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A fitful sleep of disjointed, disturbing, improbable dreams: finding myself among a multitude of young ska types on a muddy riverbank, bound under chains and netting, about to meet an unpleasant fate... attempting to raise my voice in rage against whatever, only able to attempt a hoarse shout; then, a darkened bar, sitting at a table with a diminutive blonde, speaking to me in sultry Russian-accented english. And then I awoke... before seven o'clock, unable to return to slumber. An ungodly hour, for me. Nothing like an unintended early start, with a question mark hovering over me. I'd like to have seen more of that Russian girl. Consciousness evaded me, behind a veil, for the better part of the morning... with many details and duties to attend to: changing oil and adjusting the steering on the Volvo; ironing out the loose ends of the Miata purchase; fixing rotten kitchen drain pipes; finding relief for a throbbing jaw. Only the throb remains unresolved. Somehow, during yesterday's stumblings, I managed to lose/misplace my ATM card, not long after listening to my mother's wailing about her troubles. Which I found out, today. Funny, how other peoples' fatalism and misfortune manages to attach itself to you like an unseen parasite, or a personal boiling black cloud. I resisted tantrums, though... but also forgot to eat, all day. Unless aspirin constitutes a meal. As I returned home, at dark, the pint of ale dropped into my stomach like a brain-fogging depth charge... and anchored my ass to the futon. Despite all this... I'm still awake. Maybe tonight's dream sequence will have more understandable conclusions. ....................................................................... Hostel Environment The first real day of the bike journey began under skies pregnant with bands of grey clouds. Soon, after leaving the wonders of Portland behind, and heading towards the coast (some sixty miles distant) rain fell with punishing insistence. Burdened with more than fifty pounds of my belongings lashed to the frame, grinding the cranks against the sting and chill, it became apparent that finding a comfortable pace was going to be elusive. Difficult to raise my eyes above the wet asphalt and take in the steep wall of green lodgepole pines alongside and above, peripherally aware of the rise of the hills. These tiny two-lane paths (as most of the trip would follow) wound up through remote, raw villages named Scapoose, Vernonia, Hummingbird. Terrain and atmosphere completely unfamiliar, otherworldly... fighting the wind and wet with rain poncho flapping about me like untethered sails. Occasionally in the presence of fellow strangers in the same battle. Brief stops along the way to devour hastily-prepared snacks... forcing warmth and energy back into shaky limbs. Instead of a wished-for downhill into the agreed campsite, relentless climbs awaited. Certain that I'd missed a turn, I flagged down a Park Service lady who assured me that I was close to my destination. Exhausted, I finally coasted into the picnic table-strewn camp, just as the sun made an appearance. Big Eddy's. So named for the constipated old caretaker, who seemed less than enthusiastic about our presence. Cooking and cleaning duties were established in crews, tents raised... limited small talk signalled waning wakefulness. Luke agreed to share the tent and attendant chores... soon, collapse. This was just the first day... and we were heading west. |
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