Sunday, August 19, 2007
Two weeks in Port Orford...the town where the major budget income appears to be issuing traffic tickets. One week, for a town of 1200 folks, there were 7 arrests. A fellow told me that I was in dire danger if I drove my new (to me) scooter (without license) on the city streets....so I guess I'll have to quit. Word is, you'll get nailed for even one excess mph.
But, surprisingly, the food is good. Two potlucks at this campground, and both were star class. A single RV'er fellow next to us is the best cook: one time a smashing chili, and the other, a memorable mango salsa. In town, "The Crazy Norwegian" serves winning fish 'n chips (Sunset magazine says the 2nd best of 10 in the western U.S.), and just down the road, Grant's cafe serves up killer omelets (the best we've ever had, and some of the largest).
We've had an adequate social life, as well. Cards played 2-3 times per week, and a willingness to learn new games (not so common!), several trips with other folks, including a trip down to Brookings to take in their free Sunday afternoon concert.Both of these we've seen have been excellent...one a Celtic trio, and another a ukulele band---strange, but quite melodious. The latter had kids and adults up in front dancing and doing acrobatics! On both occasions at the concert,it's been followed up by a communal "party hour" at a fellow Jojobian's place---with some 11-12 couples of us from Jojoba Hills joining in. It's a small world, after all.
Brookings, we learned, has the unusual distinction of being only one of two towns in the U.S. ever bombed by the Japanese in WW2.(Check it out! I'd never HEARD of such a thing...) The town communicated with the bomber pilot after the war, and they became "fast friends," (so the book says).
Port Orford is a good "staging area" for side trips. I'll name a few. Three are actually right in town. "The Heads" is a name given to a 3-podded peninsula jutting west from the downtown area, and rising to perhaps 800 feet elevation over the ocean. A Coast Guard station occupied the top and one of the pods, once upon a time, but no longer. Now beautiful trails lead out to incredible ocean vistas, and on a lucky day you can see (and hear) grey whales surfacing, or look down, WAY down, and see seals and sea lions cavorting and feeding. The nice thing, it's been sunny and perfect temperatures, so hiking is just right. Great wild flowers, too.
Or you can drive down "Paradise Point" road to a small parking area, then a steep decline down to the beach, and walk on some of the most pristine beach we've ever seen anywhere. On our day, there wasn't another soul anywhere on the very wide strip of black sand, which is pitched rather steeply down to the rolling aqaumarine breakers. I'm told that agate collectors go hunting, but they must dig up the beach between the low and the super-low tide lines.
Battle Rock is a park right in town, as well, with beach walks just adjacent. This rock became "infamous" because of a battle between land-hungry whites against the Indian tribe which had occupied the area for "a thousand years," (according to the plaque). Our treatment of the tribe was lamentable, at best.
Just up the coast is the Cape Blanco state park. Another headland, atop two-hundred foot cliffs, with a famous lighthouse looking out over endless ocean. The wind howls here, even on a nice summer day, and we're told that the winter storms can be so severe that stones, driftwood and spray will easily top the 70 foot lighthouse, plus 200 foot cliffs, and sometimes break its windows. In fact, during the winter "in the old days," they had to string rope between the various buildings, to avoid being swept over the cliffs and into the sea. And kids were able to attend school only in the summer! Life was interesting, no doubt, but must not have been terrible---as one lighthouse keeper stayed there for 42 years, and at least one of his sons became a famous lighthouse keeper in his own stead. Still, even for us, on a short visit, it was hard to see living in that constant gale. The life-saving service (precursor to the Coast Guard) gave it's lighthouse keepers housing, salt pork, sugar, salt, and flour. Everything else they had to raise on their own. The light was important for more than 100 years, now is run only for historical appeasement (for us lighthouse lovers, I guess)....as GPS, radar, and a general decrement of coast shipping has erased most all need for them.
Nearby was an Irish immigrant's farm (The Hughes). This hard-working couple settled in the river valley (very close to the mouth of the river and the ocean), in a somewhat sheltered place, and built a two story home, and 2,000 acres of fertile dairy-raising land, with 20 employees. Their cheese and dairy products were carried to the beach, run down the beach to Port Orford, put aboard coastal freighters and carried to San Francisco markets. We visit such old houses with some caution...but this one was delightful. Warm and inviting, with great "hosts" (RV'ers who workamp and guide 3 days per week), and a huge amount of history.
Another trip up to Brandon (maybe 50-60 miles) showed us a small town with a fair amount of life, and a great place to hunt for rocks. (Along the Coquille River). Rock hunting is something many RV'ers around here enjoy: they have sophisticated rock tumblers and the glassy-smooth stones that come out are quite lovely. On our first outing, we found petrified wood, and one large
agate---which was such a find that I had plenty of people asking me "do you REALLY want that rock?"
On the way back, we dribbled into a lumber yard which sold some of the indigenous lumbers: redwood, cedar (which here is really a variety of cyprus), and myrtle, which is "the" hardwood most popular in these parts. I bought enough cedar and myrtle to make a set of two of Jokers and Pegs---though neither wood really turns me on much.
Yesterday we traveled south....to Gold Beach, which is another fairly "busy" small town (as compared to Port Orford.....slowwwwwww), and from there took a pretty spectacular road up the Rogue River to a tiny town called "Agness." Many of you will have taken the more famous route up this river----the "Jet Boats," which have a famous following. (We'll hopefully do that later.) The road is narrow, twisting, and "barreled" (green tunnel under trees). 36 miles, and a very slow 36 miles at that. I constantly thought that my driver-side mirror would be hit by another such from an oncoming truck...the road was scarcely wide enough for two of us. At times it would come out on a cliff above the river....hard for me to estimate heights, but 150-200 foot cliffs seem about right. The edge of the road comes "right to" the top of the cliff, and then it's ooh,ahhh,oooh, all the way down to the water. But when you finally cross the bridge, and start back toward Agness, then the road REALLY gets interesting. A true one-laner, but two-way road, with blind curves, and steep precipices and you "never know" what's just around the corner. Fortunately, the mail boats seem to have the day.....not much traffic, and what we saw was more likely to be a "four wheeler" ATV than a car.
Agness is, well, tiny. Scattered about under the trees, for the life of me, I could see no reason for its existence, except perhaps for a feeding place at noon for the mail boat crowd. There is a general store....with a platform out front where some of the old locals seem to gather, with a stray dog or two, as laid back and comfortable-seeming as a Currier-and-Ives. And an interesting runway for planes that cuts right across "Main Street" ---if that's what it is. But, beautiful. Really. Serene. I don't know whether it's far enough inland that it escapes the dreary winter fogs.
We wanted to see a state park of "old growth" forest...it was right on our way.
We stopped at the road leading up into it. It had one of those signs indicating
steep hill) usually you see these on interstates, a tuck headed down a hill).
This "hill" though had the truck almost vertical! And the first section of road
looked the part, too. Pat went back to see a smaller sign....it said, "due to
winter storms, the road is closed." Good thing... it didn't look like anything
I wanted to drive a truck, or any vehicle, up, anyway.
Today we had one of those strange things happen. Pat and I decided to play tennis. Since taking up Pickleball at Jojoba Hills, we've played very little tennis and we REALLY SUCK. The tennis courts in town aren't much better than our playing, either. But we set up, smacked a few balls, and then lo-and-behold, another couple came, and brought out their racquets.....PICKLE BALL racquets! We both stopped and shouted, "PICKLE BALL!" Which attracted their attention, believe you me. They weren't expecting us, and neither us them. But soon enough 8 other pickle-ballers showed up (now the chance of that happening seems close to zero), and one couple had extra racquets. They asked us how much we'd played, and we said, "oh, three times a week for a couple of hours"---and they ooh'ed and ah'ed at that. But of course, they were young(er) and quite athletic, and we certainly didn't win all our games! Two of 'em were kids, maybe 10 and 17, and wow, could they hit that silly yellow wiffle-ball! One of the guys called us "ringers."
Turns out this group of folks are part of a larger group of maybe 20 full-time couples (meaning live here year 'round) who have found their niche in an even tinier town just north (Langlois) and who do everything together....pickleball being the thing they do on windless days in summer. Wind surfing, skiing, bicycling, you name it, they have something going on most of the time. (I can't imagine being a teenager in these places, though....)
It's the right mix of "outings" plus "down days," and the weather has (we're told) been especially nice....no wind for a week. The other night we heard rain droplets on our roof. The last time that happened must have been about 8 months ago! I'm trying to get my head around what "coastal living" might be like. For one thing, houses are hugely expensive...they lose nothing to their California cousins! But, unlike their southern counterparts, they are not "show pieces" (egregiously ostentatious)---clearly not designed specifically to show the rest of the world just how wealthy their owners are. And people don't drive cars to do that, either. So, that part, at least, gets a thumbs up. I have a definite feeling that many of the folks hereabouts are ex-Californians, tired of the population, traffic, and the keeping-up-with-the-Joneses which reigns supreme down there.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
OTGAB 5, reposting..... August 5, Port Orford, Oregon
Got up late today. No particular reason to be so tired, since yesterday was not a hard travel day, only slightly more than 100 miles. But I was "up tight" about the pass we had to go over—which, as always, turns out not to be as difficult as I imagined it would be—and this is always fatiguing. It's a 10 mile section of the Highway 101, which starts at sea level, and rises to about 1500 feet, then plunges right back down again just as fast. In the truck only, it's no big deal, though you have to be careful. Pulling a rig, I was concerned about the long tow up, with 7% grades (the maximum allowed on interstate highways) for 2 miles, and 6% for two miles...which is a lot of grade. Plus you can never really build any speed, because it's twisty curvy, and sometimes rough, too. As you get halfway up, the whole scene gets covered with dense fog, adding to the pleasure. At the very top you went your way through huge coastal redwoods, so it is a beautiful drive, too. (Not when you're pulling, though). After you twist and curve awhile at the top, you start down, and then really down. You are now restricted to only one lane, with a wall just on your right, and curves marked 30 mph, plus dropping at the same old 7%—which means you have to be on your toes. But, it went smoothly. Just a little braking, the engine kept me under control. And then we came into Crescent City.
Just today I heard from another RV'er friend, though, who had a much worse experience on this same stretch. It was hot (quite unusual, but would make things MUCH more difficult engine and transmission wise). He had a much heavier rig, and he got caught in construction and so had to stop-and-start the whole way up and down again. Now THAT would be a terror.
Anyway, crossing over into Oregon, you come out onto a broad coastal "shelf," with rich, verdant farms (the Easter Lily capital of the world, they proclaim), which fields on either side lined with rich, dark green lily plants, some of them blooming. Word is, most of these bulbs (which require three separate plantings over as many years) will go to Japan and China. Now, that's a change. Wonder what they do with them all? Eat them?
But this easy going doesn't last for long. You start coming into "spurs" of mountains which just off from the longitudinal "coastal range" (which goes up and down the whole coast, just inland, and which drains all moisture from the coastal airs, leaving the leeside of these mountains as desert). These spurs come right down to the ocean, so no choice but to go up and over them. They've done a pretty good job of building a good highway, but it's still a low of slow up's and sometimes a bit too "fast" downs. But Oregon didn't have the dense fog, and seems sunnier, by and large. Whether ‘tis true all the time, I don't know, but so far, we've not had any in this campground, and where we were last, it was persistent. Anyway, the classic "Oregon Coast" picture should come to mind. You're on a roadway, atop the huge bluffs/hills/mountains (whatever you want to call them), with 1000 foot plunges down to the ocean, and views stretching, no doubt, a hundred miles or more out to sea, as well as up and down the coast. Out in the water are these immense rocks—you could call them spires, or even islands, often topped by green growth, even trees. The waves crash into them incessantly, of course. The whole scene is actually so well known, that I believe you could show somebody a postcard of the Oregon coast, unidentified, and he'd immediately cry out "Oregon!"
The towns in northern California are few and far between, but at least there are a "few" decent sized ones (Eureka being the largest, at about 30,000) and Crescent City the last of the halfway decent sized ones. But in Oregon, nothing is very big at all: we're talking 1000-1500 folks, usually, and about 25-30 miles from each other. The phone book for this place is 1/3 as thick as Fayette's used to be. I can't imagine, really, living in a place this small: wonder where you get your car fixed? Or see a dentist, optometrist, or worse yet, a doctor if one is needed. I do think we saw a sign for some sort of hospital in Brookings, about 45 miles south of here.
Port Orford used to have a Coast Guard rescue station here: one of those dramatic things at the bottom of a huge cliff, at the foot of a multi-podded peninsula jutting out from the town. It had rails leading from a boathouse, down into the crashing surf. But, this has gone. Now the big station is at Brookings. I guess the advent of helicopters means that immediate help via boat isn't as pressing as it once was. So, some "history" around here—though none of it much older than the turn of the last century. We'll go exploring, and perhaps I can say more, later.
People around here fish—of course, the salmon "run" every summer, and are a big draw—and of course, fresh salmon can't be beat to eat, either. But the campgrounds have "fish cleaning stations," and of course, a campground runs a freezer for folks to store both their bait and their catchings. So far, though, nobody has offered us any free fish. The other thing, besides sight-seeing they do, is hunt for agates on the beach, this being the "agate" capital of the world (or the U.S.?) Anyway, lot of agates. To get the best ones—since they are so picked over—one has to watch the tide table, and not only go out on low tide, but even at a "minus tide," which means the water is below the usual low tide mark, even, and thereby revealing stretches of sand which are much less picked over. Even then, they take a small shovel and dig, hard, for the little semi-precious jewels. The other thing they offer is a shed where people can plug in their "rock tumblers," (an old term. The old ones just turned and turned for weeks on end, polishing rocks; nowadays, they shake, rattle and roll, and the stones are polished in three separate steps in as little as 3 days). Our neighbor has a whole picnic table filled with agates, and is the proud owner of a new rock "shaker," (about $200 with supplies of various grits) and even brought her latest "catch" over for viewing this morning. She told us we should go rock hunting...and said we should view the tide table, but stay away from the next one! (Because she wanted less competition!). Her husband tells us he's limited her to "300 pounds" of rocks. Our other neighbor rolled his eyes and said, "I just can't IMAGINE a hobby any less well suited for RV'ers!" I told Pat that any rock collecting we'd do (it actually sounds kinda fun, since I like pretty rocks) will have to start AFTER we get back to Jojoba Hills. Sorry, no agates.
We also learned that strolling the beach around here can be a punishing experience. The persistent wind (from the north, at about 30 mph) whips down the beach, unimpeded, and blows sand in your eyes and face and can be very tough. While we noticed a wind on the California beaches (the same phenomenon, really; the summer sun heats the air inland, which rises, creative a relative vacuum, so that the colder air from over the ocean comes rushing inland to fill the void), it didn't seem so intrusive, nor irritating. This reminds me of Kansas or something: it's just incessant and wearing. But, thanks to the inrush of cold air, the temps rarely vary much from about the mid-60's, apparently either day or night. (However, sometimes the wind must stop and the temps soar—because people do speak of some extremely hot days, rarely.) I can't say much about humidity—it must be there, but it doesn't really feel so. It scarcely ever rains in the summer time, but everything seems lushly green, so either mists, or ?? keeps it so. (Though I understand it has rained a fair amount this summer, the "wettest we ever remember.")
Our campground is about 50 sites, about 3 rows, tightly packed, almost all back-ins, and some of them, like this one, a real bear to get into (because the common building is just in across the road, there is virtually no maneuvering room). Once in, we are with a few feet of our neighbor's car, and just a few feet from our own truck on the other side. A narrow concrete pad supports a picnic table—but it's hard imagining when it might be warm enough to enjoy it.
The campground also has a "rec" room—doubling as the only indoor community gathering spot. It has about 6 tables, a pool table permanently pushed up against a wall (hence unusable; I can't tell you how many rec rooms in campground across the country have invested in pool tables which are unusable by anybody!), a small kitchen counter area, a tiny microwave, and that's about it. At our Mexican potluck last night the food was tremendously good and plentiful, but the noise level rose to the painful in this tiny hard-walled room. As somebody (also from Jojoba) mentioned, "it makes you realize how really, really nice we have it back home." To speak to the person across the table from yourself, you had to literally shout, and of course, this was a vicious cycle making the noise level even worse, etc. After eating the good meal, I just had to clear out—I didn't think I could take any more.
Anyway, there is also a "heated gazebo," which is a much smaller structure with a permanently open door, overlooking the "slough" (pronounced "slew,")...a marshy area with reeds and grasses, down a bluff from the room. It's pleasant enough. The potable water is so expensive in Port Orford, so the campground owner says, that washing cars is done via a separate system, with rather "tea colored" water sucked up from this marsh. No matter, it works well enough. Just beyond this room, which also contains our mail boxes, to one of which our name is already affixed (a nice touch; makes us feel welcome; God knows how much mail we'll actually get), lies a coffee room, where folks gather in the morning for free coffee and rolls. Neither are exactly on "my menu," too bad. But, it's one of the ways in which this little dinky campground make people feel welcome.
The other is the owners, on-site managers, who greet you, knew us by name just as we pulled into the place. A young couple with kids, they really want you to be happy. The daily rate is $27, but you can stay a month for slightly more than $300—go figure that one out. All I can compute is that they really don't want daily campers, really encourage long-termers. There is a whole row of obviously permanent RV's or park-models, and we understand these are more-or-less permanently occupied by the usual local folks who need/want a cheap place to live. I'm not sure just how much they mix with the transient crowd. One old fellow, who is pretty hard up physical-wise, does mix with the group, and is much loved by everybody. He's up every morning to make the coffee—if anything happened to him people would know it immediately!
After I finally got myself up this morning, we had breakfast of some good bread we bought at a bakery in Crescent City—they do have a few good things, there—and then I worked on Sudoku. Sadly, I'm sort of addicted to the damn things, but they make me tear my hair out in frustration, particularly the hard ones which all hinge upon some obscure logical clue which will reveal a single number, thereby opening it up to solution for all.
We debated a bit about whether we should start out our cycle of exploration: one of the good things about a new place, is a whole menu of available directions and places to explore. This list gradually disappears the longer we are here, so the "freedom" feeling of a new place is something best just in the first few days. But, in this case, we both said, "nah, not today."
I thought it'd be an easy day—but as in all such expectations, I was wrong. I planned to take a nap, but got side-tracked into more Sudoku. Then read a bit, then got restless and got up and washed the rig's windows. Then talked to my neighbor about satellites, then washed the truck (even waxed part of it), and then fixed lunch (at 3 p.m.!), then tended to emails, then, then, then. Anyway, no nap, which is just as well, and no idle time, either, which is also good. Just that a restful day turns out to be one packed with "things." I never understood why a clean truck seems to run better—but it has ever seemed so. (You know the feeling).
I'm trying to make a mental comparison between northern California and southern Oregon. By rights, they should be similar, because pretty close and ruled by the same topography, surely similar climate. But they do not feel very similar to me. California seems quiet, slow, misty, mysterious, even, with fogs which intermittently roll through, streams, mountains and enormous sea cliffs. While I can't say those same things don't apply here, they are here in a different ratio, or different configuration, or something which avoids ready explanation. So far, I prefer California. Come to think of it, one of the very large (possibly THE key) difference is the huge trees which dominate the landscape down there, and which are mostly absent up here. Those trees "shade" everything (no pun really intended)—by which I mean, create a pervasive ambience which rules even the spaces where they aren't. (Just close to).
I do continue to believe, however, that the only real way to get a feeling about a place is to BE there for awhile—and probably one season, one month, won't even touch it. But, it's a sure sight to do a better job than just driving through.
One friend mentioned driving along the 101 at Crescent City during a winter storm, and seeing the waves wash over the highway and tip over semi's. So, that would be a very different experience! We heard, that during the winter storms here in this campground, the wind blows from a different direction and can be just terrific. We watched a special on high-def TV about a high-end resort near Vancouver, constructed right on the very rocks over the ocean, (not even that far up), with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the prime attraction being for people to come and watch the waves during winter storms. Well, that I'd love to see, but I think I'd be uncomfortable: as I said, the windows weren't THAT far up the rocks—and a rogue wave.... Well, I don't know.
Crescent City, I think I have it correctly, is the only lower 48 place to have suffered a tsunami, back in 1964. The same year, and not far removed, was the date of the warm 12 inches of rain which feel in a single day, melting the snow pack of the coastal range, and washing such huge trees and debris down the flooding rivers, that bridges were wiped away, along with several small Indian towns (Klamath among them). What a year that must have been. If you were inclined, I believe you'd wonder whether God might be preparing you for the end.
Well, enough about the extended version of OTGAB. This is enough more informative, and OTGAB 5 was otherwise so terse, that I'll probably go back and post this, offering people (who aren't really all that interested) the option to "delete immediately."
Anyway, Pat is over her shingles, just a few little discolorations remaining, nothing really—never was. And I'm "traveling well," just my usual complaints of back and neck pains, and occasionally nagging "men's prostate symptoms" (more than you wanted to know, but just in case you were thinking we have it pretty easy). I sleep rottenly—but usually enjoy my middle-of-the-night solitaire games. If I'm in the right frame of mind, don't have to travel the next day, and have no pressing need to rise early, I can actually feel rather comfortable laying on my side in a warm bed, playing solitaire, and never really caring just when I might feel ready to fall asleep again.
Far better the solitaire than the worry cycle which would fill the space otherwise. No end of things to think about—global things like climate, pollution, political intrigue, over-population, species extinction, rotten politicians (oh, did I say that?), and the dearth of halfway decent medical care at anything other than break-back prices. I notice, now, however, that there is rising general acclaim for the notion that the nation's medical care is "broken." It used to be that if anybody said that, they were labeled arch-liberal or Communist! ("We have the best medical system in the world...") However, I hear that sentiment much less...almost never anymore...and a whole lot of grousing that the system needs major overhaul. Now there is an ad on TV from some sort of California coalition, saying that one half of all bankruptcies are due to medical expenses. We're all living at the end of a delicate thread....may as well enjoy it while we can, and while still able to be somewhat pain free and not terribly knee deep in debt.
