MARY, JUNER, JURLY, & AUGURST (Just some of the many months with 'R' in them).

Uncle Rico did a quick back-of-the-napkin calculation. "144 beers." he mumbled, "assuming we each drink 12 beers a day".

"I assume bringing water would be entirely out of the question?" I broached.

But he just looked at me as if I were entirely crazy. I didn't know about Kip for sure, but I was having a hard time fitting the concept of 12 beers a day into a low carbohydrate eating routine. I was also having a hard time fitting 48 beers into my kayak.

In an act of unparalleled beneficence, Uncle Rico stacked my ice chest on the towering pile of gear extruding from the cockpit of his stable fishing platform/drilling rig/aquapod, relieving me of my ill conceived plan to tow it in a leaking rubber raft.

We set off around the sheltered south side of Long Island on water so smooth you wouldn't even think it was Willapa Bay, where 9% of all oysters in the United States are grown (thank you Wikipedia entry on Willapa Bay).

Pinnacle Rock...in the distance.

We had stayed at the Pinnacle Rock campground back in 2011, and though we would eventually explore much more of the Island on this trip, we were quickly seduced by the easy availability of non-private oysters close to shore - a feature not so much in evidence at the other campsites on the West side of the island. 

As always, we vowed only to eat the things we could find in nature...144 beers (or so)  not withstanding.

A middle aged lady and her son were camping down the beach from us. She seemed very knowledgeable about the island so we asked her what caused the holes in these trees. She said "Huge peckers hammered all these holes." she paused and then added, " I sure would have liked to have seen them in action."

Uncle Rico was only half listening and was consequently forced to ask, " Did you just say 'huge peckers hammered all these holes'?"

Kip, who had been paying attention, answered, "Yes, that's what she said."

This evening's entree, Oyster 'Po boy' sandwiches.

It took some time to fine tune the deep frying strategy for the oysters, but to sum up the research, the oyster's inherent gooiness lends itself to a 'dry' breading application and not so much a thick beer batter. Also, a camp tested condiment that proved to have multiple applications - Kraft chipotle flavored mayo - in a squeeze bottle.

According to Wikipedia, Willapa Bay is the 2nd largest estuary on the Pacific coast (The San Francisco Bay being the largest), and half the water in this mostly shallow bay leaves and enters with every tide. This makes for a fairly dramatic difference in scenery depending on the time of day.

Out on the bay, the dominant weather pattern established itself as a cool stiff breeze from the north that encouraged single file lines of low lying clouds to file past the island on some undetermined pilgrimage to the south. Meanwhile, the island seemed somehow inoculated from extremes in temperature, our camp sheltered by trees and perhaps topography.

In the gap between the island and the Long Beach Peninsula, trains of un-threatening clouds scurry southward on into the night.

Tired of waiting, Uncle Rico hauls the beer barge into the rising tide (If the tide won't come to Muhammad then Muhammad must go to the tide).

The promise of access to the interior of the island at Smokey Hollow Campground becomes something more like cruel taunting  when it becomes clear a population of mosquitoes, the result of exponential growth in ideal low swampy terrain, would be intent on accompanying us on any inland expedition.

It meant piloting our various watercraft into the wind driven waves, but we persevered until we reached the northern-most campground - Sand Spit.

Here the beach is delineated with great swathes of green and browning seaweed, as if the bay is some vast graduated basin.

I try to take a dramatic picture of Kip suitable for his cage-fighting publicity posters.

Clear evidence of old roads suggests a history of lumber harvesting. The roads evidently run the length of the island.

An ambiguous marking at an intersection.

Deep in the woods, Uncle Rico took time out to explain the life cycle of the Dungeness crab, and how, at suspiciously unspecified times of the year, the female crabs obey nature's dangerous imperative to climb the hills of Long Island to lay their eggs under the leaves of suitable ferns.

We counted ourselves fortunate to find a rare indigenous garden of jalapenos, especially since the receding tide failed to reveal any legal oyster sources.

Pinnacle Rock marks the location of our first campsite (far left)

As the tide continued to recede, the rotten stumps of enormous trees revealed themselves to be futilely clinging to sand in an obviously intertidal area. Uncle Rico began to share his theory that these giants had been victims of the massive Cascadia earthquake of 1700 (or so) when the activity of the Juan de Fuca Plate suddenly dropped established forests into the intertidal area. Of course, after the natural history lesson on Dungeness crabs, I was not entirely sure Uncle Rico's ideas could be trusted. 

After dark, and under a nearly full moon, a solitary oyster boat plied the incoming waters of the next high tide.

At daybreak, I began to notice new animals that made me question the wisdom of sleeping out in the open without a tent. This hand-size cricket/spider hybrid will likely be the source of countless future nightmares.

The trip back to the Pinnacle Rock Campground was like a big payoff for all the effort we had expanded paddling against the wind the day before. Now, the wind pushed us and the waves playfully nudged us, perhaps daring us to surf.

Tree hugger.

That's pretty much what she said.

Other fungus among us.

Oysters!

Kip samples his authentic French 'fortified' wine with the expected level of French snootiness and elegant decorum.

At moments, talking around the campfire, it seemed we were on the verge of solving significant world problems.

But we didn't take any notes...and by the time the moon was setting, I found I couldn't remember any of the answers.

And then the sun rose and the whole thing started again.

Central Oregon Road Trip or Oystergeddon: The Epilogue

Under a pine tree canopy, one would expect to find groundcover consisting of pine needles and twigs. But after the excesses of Oystergeddon, the ground in proximity to the fire is covered in a thick layer of spent oyster shells so that in the foggy gloom of daybreak, the scene resembles a winter wonderland but only because the fog makes it really hard to see.

Hidden in the confines of his tent, Kip, with tremulous voice asks, “Are you guys feeling O.K. this morning?”

Uncle Rico’s voice drifts up through oyster shell covers (I have never seen him sleep in a tent), “Never felt better!”

I respond less enthusiastically owing to a somewhat expected chemical reaction that results from brain cells marinating in rum, “I’m O.K.” I answer, “Why?”

From inside my tent I can hear Kip respond non-verbally - the noise he makes frantically unzipping his tent. I catch a glimpse of him running off into the mist with a roll of toilet paper.

Fortunately (for me and Uncle Rico at least) Kip seems to be the only casualty…or is he?

Fast forward a week to find me on the road in my trusty Ford – clenching – looking for release. Like a hapless half-breed Vulcan trying to rule his emotions with pure logic, I try to exert a similar discipline on my sphincter.

I pull into Madras. It isn’t too late to utilize a fast food establishment’s facilities (Give the KFC in front of the theater credit for a spotless restroom). Tragedy has been averted for now, but the ominous hydraulic noises emanating from my colon suggest I’m not ready to go anywhere just yet. So I watch a movie while waiting for nature to take its course. 

Still photo from Rise of the Planet of the Apes – Photo by WETA - ©2011 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

Caesar the chimpanzee consoles me. “Don’t forget to keep clenching.” He warns me, “You’ve been so forgetful lately!” He does his best not to let me see his worried expression (He reminds me so much of Monkey-cam).

Did I say ‘trusty’ Ford?

Smith Rock State Park at dawn

Sure, it’s kind of pretty, but I was really impressed with the restroom located in the day-use area. After a couple false starts, I begin to recognize a pattern – the third time’s a charm.

I don’t think deer worry about bowel irregularities very often.

I take the River Trail. By this I don’t mean I actually wade in the water. It’s just the name of the trail. It snakes around the rock-climbing-structures of note, following the path of the Crooked River.

These structures make me homesick for the olden days when I used to be able to pass something more substantial.

I’d only ever seen pictures of Smith Rock State Park, and the pictures led me to believe I’d be seeing a natural wonder comparable to Yosemite. But being there in person…well, it was like looking at a bonsai mountain range. That’s not to say that the rocks are small – they aren’t – I’m just saying there was a brief moment of cognitive dissonance. Later, after taking the Misery Ridge Trail to the summit, I gained a better appreciation for how big and scary these rocks are relative to primates.

On the way to the summit, I passed the structure called ‘Monkey Head’…

…and marveled at what passes for fun for some people. Maybe the feeling you get from rock climbing is similar to the feeling I got that time I didn’t die at Willapa Bay, but I imagine it is more intense, direct and visceral.

My fear of heights seems to be growing in proportion to my age. It has something to do with a lack of confidence in my body's abilities to follow my brains directions. I started getting nervous just walking on the trail and looking over the edge. 

The next stop on my central Oregon loop is something called Fort Rock which I learned about in William Sullivan’s book, Hiking Oregon’s History. According to Sullivan, Fort Rock is the remains of a maar – a volcanic explosion crater that erupted in the middle of what was, at the time, a vast Pleistocene lake.

The resulting ‘tuff’ ring formed an island like a great walled city.

Over time, waves driven by the prevailing winds from the south breached the ring giving this geologic feature the crescent shape it has today…very much reminiscent of commercial toilet seats found in public restrooms. Once again, the local restroom facilities prove to be immaculate and I am forced to adhere to the ‘third time’s a charm’ elimination protocol (you have to walk around a bit between each ‘event’).

If it hadn’t been for Sullivan’s book, I don’t think I would have realized that the notch in the rock above is evidence of the action of waves on the shoreline of a long vanished lake.

From a vantage point at a gap in the ‘tuff’ ring another volcanic structure can be seen across the sagebrush plain which is said to house a cave – the former repository for woven sandals (the worlds oldest shoes) manufactured in this area 9000 years ago. This is pretty good evidence that people with feet were roaming/swimming in these parts about 8000 years earlier than was previously thought.

The location of the cave isn’t immediately obvious to me. The volcanic butte is on private land and scheduled tours are limited. I spend a few moments trying to imagine the prehistoric lake. I try to imagine setting out for the shoe store in the family canoe.

Subtle gurgling noises begin emanating from my colon and my imagination begins to veer off course. What would you do if you were in the middle of a lake in a canoe and your body received the imperative to ‘go’?  My real dilemma is not all that dissimilar from my imaginary one. I could not be any further away from the rest room. I stop walking and concentrate and wait for the contractions to pass. When they do, I am worn out and sweaty, but my pants are unsoiled. I double time it back to the restroom – I know I don’t have much time before the next set of contractions.

I do wonder about sanitation 9000 years ago. Did the prevailing taboos of that time anticipate germ theory? What did they do with all their poop? Are outhouses universal? What did they do when they got sick? What kind of medicines did they give each other? I know we ‘modern’ humans think we’re the pinnacle of evolution and often express the conceit that pre-industrial cultures were hopelessly primitive, but have you ever tried to weave sandals out of sagebrush bark?

In route to a crack in the ground, I pass a red horse in Christmas Valley.

Yep. It’s a crack in the ground.

It’s refreshingly cool in the crack, but sometimes smells a little like a thawing freezer.

For a whole lot of nothing…it sure is beautiful.

Somewhere in the night in the long gap between towns, I confront all those philosophical conundrums about ‘life’ and ‘meaning’. I wonder what my special purpose is. And then suddenly it strikes me like a thunderbolt. I have a special power, like those characters in Heroes (or Misfits). It turns out that I can transform anything I eat into a brown liquid.

Honorable Mentions

Porta-potty at Pacific Pride gas station just South of Bend.

There’s no reason this commercial fueling card-lock facility needs to have un-locked porta-potties available in the middle of the night…but they did.

Outhouse/Rest Area West of Mitchell

Nice placement for this typical State of Oregon, well maintained outhouse. Extra points for fascinating illustrated reading material detailing the garbage that maintenance workers have to retrieve from the poo puddle.

I hadn’t been to the Painted Hills since 2007.

The thing about the Painted Hills is they don’t look real. The other thing about the Painted Hills is that you’re not allowed to walk on them.  Once those two facts are taken into account, it’s just one small step to a conspiracy theory (i.e. the rangers actually paint the hills every couple of years when the tourists aren’t looking). So this visit I spend some time at The Painted Cove Trail where the boardwalk allows for up-close detailed examination of the strange popcorn-textured surface of the hills.

Having once been a professional painter, it seems entirely plausible that barefoot rangers with airless paint sprayers could easily achieve this effect.

It kind of looks like it must have rained before this year’s coat of paint dried completely.

All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain...

- Roy Batty

In previous postings, I’ve expressed wonder and admiration for the rock art I’ve been privileged to find. I wonder about its purpose, and what messages from across time are still stored in canyons and caves around the world.  But I don’t know… Is it me? Today it just looks like stick figures are experiencing a brown discharge between their legs. 

This repeated vandalism explains why people who know the location of this artwork won’t tell you.

I stop at Blue Basin briefly, but once again the message at these archeological sites is, “Don’t touch!”

I travel on to Fossil and Condon to find Indian Pictographs that I read about in a book dating back to the sixties. I pretend to be an investigative reporter and visit the post office and the newspaper. I get some leads, but nothing pans out (so far).

In the meantime, I run an experiment utilizing Tabasco as a distinctive identifier. I don’t want to go into too much detail here, but the results of the experiment seem to indicate that it takes about 3.5 hours for me to work my special alchemy.

No reason really…it just looked old-timey to me.

I notice some Transformers joining ranks outside of Condon, preparing to defend the town from Decepticons.

I can remember back to a time when all we were able to harvest from a field like this was wheat.

I don’t think I will ever know the full story behind why this house lies deserted and in ruins.

But if I were a betting man, I would put my money on the story these discarded oyster shells might tell.

I look around to get my bearings, and head home.