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.
