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"Like a fiend with his dope, or a drunkard his wine"... I've got a monkey on my back for a reasonably sunny, warm day. This is probably why I've got stark, brittle-boned mining songs in my head. More? "Where its dark as a dungeon, damp as the dew. Where the danger is doubled, and the pleasures are few. Where the rain never falls, and the sun never shines, a man will have lust for the lure on the mine." Well bullll-shit... especially the rain part. A pretty accurate description, though, of what it's been like dealing with January. A dank bitch. Worst-case scenario, for a travelling-to-the-studio day, involves freezing drizzle, and fog. And Friday traffic frenzy. The cars were encrusted with a thin, icy shell when I packed up to leave... cracking the film was like birthing a cold metallic dinosaur foetus. Complete with ooze. Once the wheels were on asphalt, it sounded like a constant ripping of adhesive tape. Did I mention that I don't love winter? Once at the station, I set about putting some mixes together that presented themselves on the trip. Flirting with DJ Grrrl. Hyerventilating for the "On Air" light to go on. Five minutes before showtime, "Mr. Carlson" deposited two guys at the doorway, saying "these are the two gentlemen that were interested in subbing for your show. Show them how it's done." And then he was gone. Surprise! Good thing the "new" drawer was kind... plenty to spin while giving the tour/instruction, and attempting to keep the vibe and paperwork crisp. And the phones... crappy weather means bigger audience. It's all about reaction... scripted playlists, useless and distracting. Program log: Throw the mix in early. Couple of requests. Let the rookies play a song or two, and get on the mike before they get the chance to wiggle out of it. Urgent state police bulletin about massive accident on the interstate. Then, instead of the usual throwing of songs together, I played Dub Side Of The Moon in its entirety. Pink Floyd adapted to reggae... surprisingly fitting. So most of the calls expressed... except for the nasal-twangy one that would "be glad when I played some real music." Oh, ye of so little faith. And then the BBC screeched the proceedings to a halt. Time Warp, again. And mental deflation... with two more goals to achieve: some raw fish and a safe ride home, to take my shoes off. Mission accompished. And a little fiendishness, as well. Love my porter. ...................................................................... Hostel Environment Day Ten: Eugene to McKenzie Bridge At the campground, the river was broad, shallow, and clear enough to see black chunks of obsidian in the riverbed... remnants of the bluffs near the highway. Within the first ten miles of pedaling along the west bank, the flow imperceptably rose and narrowed, unimpeded by submerged boulders that grew bigger when they could be seen at all. Though we'd heard mention of log trucks in hushed tones for days, it wasn't until we approached Nimrod (I am not making this up) that we had our first experience. Cannonballs of diesel-intensity, with shards of bark escaping from every inch... the dismembered remains of clear-cut mountainsides. The world needs its toilet paper. Unexpected road rage from a wild turkey bolting across the road in front of the handlebars made lunch at the store sound a calming influence. Nimrod. Much prettier than the name suggested. Populated only by a large log-constructed store... dwarfed by the wall of Douglas firs behind, and the rage of the river across. And the gorge. Now, the river formed a cut between two saw-blade ridges, splashed with emerald green and shadows... which we were to continue climbing. Passing massive covered bridges, getting glimpses of North Sister (one of the cluster of peaks to come), we drew nearer the evenings destination, Blue River, just outside of the divergence we'd take the next day. Stiff. Sore. Energised... helped by a dip in the river to wash up. Forty degrees F., if that... a shrivelling experience. After dinner, when the least inspired bedded down, the Usual Suspects sought Olympia and music. Finding, also, more suspendered woodsmen, and a country jukebox at the Calico Room. A beer hangover... an fine way to greet our first serious mountain pass. |
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