It was Sunday the 20th of August, and I woke up in the cab of my truck at a rest stop north of Eureka, Ca. This was not a pleasant experience. I was able to adapt to the confines a little better, this being the second night in a row I’d had to endure such limited accommodations, and was able to sleep most of the night through. Which is not to say that I was comfortable, and is also not to say that I very much welcomed waking up at 6:30 in the morning at an over-crowded rest area approximately (and this is a really rough guess) seven or eight hundred miles from home.
All of that aside, the morning was quite beautiful. There were dewey spider-webs in obscure corners of the rest area building, giant redwoods everywhere, and I was surrounded by people sleeping in their cars. I would say that, all things considered, I got out of there fairly quickly (and with special care, fairly quietly), and got back on the road. Here’s what the morning looked like, once the freeway reverted back to highway:
During the course of my travels I met some interesting characters, some colorful, some boring; some large, some small; and some who seemed to be the stuff of myth and legend:
I’m pretty sure that, behind the beard, that man’s always got a smile.
At some point I turned inland on what I believe was the 199. I felt that I should see Crater Lake while I was in the neighborhood, and thusly, I chose a path that would get me there without a lot of silly back-tracking. Taking my time is one thing, but the idea of driving up the coast, then driving straight inland for several hours, then looking at what may very well be the world’s largest puddle, then driving several hours back down the road I’d just traveled for several hours just didn’t seem to appeal to me. So I cut out some of the 101, and headed inland just before the Oregon border (basically... I’m hoping to be granted some leniency in my estimations, because after driving several thousand miles, even as many as 100 seems like ‘almost there,’ or, ‘just this side of the border’). Along the way on this new and different road, I saw a side road sign that said a certain side road would soon be near. I decided the side road sign was a sight for sore eyes, and definitely deserved some serious delving. That is to say, I took a left, drove through a tree-line lane, drove around on a sandy and gravelly river bank, and then investigated the forest. Let’s just say the trees are pretty big. Well, the tunnel-tree was sort of alone, and the avenue of the giants was pretty staggering, but none of that really compared to the trees I was surrounded by at that point. Here’s a picture with some scale to it:
Yes, that’s my real truck. It is not a toy, nor is it a model. The tree’s trunk is several times the width of my truck. Awe-inspiring.
When I met up with my friend Matthew, he said that I should be taking more action shots of myself. At first, I didn’t really take to this, because it would most likely mean having other people take a picture of me with my own camera, and I felt like I kind of had a theme going, being the only person to take the pictures (save that one woman in... Elkton, OK). This was the day that I came up with a brilliant solution. The camera had a 10 second delay that I had yet to officially exploit. Its day had dawned.
Although, this picture I thought was funnier than it was meaningful. It was basically my first attempt at such a feat, and didn’t turn out super. I placed my camera on the roof of my truck (orientation is the same as in the above picture of the truck next to the tree), hit the button, and then ran up the tree. I ran too far. I tried to turn for the picture, you know, to give it some scale and pizzazz at the same time, but it didn’t really work out so great. Enjoy. Also, there’s this one:
There’s a certain similarity between this one and the last one, and that is that I used the timer again. However, because of the instant gratification by digital means, I was able to discern the problematic aspects of the previous photograph, and attempt corrections. What I attempted, was a wholly different type of photograph. This time I set the camera on the back of my truck, set the time, and ran for the trees behind my truck. When you look at the picture, you can see that I am a tiny, tiny person when compared to the giganticosity of these super-huge trees. Also, you may want to know that I wasn’t even really close to the tree directly behind me in the picture. After running for several seconds, I turned and saw that the picture was about to be taken, so I repositioned myself as well as I could. At that point, I would say that I was about 20 feet to the camera side of the tree that’s directly behind me in the photograph.
I tried other things to suggest the scale of the trees, but unfortunately most of it has more to do with width and girth than actual height. The reason for this being that there was actually no way I could fit a whole tree in a single photograph. I didn’t have an angle wide enough. The following photograph is the one that I thought best represents the scale of these trees, height-wise.
After I took that photograph, I headed back for the main road, and into Oregon. Unfortunately, the redwoods didn’t last long after that, and I didn’t do much stopping until I got to where I was going. However, I did stop at a bridge, and then I stopped at a gas station, and almost started pumping my own gas, but quickly remembered just where I was: Oregon: land of the ‘full-service.’ Then I had oodles of trouble getting my traveler’s cheque accepted at the... whatever kind of station it was in whatever city it was. Now I have to check.It was the Shady Cove Chevron, and I bought 30.01 dollars worth of gas at 3.099 dollars per gallon, which got me 9.684 gallons worth of gas. Now then, don’t question my meticulous records again! Also, I wondered why the Oregonian gas attendants were so bad at getting an even dollar amount. Granted, I only stopped at two gas stations while there, but both times it went to X number of dollars... and one cent. It makes me wonder, because I always just go to the nearest nickel (I used to go to the nearest quarter, until I realized that my truck’s gas tank can overfill on a dime (literally). Anyway, I’ve failed at that... maybe once in all my gas-buying career, and it’s these peoples’ jobs to do that day in and day out. With so much practice, shouldn’t they be better at it? Or did I just get the two worst that Oregon had to offer? The other one was at the Safeway in Florence, but that happens tomorrow. Maybe I’ll say more then, maybe I won’t.
I drove on! Here’s Crater Lake:
And here is a forest Fire that was happening down the mountain (well, the smoke from it, anyway):
Apparently, there should be no fish in Crater Lake, according to nature, but man had better ideas. You see, it has no underwater canals, no access to outside water, and is fed only by precipitation and snow-melt. And, seeing as fish don’t generally fall out of the sky of their own accord shouldn’t have any fish in it. As I said, however, the humans knew better, and stocked it chock full of fish. From what I heard, few remain. Here’s a picture of the one boat that goes out on the lake (it launches from the one point available to tourists at water level):
And then there was driving. Very much a lot of driving. From Crater Lake down to just about 6 miles south of Florence, OR, on I don’t remember exactly what roads, but the one that comes down from Crater Lake on the north and west side, then 138, then I-5 (which is still 138, at that point), and then 138 to 38 to 101. I think I stayed at Honeyman State Park, but I’m not there yet (literally). You know, reader, that at first I thought of that ‘literally’ joke, then decided it was too awful to put into print, then changed my decision, because that’s my style. I’m the one who says and writes the jokes that are so obviously tasteless and baseless (but not for any sort of crude reasons) that they necessitate no exposure. And if it’s just too far out there, you’re going to have to have someone else explain it to you, because that’s the way I’ve decided.
Somewhere on the road to the east of 101 that connected to it, I stopped at an Elk viewing area. I had seen all sorts of animals that had had signs up for their respective crossing areas, and I had seen each kind (except moose), and in many cases I saw more than I’d bargained for—as with the bison and the bear. There had been so very many signs saying that I ought to watch for elk, and so few elk (none), that I’d just about given up hope for seeing them on the trip. Then, and this was amazing, there happened to be an elk viewing area. There were signs up, telling about how elk act in different seasons and months and whatnot, and it said that at the time I was to be looking at them, that the cows and the bulls were keeping to themselves. I looked out over the fields before me and saw probably the second largest heard of elk I’ve ever seen. There were probably fifty. So, I took out both cameras and starting shooting. I swapped out lenses on my SLR, and went for the super zoom of 300mm, and noticed something peculiar. Way in the distance, and contrary to the informational signs, was a bull in the middle of the heard of cows. I don’t have any idea what was going on with that, because... on my way out of the parking lot I was a little saddened at not having seen a heard of equal or greater size of bulls-although, the signs had said the bulls do hang out together, they don’t usually unite in such numbers. After getting in my truck, and heading for the exit, I noticed another group of cars. They were down a little bit of a side road, away from the main parking lot. Being the naturally curious person that I am, I decided to venture forth. Disappointment was not waiting for me there. There was a heard of bulls! Their numbers were smaller, but their headgear much more impressive. Unfortunately, my digital camera doesn’t have the super zoom my SLR can sport, nor the super resolution of some other cameras on the market, but I think this picture gets the point across:
After that, I headed out to the coast, and up it. I needed a place to stay, and fairly soon. For you see, I didn’t want to put gas in the gas tank again that day. So, I started looking for camp grounds. I passed by some with unappealing names, and then on to ones with more appealing names. There was a campground just outside of Dune City (which, honestly, was more like Dune Town, or Duneton), so I stopped to investigate. That campground had none of the three amenities I was looking for. If it had had two of the three, or probably even one of the three, I would have stayed. Nothing. The hosts were from Washington though, and we talked for about five minutes about that, and then I drove off into the dusklight of the Oregon coast. I arrived at what I believe was Honeyman S.P. a very short while later, snapped up what remained of their spaces, was glad to have access to showers and power outlets, and decided to explore. I walked for a really long time toward the sounds of the sea. My progress wasn’t as fast as I was used to; as I said, I walked for a really long time, but it was through (up and over) sand dunes. The going is very slow, and I’d never really thought about the ramifications of walking in that kind of sand. While walking, I decided to call one of my friends, to see if he knew the whereabouts of a mutual friend from high school. She has a very distinct laugh, and I was certain I’d heard something very similar to, if not actually, it. He didn’t know, and we eventually discontinued our telephone call.
Somehow, I’d gotten it in my head that I wanted to walk to the water. This was folly. I got to the top of the near dune, could see in the distance another dune, and beyond that was what appeared to be a forest. This confused me greatly, and as a matter of fact, still does. It is extremely accurate to now say that I did not walk to the ocean. I decided to head back to my truck, do some writing and some downloading of pictures, and then some sleeping. That was the plan, and that’s actually very close to what happened. The only thing I really have to add, is that as I was coming down the first hill I’d climbed, I gave some of the up-climbers the tip I’d only too lately come up with: that stepping in the divots of footprints prior can lessen the backslide. I got to the bottom of that hill, and noticed that the people I’d given the tip to were in fact sandboarding. I’m still not sure what I think of that. By the time I reached the bottom of that hill, it was completely dark except for the lights of the many campers. It took me quite some time to get back to my truck, but all was well that ended well, and that night ended well. It was a very nice campground, and I’d consider going back there some day.
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