northwest, and relatively close by. I'd not been much concerned when the first barrage was unleashed in the evening, but the sustained fire at 00:45 had me awake for a while, just in case I needed to go out in the rain in my underwear to face people who were blowing stuff to bits with a variety of weapons in the middle of the night. When I eventually went to sleep I woke repeatedly, for reasons I couldn't determine at the time but which turned out to have most likely been the rain that was falling inside the tent. On me. Not on Janine. I finally got to sleep properly at around the time we had to get up to break camp and go catch our shuttle. I blame sleep deprivation for looking the wrong way at the roundabout twenty feet from our destination and almost collecting the chap in the Jeep. Sorry, chap in the Jeep!

Loaded bikes onto the shuttle's roof and rear racks and piled in alongside two blokes from Vancouver Island and one from Alberta (Hi, Nelson, Paul and Garth!). Stopped at a town called Sisters for baked goods* and caffeine, then back on the road, over a couple of mountain passes and in to the trailhead for map briefing with driver Sarah**. And then we were off, in the pouring rain, blasting down muddy forest trails, loving every minute***.

Our first navigation responsibility transfer came after Janine directed us back up the eastern, difficult-riding side of Clear Lake after we'd ridden down the western, wetter-but-easier side. Cool to see the blatantly volcanic terrain - lava fields reminiscent of Rangitoto - and to ride some of the tough stuff, but adding 40 minutes to an already-lengthy expedition wasn't in the original plan. Second transfer came when I took us down to the Sahallie Falls instead of over the narrow bridge to the other side of the river. Not a major detour, and not only our Canadians but also the couple from Vancouver we met on our way back up to the bridge (Hi Callum and Nadia!) had made the same error. Nonetheless, error it was, and the map was back in Janine's hands, where it stayed for the rest of the journey.

And what a journey it was! The first half was a mix of flowing forest singletrack and technically challenging rockpiles and rooty sections, the second more of the former and pretty much none of the latter. Both parts had bridged stream-crossings galore, and a mix of climbing and descending, but the lower section was flatter overall. There were some sweeping descents in the upper section which had us grinning big, as did some of the successes we had on technical sections. The scenery was spectacular. The trail follows the river for much of its length, and the heavy rains of the last few weeks meant that the river was high, and powerful. One of its tributaries had broken its banks and co-opted a section of trail, which made for interesting riding.

Not sure the terrain change was responsible, but not far past the halfway point Janine passed me on an uphill, and was gone. I caught glimpses of her up ahead, getting sideways on muddy sections or leaning nonchalantly on trees, waiting for me to get back within visual contact. No chance of catching her - all my go was gone, and she somehow had energy to burn. Cow.

When we reached the lower trailhead, it was all-too-soon for our ride-loving brains, but not-soon-enough for my weary legs, arms and back****. We were walking mudpiles, so followed the Canadian example and strode into the river to rinse. It was a bit cold.

Warm, dry clothes donned, bikes and people loaded, back over the Santiam Pass we went. To Bend, to our weekly night of luxuriating in a luxurious place. With beer. And, this time, with beards...







* = No-one bought the Georgia O'Keefe pastry, but it was certainly eye-catching

** = Competitive XC racer now studying to be a teacher. Normally uses the time between drop-off and pick-up to get some riding in, but succumbed to rain- and imminent-test-pressure and studied in the shuttle instead

*** = Except maybe the minutes in which mud and other things were lodged in eyes. Those minutes were unloved, like orphans.

**** = Janine, of course, wanted to keep going.

Feral is Go!

Short Version:
Officially-sanctioned feralness and a fantastic - but cold - ride in the forest

Long Version:
Hit the 2000km mark for the trip, then arrived in Bend mid-afternoon on clean day and commenced bike-shop-hunting. Took a while, but we eventually found one, which turned out to have a super-helpful advicemonger on staff (Hi Nate @ Hutch's!). We left quite a while later with a map, ride recommendations, camp-spot suggestions, and directions to the other townside things we needed to hit before disappearing into the woods.

First of these we checked out was the Federal Ranger Station, where Jake the Ranger disabused my notions of Park Rangers as forest cops replete with mirror shades and attitudes. I left the Ranger Station armed with the knowledge that in any Federally-managed forest, dispersed camping is a valid option, except where otherwise stated. What that means is that we can, in any of the States of the Union, camp for free in National Forests*. That's pretty cool.

Next stop was Cog Wild (Hi Lev and Sarah!), where we booked ourselves onto the McKenzie River shuttle they had running on Friday, then Pine Mountain Sports, where we acquired disc golf discs and course info (Hi bearded guy whose name we never learned!), and on to Safeway, where I stole internet access while Janine purchased delicious foods.

While I sat in the Safeway parking lot, cursing the intermittent access drops, the sun came out. For about four minutes. This was a momentous occasion, as it was pretty much the first actual sunshine I'd seen since entering the United States. And, as it turned out, the last sunshine I'd see for another 42 hours. Locals have all taken great pains to assure us that the weather in this part of Oregon at this time of year is usually hot, and dry, and that we're actually lucky there's been so much late rain this year because the bike trails are normally dusty by now. This actually makes me feel better about the fact that it's been pissing down since we got here. Which is good, as the rain that fell the next two nights, in particular, was a total deluge, as was the rain that fell on us while riding each of the next two days.

The slightly sneaky feeling of dispersed camping** had us both mildly edgy, as did the alien pod things*** all around our campsite. Nothing worse than rain and bizarre dreams**** hit us overnight though, and we set off the next morning to ride some of the extensive and famed Phil's Trail network.

We'd camped near the bottom of Storm King, so we started up that one, past the tin-cans-on-a-stick marker and into the forest. The trail meandered around, swooping up and down, but generally trending uphill. I loved it. Janine fell off. Twice. My attempts at remedial advice were well-received. Honest.

By the time we reached the top end of Tiddlywinks (about 12.5 miles horizontally, and an elevation gain of 1500 feet) we were above the snow line, and as we exited the trees to hook through the snow-skiing area a freezing rain began to fall. Hard. Pretty soon we were soaked, and bloody cold, and getting miserable despite the awesome riding on Funner. Janine's arms were numb from the elbows down, and both shoulders were hurting from her earlier misadventures. I'd given her one of my layers, and was suffering silently. Not the best time for us to stop to chat to a friendly local (Hi, Fishman Rob!), but he was one of the local trailbuilders, and a fount of information about trails both local and national, and our interest in the conversation was such that we forgot how cold we were... until we started riding again! Decided to skip C.O.D. and hook back down Storm King to the campsite, which was an inspired choice, as a) it was an even better trail heading downhill than it was up, b) I got to point and laugh at the spots where Janine had fallen off her bike, and c) when we reached the bottom we encountered a couple playing disc golf, who told us that the tin-can-marker we'd thought was a charmingly-primitive bike trail sign was actually a disc golf basket, and pointed us in the direction of the first tee-box.

We didn't go play, though - we went back to camp, put on multiple layers of warm, dry clothes, and went to bed.







* = Except where we can't, which are signposted areas.

** = In case anyone hasn't yet figured it out, this is similar to what the NZ press tend to refer to as "freedom camping," except without the "parking on the side of the road for the night" element, and the "leaving faeces and trash lying around" element. And, so far, without the "getting beaten up and robbed by locals" element.

*** = If we were on a Pacific Island beach, I'd've thought they were recently-hatched turtle eggs. Given that we were some hundred miles inland, in a forest, I'm guessing not. Nene thinks maybe some sort of fungus thing, I'm wondering about snake eggs.

**** = Nene dreamed that I was a secret drug user***** and was splitting our possessions and taking all the good stuff to sell for more drugs. I dreamed that I was out running in a forest at night, and decided to get naked and swim across a lake to TVNZ's secret evil empire HQ, which I infiltrated via a door which had carelessly been left unlocked by some lackey. Unfortunately, I was spotted by a welder, who chased me back to the lake (which was full of trout and seals) and was planning to shoot me until he was instructed not to by the other guy.

***** = I'm not.

A MonkeyFace, and Some Clean Monkeys

Short Version:
Rode bikes, drove over mountains, hiked cool rocks, got clean

Long Version:
Woke to dead salmon on the beach and a reinvigorated wind from off the mountain*, which made breaking camp a fraught endeavor. Hit the backroads through to Post Canyon, where we found more fantastic riding than a) we could shake a stick at and b) we could cram into a day, especially with tired legs ready to complain at the first hint of up.

Having said that, the Seven Streams trail up from the parking area was a fantastic ride; smooth, fast sections broken up by interesting features**, trending uphill but not a grinding climb. We reached the grinding climb not far past the Family Man Staging Area, which was a low-height stunt park in which we could - and possibly should - have spent more time playing before getting mildly lost and then changing our ride plan after a long chat to a friendly local (Hi Duncan!). Heading for the trail named 8-Track, we climbed the forest road. For ages. It was steep. Legs were tired. There was sweating. Janine waited for me at the top, which was quite nice of her.

And then down. Fast. Sweeping corners and tight switchbacks, bypassable jumps and a few mandatory features. 8-Track was great!

Post Canyon reminded both of us of SummerHill near Tauranga, but with more trails, and older. We'd originally thought to hit a bunch of other trails to the north, but we were knackered, so we blasted back down Seven Streams to the parking area, packed up, and set off up the mountain, to Timberline Lodge. (We went via Bennett Pass, atop which - at 4647ft - we saw a couple of cycle tourers, having a well-deserved rest. In the rain. We gave them a cheery wave as we drove by).

Apparently the views from Timberline are spectacular. We, of course, saw nothing, as the lodge was completely encapsulated in cloud. Cool place though. Built in the 1930s as part of a government job-creation scheme, in 2010 it's being renovated, as part of a government job-creation scheme. Parts of The Shining were filmed there, although I don't remember a gigantic octagonal room with a multiple-fireplace, nor a wooden table-tennis table, nor any vaguely hobbit-style architecture featuring in that film***. We did a bit of sneaking around, looking at things which we probably weren't supposed to****, and then left in search of somewhere both warmer and cheaper in which to spend our time and money.

The place we found was called Skull Hollow, and it was a high desert campground. Still cold, but not as bitter as it'd been up in the mountains. We heard coyotes in the hills, and the sound of the wind over the sage bushes*****. Then we heard our late-arrival camp-neighbours appalling music******, and our other late-arrival camp-neighbours' voices, then we were the last ones awake, playing a game by the sun-bright light of the Coleman gas lantern.

Rather than ride again the next day, we drove to Smith Rock State Park, and hiked the buttes and mesas for a couple of hours, because that's restful. The place was pretty spectacularly beautiful, and it was really nice not to be on the bike! Saw eagles' nests, lots of falcons, and an enormous rock shaped like the head of a monkey.

Then we found the showers, and we danced a happy little dance, and we sung a happy little song, and we got in and got wet and got clean. For the first time in a LONG time. And it felt GOOD.








* = Mount Hood, in this case. It's a bloody big hillock, apparently, as are Mt St Helens, Mt Bachelor, Mt Adams, Mt Washington, the Three Sisters, and all the others in the range that runs up through Central Oregon and Washington. We've driven up them, ridden bikes on them, even slept on them, but have we seen any of them from a distance as anything more than a snow-laden foothill capped with cloud? No, we bloody well haven't.

** = Rocks and roots, and a fair few bridges, some of which were spectacularly skinny and enjoying a variety of strange twists and turns. Thankfully, all of these were side-by-side with a nice, safe, normal bridge.

*** = Having said that, I`ve never actually SEEN that film.

**** = If they really meant "Employees Only" they'd've locked the doors

***** = which Janine thought smelled like wees

****** = Kind of like Auckland's George FM (ie wanky cafe background music). Interesting couple to stare at (like people-watching, but without any subtle) - the woman danced around the place while the bloke set up camp and cooked dinner

Rainy Rainey

Short Version:
Went to Wal-Mart, saw fat people, went for a ride in the snow.

Long Version:
After the epic ride at Surveyor's Ridge ("You wanted an epic ride - you got one!") it was no real surprise that we slept late next morning. One neighbor - who had come in while we were out riding - was leaving as we crawled from the tent, and the other lot were packing to go. We had a leisurely breakfast then headed back into Hood River, to the Wal-Mart* for more tarpaulins** and chewing gum. And Giant Flamin' Hot Cheetos**. Then we hooked southwest into the hills and up to the Kingsley Reservoir camping area...

...which was absolutely overrun with ATVs, offroad motorcycles, enormous pickup trucks, and giant caravans. Oh, and the people who owned and operated them.

Looked a lot like what must have been a long-weekend ATV gathering was in the process of winding up, so we set off into the wilderness for a ride while they - hopefully - vamoosed from the area. We'd deliberately picked a mellow ride to acommodate tired legs, and most of it, when measured by distance, was exactly that. Measuring by time spent, and by psychological trauma, the last half-mile evil climb up to and past the snow line was pretty dominant.

After riding, and failing to ride, a number of increasingly-deep snow drifts, we hid the bikes*** in the trees and hiked a quarter mile to Rainey Lake, which was stunning, and stunningly cold. Nestled in a mist-wreathed mountainous half-bowl, it looked like the lake had been totally frozen over until very recently, and the outer third of the surface was still iced. We found what we believe to be a cougar paw-print (big, deep, no claw-marks so not a dog) and ate a quick lunch whilst huddled together for warmth against the ravages of the icy winds streaming down from the heights. Then we turned tail and retraced our steps to the bikes, then blasted down the steep section and through the chilly stream at the bottom. Meandered along the hill face and back to the reservoir to find that our surmise had been correct, and that most of the ATV crowd had departed****.

We set up camp, with new tarps providing plenty of cover from the rain, and settled in for the night, which was COLD. We still haven't had a campfire, unlike pretty much every other group of campers we've encountered - too well brainwashed by NZ's Department of Conservation, I guess.







* = Haven't yet plucked up the courage to head in to any of their competitor's stores - I'm a bit wary of what I might find at Bi-Mart

** = Gobstopper-sized cheese-flavored corn snacks coated with artificially-red hotpowder. We ate the whole bag.

*** = Really, really well. Plenty of snow meant plenty of footprints and tyre-tracks leading straight to where we'd stashed them, and as the only silver metal manufactured things in a landscape comprising snow and trees they kind of stood out. Luckily, we were the only people hardy and/or foolhardy enough to be up there, so it didn't cost us our trusty steeds

**** = The last few stragglers were still noodling about - essentially a couple of grotesquely obese women riding quadbikes up and down the gravel road through the camping area while everyone else packed up or stood around talking shit and drinking beer

Death and the Surveyor in the Hood

Killed a small bird just before we reached Wyeth campground - it pretty much lined up the front of the van and flew straight into it. Much like the teenage girl on Mt Eden Rd did* a couple of years back, although this time there was no new bike retail therapy. We did nab one of the two remaining campsites at Wyeth though, and got the tent up before dark.

Our neighbors for the night were trash, to put it plainly. I won't go into why, but we didn't think particularly highly of any of them, and especially the parents**. They went to bed early, though, which is more than can be said for some of the other campers, who liked their country music audible, and so turned it up every time a train went past. Which was often.

As we left the next morning, we passed a Sheriff's car at the Interstate on-ramp. I watched him like a hawk in my mirrors, up until the point where I just about put us off the shoulder and down the bank for the second time, at which point I decided that paying some attention to where we were actually going might be a good idea.

Ten minutes later we were in Hood River, which is a neat town, with a friendly local bike shop (Hi, Greg @ Mountain View) where we acquired a trail map and a bunch of ride advice, including the admonition to make sure we had dishwashing liquid handy at the end of the Sincline - Coyote Canyon ride to help get the Poison Oak oil off us. We headed back to the feeder road where I washed and dried pretty much every item of clothing we own at the laundromat while Nene hit Safeway for delicious foods.

Blasted out of town to the south, into the mountains, and pulled into the most rudimentary camground we'd yet struck; Routson County Park. Like Wyeth, there were no showers. There was a toilet block, but it was locked, and shards of smashed porcelain behind the southeast corner gave hints as to why that might have been. One site was already occupied but vacant when we arrived; The two big plain chairs next to the two small bright-colored ones made us feel pretty good about what kind of neighbors they were likely to be though, so we set up camp then bailed back down the road a few miles to start the first epic ride of the trip: Surveyor's Ridge.

Advice had been to park at the Dog River Trailhead, ride the road to the Oak Ridge Trailhead, then in off the road and up Oak Ridge to Surveyor's. The road ride was an easy downhill 15 minutes - would have been less without the headwind. The climb up Oak Ridge took a wee while longer - about 70 minutes all up. And it was hard climbing, with some fairly unpleasant steep sections where loose shale and tight switchbacks made riding all-but impossible. Janine claims to have seen a red-crested woodpecker, but as it was on an uphill section, I missed it - it was long gone by the time I made it up to that part of the trail!

What goes up must, in this instance, go along before it comes down, and the next 150 minutes had us negotiating swooping, flowing trail sections followed by climbs just long enough that you felt you'd earned the next downhill. When the cloud cover lifts the views are probably incredible, but we'd forgotten the camera, so were perversely pleased to not be able to see anything past a couple of hundred feet. We'd left our start later than planned (4:00pm), so it was in gathering gloom (8:00pm) that we reached the top of the Dog River trail and regrouped for the run down to the van. This was the sweetest run we've struck so far. Half an hour of flowing downhill trail, with streams (some bridged, some not) and dips and small climbs then more downhill flowing stuff. Awesome.

Mixed emotions at reaching the van - pleased it was still there, and exhaustedly looking forward to food and sleep, but sad to not have any more Dog River trail in front of us - if we get the chance to ride this again, we`ll jump at it, with all four feet.









* = The girl wasn't flying though. And the bird didn't trash the front end of the van.

** = She was a fat chain-smoker who carped at everyone near-constantly. He sat in his chair the entire evening and morning, and only spoke to bring up instances of past wrongdoings by family members and to demand restitution.

Falls

Drove east from Portland via the Historic Highway, which we'd been told would provide views of the gorge and of the many waterfalls which cascade down its southern cliffs. We certainly got both, with some incredible clifftop viewing followed by nearly too many great waterfall viewpoints, all either viewable from one's vehicle or within a few minutes' walk; the furthest traipse was to the Bridal Veil Falls (how original), which took Nene and I about 4 minutes down and about 8 back up. That is, that was the furthest until we reached Wahkeena Falls, which was shaping up as one-too-many 2-minutes-walk-to-the-viewing-area waterfall... but then we found:
1. A sign for Multnomah Falls, which we knew was the big spectacular waterfall of the vicinty, only half a mile east, and
2. A trail leading up past the Wahkeena Falls and across the cliff face, eastwards
We put the two together and came up with a short stroll, infinitely-preferable to yet another 2-minute drive/park/photograph/drive/etc mission.

As it turned out, the muddy trail climbed steeply, then climbed steeply, and then climbed steeply, through a series of switchbacks, eventually taking us 970 vertical feet over about half a horizontal mile, back to the top of the cliff. Our climb had been punctuated by a series of conversations about whether or not we should turn back now or soon, with "soon" winning the day each time. At the top we found a hiker, who gave us funny looks - possibly due to the unexpectedness of meeting people with funny accents, wearing jeans and street sneakers, at the top of a 1000ft cliff - but who obligingly told us the trail to Multnomah Falls led across the top of the plateau and down, 45 minutes' walk from where we were. We thanked him, then SOMEONE set off at a dead run. Along the muddy cliff-edge trail. In her jeans and street sneakers.

By the time we encountered our first people, halfway down the Multnomah Falls Trail, we were... somewhat disshevelled.

Not necessarily surprising that the Mexican kids decided to run with us (a taste of things to come?) but mild wonderment that their parents didn't object more strenuously. The kids gave up before we reached the bottom, where the main viewing area was (surprisingly, right next to the sizeable parking area), and we cut back across the face of the cliff, 0.5 miles back to Wahkeena Falls, to the van, and to heading east in search of a campground with a free site on the Saturday night of the first long weekend of summer, before dark fell.

In Portland, I'm Youthful and Attractive

IDed three times during our stay, in a place where the minimum drinking age is 21. Admittedly, the requestor in every instance was persuadable that they didn't REALLY need to see ID for me*, but that doesn't prove that they ask everyone out of habit and that if I'd actually looked young they'd've been more insistent, as nasty wife suggested - rather, they were mesmerised by my youthful good looks. So there.

We liked Portland, a lot. If we'd managed to score rooms at the Kennedy School we'd probably still be there. Unfortunately(?) they were fully booked for the whole of the long weekend, as were all the other McMenniman's hotels** in the immediate vicinity, so we stayed just the one night, in an incredibly brightly-colored hotel. We'd tried to phone a few hotels, but failed to get payphones to work, so we figured we'd just go to Nob Hill, because how could we not? The Broadway Bridge was being reconstructed, so it took a while to cross, but we got to the west side, found a room, snuck our muddy bikes in over the balcony, and set off to see what we could see.

What we ended up seeing was Alice in Wonderland, which we'd tried to see in Auckland, and in Melbourne, and failed. Not unhappy about it, though, as seeing it in a weird little old theatre while drinking Terminator Stout was pretty awesome. Dinner at Jo Bar was pretty good (my mushroom sandwich) and awesome (Nene's Duck Duck Salad, which had duck and blue cheese and salady stuff), and dessert was awesome. All in all a great night. Then back to the flash hotel for a crap night's sleep in the king-size bed - Nene was too drunk to sleep, and I was too full of too-rich foods.

Next morning we hit Kettleman's Bagelry for breakfast, which turned out to be one of the most inspired food choices we've made so far. My grilled scrambled-egg-and-gruyere-cheese on a jalapeno bagel was stunning. Then onto the streetcar (free, and on which I found $2) for the trip into town, where we visited the Library (awesome staircase and study spaces), and the Art Museum, which had some really cool stuff****. Lunch at a Mexican place was followed by a trip to Powell's World of Books, which is a new-and-used bookshop spanning an entire city block, then takeaway coffee from a large man with a moustache at Anna Bananna's Coffee - I had hemp milk in mine, which was an interesting flavor. These were probably the best store-bought coffees we've had so far, which is at least partly down to how the barista interprets what the hell we're on about as we attempt to explain a flat white.

Drank our coffees on I84 heading east, leaving Portland wanting more of it.






* = I'd not taken my wallet out with me - I rather like this kept-man thing

** = McMenniman's is a Portland-based hospitality empire, with funky imagery and a yen for the quirky. I think it began with an independent brewery, followed by the opening of retail outlets for their (more or less delicious***) product, then beer- and food-enabled movie theatres, and and eventually a chain of boutique hotels, usually in decommissioned schools or other slightly odd buildings and covering not only the Portland area, but also Oregon and Washington states

*** = Terminator Stout and Hammerhead IPA were both more, vs Workingman's Red, which was less

**** = and some total crap

Owls, Growls, the Interstate, Portland!

Our second morning in SeaQuest dawned not sunny, but at least not raining. A band of crows pursued an owl past our site as we breakfasted, then we broke camp and were off to Growler's Gulch. Found the place with minimal issues, kitted up and set off. It was fairly wet from the several days' rain we'd just experienced, so most of the steeper sections we left alone (apart from the one we walked up). No maps meant slow progress - we were building stick arrows at every intersection so we could find our way back to the van. Discovered a couple of times that we weren't the only ones to have used this trick - there were already arrows at some spots. Eventually we discovered that we WERE the only ones who'd been using that trick, when we hit a junction where we'd already laid two different arrows, pointing in two different directions, on two separate previous visits. Effective though, as we made it back to the van no problem. Like many of the places in this area, we'd like to go back for more - hopefully we can convince the Highlander Cycles folks that they want to play Growler guides for a pair of directionally-challenged kiwis!

As usual, we were later getting away than we'd planned. This time, we decided to eat as we drove, and I did my best to cram food down before hitting I5, the Interstate Highway that runs down from Canada, through Seattle and Portland, and on southwards. Lucky I did, because our first Interstate experience was of being near-nailed by a HUGE truck, then sandwiched between four of the buggers for a while. Eventually I managed to extricate the van from their (unintentional, I'm sure) rolling blockade, and we were blasting south towards our second Vancouver* at non-truck speeds**. After a seemingly very short while, we hooked off the I5 and onto State Highway 14, heading east. This road started as what would be termed a motorway in NZ, but within thirty minutes and as many small towns had shrunk to the equivalent of the back road between Tauranga and Rotorua; windy and narrow and steep in parts and with limited visibility with occasional spectacular views of the Columbia Gorge, for which we had to turn around and go back to for photographs. Several times.

Beacon Rock is the core of an old volcano****. We climbed up it.

Beacon Rock State Park holds not only Beacon Rock, but also Little Beacon Rock and Mt Hamilton, We didn't climb either of them, as it turned out*****, but we did walk up to the Hadley and Rodney waterfalls, and the Pool of the Winds, all of which were pretty cool. Saw another owl on the way up - it was spectacularly disinterested in us and our photographically-inclined desires, turning its head (like it was on silky-smooth bearings) in our direction only when the camera was lowered. It did this twice. Stupid bird. Met a local chap called Dave up near the falls. He was wearing Icebreaker gear, which was quite a good ice-breaker. He convinced us that Hood River and its surrounds should be on our itinerary (windsurfing and kiteboarding capital of the world, hiking and mountain-biking hub, etc), so we added it.

First, though, there was a night under canvas in Beacon Rock State Park to attend to. We met a conclave of squirrels, some people from Wisconsin, and a high-speed deer, whose hooves hitting road surface had had us wondering what on earth was coming before it blew past. The campground was under some high-voltage power lines, which sizzled occasionally, and had a lot of gnats and recently-trimmed raspberry bushes.

We left relatively early (10ish) the next morning, bound for Portland. We started by driving away from Portland, upriver, then crossed the Bridge of the Gods to the southern bank of the river and hooked westwards onto I84, past cliffs and waterfalls, and into the city.

It was around midday, and it was raining, and it was the opening day of the Rose Festival, and we'd finally made it to Portland!







* = Vancouvers in BC, Canada and in WA, USA are both named for the same bloke, Captain George*** Vancouver, who is - I think - something like the Captain Cook of the Pacific Northwest

** = 75mph for not-trucks, 65mph for trucks. In real terms, this translates to 60-90mph for non-trucks, and 70-80mph for trucks

*** = First name may not have been George

**** = Make a classic volcano-shape from something. I suggest dirt, or some kind of delicious food. Poke a hole down the middle of the volcano with your finger. If your volcano is made of delicious food, lick your finger. Fill the hole with something which will set solid - some kind of special mixture of mud and ash would probably work well, as would melted chocolate. Wait for the stuff in the middle to set, then remove the exterior. Use a glacier for geo-historical accuracy. The ash-mud/chocolate core should be left as a standalone entity. This is how Beacon Rock formed, sort of

***** = We hungered