HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED?
Yesterday evening, at the RV park I was staying at, in Ashland, trying to remain hydrated in the ridiculous heat, I was sitting in my lawn chair, watching the full-time residents go about their daily routines, and I wondered about them, their lives, how they arrived where they currently are, circumstances, fortunes, good and bad, that sort of thing. Do you ever partake in that guessing game?
From my observations, I deduced that the five I watched were all down on their luck, not necessarily because they were living in an RV park, but based upon their clothing, their mannerisms, their personal hygiene, and the condition of the RVs they called home. And I got to wondering if they ever had grandiose dreams when they were younger, dreams of wondrous lives filled with love and success and affluence. Did they dream of those things? And if so, when did the dream die, or had it yet? And at what point in their lives did they realize they were not going to recover from the happenings and decisions in their lives, that the best their future would see was staring at them in the mirror each morning when they got up.
Which led me to thinking about my younger life, and I don’t remember having wildly exciting dreams about my future. I was a plodder and a worker, my sight set on the goal of that moment, whether that be graduate from college or purchase a house or raise a child. If I had to choose a description of my personal approach to life, during those years, I would call myself a realist, or a pragmatist.
Today?
If not now, when?
Back to those people I observed. Let’s make the assumption that my observational conclusion was correct, that they were, and are, down on their luck (although I don’t believe for a second in luck), and their futures consist of decades of the same, until they die.
What a horrible way to live!
I wonder if they still hope things will change for the better, or have they completely given up hope?
Only once in my life did I feel that kind of hopelessness, in a drunken stupor in Alaska, but within a month I again had hope, and I knew if I took care of my health, mentally and physically, I would be fine, and my future would be fine.
But to have no hope? I “hope” I never reach that stage in life, and I am out of this world grateful for the life I’ve shaped, and had shaped, from the seed to now.
A DISPERSED CAMPING DREAM
Rest areas come, and rest areas go, and most are predictable in what they offer, a quick place to park, rest a few hours, go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, and walk the dogs. I safely estimate that 99% of the rest areas in the U.S. follow that formula.
And then there is the Tillamook River Rest Area, three miles south of the City of Tillamook, and it is a dream.
Yes, it has a bathroom, yes it has water to drink, yes, there is an area to walk the dogs . . . but . . . there is also about two acres of parklike property to roam about, picnic tables nestled among the giant shade trees, and an honest to God river which flows alongside the property, perfect for dogs to wade in, people to wade in, and everyone to enjoy.
I’m about to give you a little insider information regarding rest areas, so pay attention. Most, if not all, of them have signs which say No Overnight Camping, but it is generally understood that overnight camping means no pitching of tents. There is also, usually, a time limit you are supposed to stay, as in eight hours, twelve hours, something in that neighborhood.
No one checks on these things. There is no little minion with a stopwatch making sure your stay has not exceeded eight hours. There is a rest area along the Columbia River where I have stayed, overnight, five nights out of a seven day week, and not one ill word was said in my direction.
Truthfully, if you treat these areas with respect, and don’t cause a ruckus and don’t leave trash laying on the curb, you pretty much go unnoticed by all.
Long-winded way for me to tell you that this Tillamook Rest Area is a beauty, and a quick three mile drive will get you into the city where you can enjoy coffee shops galore, restaurants, and the Tillamook Creamery and Blue Heron Cheese Factory, great producers of great cheeses and ice creams . . . and . . . Blue Heron allows free overnight stays on their acreage, provided you stop in their gift shop and purchase something.
This Tillamook area is the bomb, as the young like to say.
BEV UPDATE
Bev’s hiking partner called it quits today. Her knees just wouldn’t allow her to continue.
We first met Shawn on our second day in Campo, over four months ago. We reconnected with her in Idyllwild, and she has been Bev’s hiking partner since then, so it is sad to see her go.
And this leaves Bev on her own, and before you start worrying about her, know that she much prefers being on her own, her own test of will, you might say; and if she decides, at some point, that she needs a hiking partner, there is no shortage of them along the trail.
She will be fine and, if she isn’t fine, she is fully capable of asking for help or dealing with whatever negatives come along.
With all of the flipping which has gone on, and all of the people who have skipped up to Oregon, there is a nice bubble of hikers now in Oregon, so solitude is not a thing to worry about for the next month.
I will miss Shawn. She is a gem, and I’m sorry the knee problems became too much to overcome.
A LOOK BACK IN TIME
So much has been written about Route 66, called by some America’s Highway, and it deserves its place in the limelight; however, for my money, Highway 101 deserves just as much acclaim.
Want to know what America looked like in the 40’s and 50’s, before the Interstate Highways came into being? Take a drive down 101, and make sure you slow down as you drive through towns like Hebron, Beverly Beach, Garibaldi, Cloverdale, and dozens of others like them, all with that particular flavor that was the 1950’s. A single church, a single gas station, a single general store, maybe a curio shop or two, weathered houses, weathered barns, a point of interest marked by a weathered sign. The speed limit drops down, from double-nickel to twenty-five, cross over a small bridge, some railroad tracks, maybe a one-room schoolhouse, volunteer fire department if the town is thriving, a little slice of Americana every ten, fifteen miles, a living history museum spanning what, a thousand miles, maybe a few more?
Slightly larger towns might feature a grange, a VFW, an Eagles, a Kiwanas, without a doubt a hardware store, small café, the hub of the town for sure, the quintessential Little League field, in varying stages of upgrade and repair, maybe even a blinking light on Main Street.
It’s worth seeing but do yourself a favor and don’t rush it. 101 is to be savored, like a fine wine. Uncork it and allow the fragrance to wash through you.
