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The reality of winter again rears its icy-fanged head. Thankfully, the sun remains, but the wind lunges at exposed skin with renewed malice. Indian summer was rejuvenating, though, while it lasted. Just a little taste of what is to cyclically return... though I'm not ready to do the Springtime countdown, just yet. Plans are being made for what's to come, however. There's a red convertible in the driveway. Tying loose ends together in the morning included the usual emails and such... but also a lesson in cut-copy-paste for Miss Jane. Some people I can teach new things without a hitch... how to drive, how to manipulate a computer. Not with this one. She freaked when I attempted to teach her how to drive stick, and never tried again. There's been a PC in the house for over seven years, now, and she's still frightened of sending her own emails. Oy. Ve. She did ask about copying, so I patiently went through the motions while she took notes. And then, panic set in when I mentioned the concept of selecting names from the addressbook. It's as if she's being asked to press the button to launch a nuclear attack. Whatever. For the second Saturday in a row, we set out across the mountains... this time, to come back with results. Valley Guy and his family making us welcome... marvelling how his daughter has grown from a child into a most beautiful woman (with heartbreaking eyes), into her junior year of university despite caring for a child... and surviving the loss of her leg due to cancer. A Survivor, in the truest non-television sense. The pleasantries set me up for the big Shakedown Cruise. Which was... sublime. I swear, a monkey could pilot a Miata across the Alps, so nimble and tractable the drivetrain. There's small imperfections to iron out, but that's why it came so cheap. Stereo needs work, though. Back across the snaky spine of the Blue Ridge, we celebrated with some bulky Italian food... scallopine melting on the palate. Mmmm... garlic. No vampires, today. ....................................................................... Hostel Environment (Hummingbird-to-Astoria) The brief overnight respite from rain opened with a shroud of grey in the morning. The cruel truths learned about pedalling with my belongings strapped to the bike frame learned, I was able to find the time to lift my head to the driving rain to soak in the lay of the hilly landscape... the predominant color in western Oregon, green. British Racing Green. Towering firs, undergrowth, distant hills all glowing from within by the deepest verdant hue. A comforting, almost alpine green, dimmed by the heavy mists, muffled by the song of narrow, burdened tires sizzling through the film of rain on the pavement, and the angry flap of the poncho fighting the self-inflicted bone-chilling breeze. When hunger slowed the pace, I came to a halt in a tiny wayside called Jewel. The old schoolhouse there was host to an exposition of mountain crafts... hundreds of handmade quilts making geometric walls in the open auditorium. Almost abstract art, rather than the usual random homemade throws I'd seen throughout my youth. More sobering displays were in evidence, as well... logging paraphernalia that boggled the mind. Chainsaws made for giants, built in the industrial age... massive steel implements of unthinkable bulk, created to carve the bones from dinosaurs, or so it seemed. Setting myself back against the wall of water, mountains and cold, the terrain subtly altered... the distinct impression that the ocean was nearby putting renewed effort into the seemingly endless circuit of pedals, cranks, chain and wheels. Descending to the coastal highway, the first glimpse of the slate grey Pacific beckoned. Behind, the reality of the day's effort... green cloaked, sawtoothed mountains arranged close against the horizontal beach. So that's why I was so depleted. Heading toward the night's destination, Fort Stevens Park, the first needling pangs began to shoot into my left knee, forgotten when the campsite was chosen. And, like the day before, out came the sun. We found ourselves in a hushed pine forest, soft needles making sublime bedding. Home, also, to air thick with mosquitos. The first suggestion that the mosquito should be the mascot of the country... there's lots more of them than eagles. |
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