Travels With Connie

Three Out of Four Ain't Bad

One of the many benefits of living in Central Oregon is that I seem able to travel to any border of Oregon as a day-trip. We've been south to California several times. We've gone west, over the Cascades, past the rugged Rogue River to the rugged Oregon coast, to Coos Bay on the Pacific Ocean. We've traveled up west of the Cascades from California through Oregon to Washington, through Medford, Ashland, Eugene, Salem and Portland. But we hadn't gone too far north from Central Oregon.

On the highway signs, if you're traveling north, the destination on the signs is a town called The Dalles. I still don't know where that name comes from. Let me look it up... ...okay, it's from the French word for flagstone. Anyway, The Dalles is on the Columbia River, in the gorgeous Columbia River Gorge, which separates Oregon from Washington state.

We've seen most of Western Oregon. We've seen Central Oregon. We've seen Southern Oregon. We wanted to get the lay of the land north of Central Oregon. So yesterday we drove up to The Dalles. We were also hoping to get away from the smoky air in Central Oregon being produced by the Lake George fire. Unfortunately, there was another fire north of the George fire, and the air was smoky in Northern Oregon too. Nonetheless, we enjoyed the trip.

The Deschutes River, which flows by our house, originates in Little Lava Lake not far from Bend. It flows north, like Highway 97, winding its way a little until it flows into the Columbia River, which then flows west to empty into the Pacific. If I tossed a cork in the river by my house, it would flow past Portland into the sea.

Between prior trips to the source of the Deschtues and our trip to The Dalles, we've now traveled the length of the Deschutes River. The land between Bend and The Dalles reminded me of our foray east past Millican. Dry, empty, high desert. Now we've been from home to three of Oregon's four borders. I guess the Eastern border is next on our list.


Primitive Man

At The Dalles, we had lunch at the north end of town at a little coffee shop called the Roadstop Restaurant. After we were seated, another group came in. They were bikers, local ones I believe. The two men were built like linebackers. Six feet tall, three hundred pounds, none of it cushion. Bald heads, tats, riding leathers. The woman was of the same girth and height, but not as solid.

As I'm sitting there with my lunch, I can see the head of the first guy over Connie's shoulder. He sees me, but I don't register on his face. No smile, no quizzical look, no recognition at all. I'm a flyspeck on his windscreen.

See, men have this little demon living deep in the human brain. In our lizard brain. The role of this little demon is to assess and evaluate the importance of other creatures. Can we eat them? Can they eat us? Could we take them in a fight.

This guy I'm looking at, he's built like a pile of tires. His bald head is polished. I look at him, and the demon sneers, "You could so not take him. Don't even think about it." The demon is right. The guy could pick me up in one hand and squeeze me like a lemon. All that would be left would be pulp, pits and a puddle. That would be me. All guys have this demon.

The guy I'm looking at, his demon sees me, and he reports, "That little geek? Four inches shorter and half our weight? He's a bunny rabbit." I'm not worthy of consideration. Except maybe as lunch.

The problem is, I have other demons in my head. (Yes, I have lots of voices in my head.) There's this other demon, he sees the guy ignoring me, and he finds this unacceptable. "Go annoy him!" it advises. "Kick his bike over! Kick sand in his face! Stick your tongue out!" He's like a mosquito in the ear, buzzing with aggression.

Sometimes I wish these two demons, instead of focussing on the world projected on my main screen, would take a look around, see each other in the audience, and kick each others' ass. Hopefully, mosquito mouth would meet his end.

Connie's seated across from me. She can't see the guy behind her. She's unaware of the little drama playing out between my ears. I know which demon she would vote for: "Run away!"

The thing is, despite the pandemonium in my lizard brain, I am still a geek, still a modern mammal, and I have these modern layers of grey matter wrapped around the lizard brain. Emotions and instincts aside, I know, intellectually, that doing anything to light me up on that guy's radar could be a bad thing. So I don't. I eat my fries and drink my Coke and resign myself to life as a geek. If I still played online role-playing games, I'd probably go home and log on as my tall Taliesin character and kill me some orcs. Welcome to the 21st century.


Homeward Bound

I suffer from Wild Geese Syndrome. Like Lazarus Long in the Heinlein stories, I have a wanderlust that seeks to follow the wild geese, to explore and learn and challenge myself. Rather than uproot the family everytime I hear the honking in my head, we go for a drive. That has to be one of the best phrases in the English language: "Let's go for a drive." Road trip!

Rather than return home by the same road, I pull out my trusty map (blocking from my view Michelin Man in the next booth), and plot a return route. After lunch, we head west. Rather than stay on the highway along the river, we take the historic Rowena Crest Highway which parallels the river from higher up, affording beautiful (albeit hazy) views of the river gorge. After nine miles, it merges again with the main highway. Ten miles further, at the town of Hood River, we head south towards home.

We stopped at a fruit stand south of Hood River. We tasted huckleberries and we bought some locally grown blueberries that were the sweetest, most blueberry tasting blueberries I've ever had. I took pictures of flowers and alpacas, and we continued south.

Traffic was stopped for a few minutes by a fire crew working a nearby fire. People were outside their cars, walking around. In my head lives yet another demon, one that lives in all red-blooded males. I successfully suppressed its supplication to hit on the hot chick.

Our return route, 84 to 35 to 26, we found to be much more beautiful than our route on 97 and 197 north to 84. Instead of desolate high desert, we drove through pine trees and picturesque canyons. Part of the journey took us through the Warm Springs Indian Reservation.

When you mention an Indian res to me, it brings to mind a desert landscape, like the ones I've been to near Palm Springs, or the one in the movie Thunderheart. Warm Springs had areas like that, but it also had pine-covered mountain and river-carved canyon. I wanna be a Warm Springs Indian! What a beautiful place to live.

It surprised me that a public highway bisected their land. I somehow thought of reservations as being closed to the public. I don't know why. It leads me to wonder what laws I was subject to as I drove through there. Federal law while I was on the highway? Reservation law if I ventured off? I just don't know.

I love living here. Every day's an adventure.


Blog Tag: Chatter