The Journey Part 41

OLD CODGERS AND THE DATE DRAWS NIGH

I do a lot of people-watching.

A lot!

Always have if it’s the truth you are looking for.  Quiet kids do that; so do quiet adults. We sit, unobtrusively, in the shadows of life, life strolls by us, sometimes at 45 speed, sometimes 331/3, you old record collectors will understand that reference, and sometimes I will even witness a 76 rpm frame of life.

Old codgers, I’m talking about, as in the elderly, as in past their prime, as in over the hill, as in . . . my age! Oh, how it pains me to write that. I am an old codger, no way around it, 74 is definitely past any prime you care to discuss.

However, here’s the point of this swan dive into the mysteries of life . . . the old codgers I watch shuffle by me daily, well, they actually look old, they actually act old, they actually move old, and . . . the second half of this point . . . I am so much better off than those I see. I am not infirmed. I do not limp. I do not need the aid of a walking device. I do not walk stooped over. I do not pop prescription medicine like it’s candy.

I am beyond blessed, like lightyears beyond blessed, like kissed by a shamrock blessed, like the luck of the Irish landed on my shoulder and never left blessed.

And I am incredibly grateful.

Talked to Bev last night. The date to return to the Trail is tentatively set for July 5^th, which is three weeks away.  Reports are good from the trail.   Reports of quickly-melting snow in Oregon and Washington bode well.  Bev is beyond ready, and at least for the first few days, or weeks, she is going to try taking Toby along on trail with her.  She bought him the cutest snow stockings, and she bought him a pack for carrying 5-10 pounds, and he has done quite well during practice hikes . . . so . . . it looks like Wonder Dog will be a PCT dog soon.

I want to get home a full week before we head back to the trail, which means I have, max, two more weeks on the road. I may cut that short. I had thought of going down the Oregon coast, but the weather report is calling for rain next week, highs in the 50’s, and that means a struggle to find places where I can plug in for power, because solar power will not be happening during those rains.

My first thought was to head inland, see some small towns in Eastern Washington, and that may be the plan of attack.  I’ll spend tomorrow in this same general vicinity, and then I will have to decide on a destination.

Stay tuned!

KISMET AND A GLIMPSE INTO WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

I wrote, a long time ago, in this journal, like a couple months ago, about two lovely people who drove 200 miles in order to make dinner for Bev and I at the start of this adventure. Mary and Judy are their names, and we have stayed in touch since that supper; in fact, they started the trail, in their own PCT attempt, about a month ago.

So, I was sitting in Puddle Walker this morning, trying to make up my mind where to go, when I received a text message from Mary, of Mary and Judy fame, and she told me that they were leaving the PCT, same reason as Bev, the Sierra snow, and they were taking a train to Portland, and then a bus to Astoria, where they will begin hiking the Oregon Coast Trail . . . starting in two days from today.

Astoria, of course, is right across the bridge from where I am sitting.

My inner debate about where to go ended in the span of about thirty seconds, the length of time it took me to read that text message. I am now going to meet Mary and Judy at the bus station in Astoria, take them to the start of the trail, which is in Fort Stevens State Park, and the three of us will sit around the campfire, in an RV campsite in that park, and catch up on “old times” and talk about weighty matters of life.

I am beyond excited. They are two of my favorite people.

The other night I was sitting in Puddle Walker when a car pulled up, and two young (twenties) women stepped out, walked over to the picnic table, and started preparing dinner no more than thirty feet from Maggie and I.

Fifteen minutes later it was time for a Maggie walk, so out of the bus we stepped and, as is the norm, the girls automatically started gushing about how pretty my dog is, can she have a piece of chicken, which led to where are you from, what are you doing, that sort of random conversation with people you’ve known for all of ten minutes.

Kitty and Alaina, two best friends from Salt Lake City, were on an extended three-month road trip along the west coast, trying to decide, get this, whether they could do it full-time, and if they would like it full-time.  Naturally, they had a ton of questions for me, and their excitement was infectious and so nice to see, two kids, so young, more interested in experiencing life than getting bogged down in the nine-to-five world.

They reminded me of me, my plans when I was eighteen, nineteen, sign on a cargo ship, work my way across the Atlantic, see the world, my best friend Frank all for the idea . . . and then Dad died.

Meeting those girls breathed new life into my own journey.  It was inspiring to see two youngsters so excited about the unknown, so willing to toss away convention for a taste of the wild and wondrous.  Just like I was ready to do fifty-five years ago.

The next morning, I waited until they had awakened from a night in their car, stepped out with my permanent markers, and asked them if they would like to sign my bus.

“Oh my God, Bill, we didn’t think you would ever ask us!”

They were thoroughly enjoyable, engaging, and a pure pleasure, and that is what this trip is all about for me, meeting real people, face-to-face, and enjoying the uniqueness of them all.  It is my sincere hope that one day I run into Kitty and Alaina once more, and I can hear about their amazing adventures. In the meantime, I have their autographs and a short message from them on the side of Puddle Walker.

A LOOK AT THE UNDERBELLY

Back in, gosh, 1984, maybe, my memory a bit faulty about that date, Wife #1 and I went on a belated honeymoon to Mazatlan.  For a week we walked sandy beaches, sipped drinks with straws in them, held hands in the moonlight, and did all of the touristy things tourists are supposed to do.

I have two very clear visions of Mazatlan back then. There was the Tourist Mazatlan, three or four streets, stretching maybe a mile, filled with glitzy hotels, restaurants, and high-end gift shops.  It was a dazzling display of the Sweet Life, guaranteed to milk every last cent of tourist dollars from the suspecting, and unsuspecting.

But walk another street over, or two streets over, from the Tourist Mazatlan, and you immediately witnessed that which tourists were discouraged from seeing, the underbelly of the beast, the “suburbs” made of cardboard shanties, wild-eyed dogs, and items for sale which are best left unmentioned.

I was reminded of that yesterday when I drove through Astoria, but in truth, what I am saying could be said about any tourist mecca or any large city in the U.S.  I think, for the most part, tourists see what the Chamber of Commerce wants them to see, but an addendum to that, tourists see what they want to see, and on vacation, most tourists do not want to see the homeless, they do not want to see drug sales on streetcorners, and they do not want to see a not-so-subtle display of a very old profession, the selling of flesh to anyone with a twenty.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I so easily notice the underbelly of society; I hope it simply says I am observant.  And, if you want me to lay all of my cards on the table right now, I hope I am always observant, because in the Land of Rich and Plenty, the forgotten should never go unnoticed.

MAGGIE THE PUPPY ONCE AGAIN

I have always told anyone who wants to listen that Maggie is a great traveling companion. She’s been that way since, well, she was about six months old. Bev and I took her down to Ashland, Oregon to see my best friend Frank, which was right after we got Maggie from the breeders, and she weathered that eight-hour car trip like a trooper. She vomited once, early on, and since that initial bout with car sickness, she has loved riding in the car, in the pickup truck, and now in the bus. Bottom line with Maggie: if she is with her humans, she doesn’t care if the mode of transportation is a car or a spaceship.

That is one side of Maggie. The other side is that, compared to her brother Toby, she is not terribly playful. She has never been much for fetch the ball, or fetch the stick, or whatever other games we tried to interest her in over the years.  Put a leash on her, lead her around, she’s fine with that. Take the leash off, she follows close by, always near her humans, sniffing everything in the vicinity, rolling in the grass, or dirt, or gravel, or whatever, but again, I would never describe my girl as playful in spirit.

Until the past month. I had the opportunity to take Maggie and Toby to Ocean Shores, while Bev hiked in the Olympic Mountains, and once on the shoreline, where I could let them both off-leash, Maggie exhibited a side of her I had not seen, running into the surf, running full speed along the water’s edge, barking and jumping and oh my God, it was so fun to watch.

And this past week, me and Maggie on the beach near the Columbia River, she is doing the same thing, so odd it is that I took videos of it, and I smile and laugh watching those videos, and hold on, a tear or two is about to fall, I love that damned dog so much.  She is grumpy and downright unsociable around other dogs; she does not have a natural trust of humans; in fact, her personality is pretty close to mine, truth be told.

And I love her to the moon and back! She is the perfect traveling companion for me, and the only real fault I can find in her is that she does not answer me when I talk to her.

However, I’m convinced that one day she will.