Day 7

I slip off quietly into the street, undetected by my gracious host who, I cirmise, remains sleeping upstairs. Children waiting at the curb for their school bus stare in innocent bewilderment at the sight of a vagabond and his giant pack making their way through an apparently uneventful suburban neighbourhood.

'Ah' I think, 'another marvellous morning to be alive.'

Winding down highway thirty at a comfortable pace, I take in the vistas as light plays with myriad hues adorning the ever changing leaves of autumn. At one place I stop intermittently to pick up some golf balls which have strayed off target and come to rest along the wayside. In Linton my stomach gets the better of me and I am persuaded to enjoy a brief respite at a Seven Eleven. The proprietors are from India and seem quite happy to converse in Hindi. One even treats me to a free cup of coffee. As I walk away, I hear a familiar voice; Bharat calls to me--kintni miita hai uske avaaj.

Forward again and I'm crossing the Willamette, sustained by the steel of the impressive St John's bridge. Alighting on the northern side, my attention strays to an interesting old police station. I ask an officer there if he can recommend a place for me to pitch my tent; he readily offers directions to a place that sounds suitable. However, a 45 minute search renders me unsuccessful. Luckily, a small boy takes notice of the seemingly quiescent moment in my quest and asks the most relevant question one can be asked when lost:

'Where are you going?'

'I'm not entirely sure,' I confess. 'But I'd like to find a place to put up my tent.'

He goes directly to his mom across the lot and presents my objective. Minutes later I'm offered a perfect place to pitch my tent for the evening. The plot is, ostensibly, a sort of a communal garden (though I was thoroughly perplexed by a great number of old, spring coiled mattresses left propped against a tree, and a forked stick erected beside a small bust, the amalgam overlooking a smoldering fire pit as though it were a diety presiding over a sacrifice). It has a lovely view and an extremely active racoon population.

Day 6

Up with the sun rise this morning, I head out of Goble with the hope of finding another good spot to camp near the river. The first place I stop at is a 76 station at Deer Island (somewhere Lewis and Clark's party stopped on their journey home [1805] and killed seven deer)where I get my morning sugar rush. While waiting in line to pay, I hear the cashier talking with a customer, and I think, 'that's a vaguely familiar sound in his accent.' Then the next customer goes up and in their conversation I distinctly hear the guy behind the counter say 'tomauto.' Come to find out, Martin came from Kenya and is desended from British parents. So I'm thinking: 'How random is this? Here, in possibly the smallest town on the Columbia, there's this guy with such a rich internatioal heritage.' Anyway, he makes a delightful contribution to the cause by donating a brilliant cheese burger, which I quickly scarf down. Cheers for that mate!

With a full belly, I'm propelled onwards to St Helens; once there I find a Starbucks where a new kindred spirt awaits. My barista--oh, and I've recently come to believe that this is a feminine word--takes a good two hours, after finishing her shift, to share some incredibly valuable pieces of her life with me. Alyssa, you exude an amazing vibrancy which is truly attractive. I hope you'll continue to brighten the world with your exuberance and never allow yourself to be dissuaded from cherishing the joys inherent in each moment. Following this lovely fellowship, I go search for a place to rest for the night.

I wasn't happy about staying in St Helen's McCormic park, so I make a late evening push for Scappoose. When I get in, it's dark, cold and there doesn't seem to be a place to stay anywhere. My feet ache, so I sit in front of the post office to consider my options. So, I've just about made up my mind to find a tree to sleep under, when I meet Julia, a lady who's just finished talking on a payphone opposite me. We get to chatting and she decides to call her friend back to introduce me. Long story short, her friend, Brenda, invites me to stay in a room in her garage. When I get to the house, Julia prepares a potato and a fanominal steak which I inhale even faster than the cheese burger earlier that day. I'm almost ready to hit the hay when Brenda's son calls me up to his train room. Now this part is cool. He has created a reproduction of the island of Sodor with hand painted models of all the engines. His maticulous attention to detail, and knowledge of Thomas' world is unparalleled, save that of the creators'. While he explains many of the varied additions he's made, I'm thinkin' that my nephew would go crazy if he were here. Soon after, I fall asleep warm and satisfied with my portion in life.

Final thought: Trust and sincere hospitality from a stranger is received like precious gems in the hand of one accustomed to bartering with coal.

Day 5

Waking this morning, I feel a level of pain throughout my body that I haven't experienced since working in Alaska in the commercial fishing industry. I don't get out of bed as much as I kind of slide out and hit the ground. I remember being in similar circumstances on the Bering Sea and that the only way of dealing with mussel pain this intense is to go on doing whatever it was that caused it in the first place. So, I head down Washington, which turns into 15th and then becomes Oregon Way. Excitedly I spot a Dutch Brother's coffee house there somewhere abouts and take advantage of the gift card in my wallet. Thanks pap. The next task is to cross the Columbia, a part of the journey I hadn't been eager for. You see, the shoulder on the Lewis and Clark bridge isn't that wide, and there's a constant influx of double trailer logging trucks going across. Sufficed to say, it's a thrill walking it. Oh, and the view from the apex, incredible.

I get to the town of Rainier (on the other side) and stop for a breather. I'd been going double time, hearing my life flash with every truck that came from behind and passed and was now grateful to have made it. Fifteen minutes is all it takes and I head off down highway 30. The first place I see is Prescot, which reportedly has a beach of some historical value. I don't stay long since the park host adamantly insists there's no place for my tent. I'm slightly perturbed. I'd had to go about a mile out of the way to find this place, brought to at least some repute by the pioneering explorers of old, and my feet aren't feeling any better. The thought crosses my mind to follow the railroad tracks to see if anything other than swap exists near the road, but then the fellow, whom I'd initially taken to be quite curt adds, 'There's a place a mile down the highway called Goble's landing. You can probably hold up there for the night.' I chide myself on making a presumptuous judgement of the host.

When I arrive back at the highway, I stop a pickup to confirm the direction, and the driver, an amiable guy named Jim, tells me to hop in the back. Now, I've been offered rides by several people so far, and turned them all down, but I justify this one time cause of the close proximity, and cause I reckon that I made up for it in my detour. At Goble junction I see a Sheriff and wave. He returns the gesture, and we subsequently start up a brief talk. He tells me that he'd heard about Angel Tree charity earlier on the radio and takes one of my cards to check in on my progress from time to time. Presently, I'm holding a cup of coffee that I've just heated--actually, I've heated it several times on my little burner--and looking up at the stars. The the incandescent lights of the factory on the other side of the river cast a golden glow in the waters, and I am filled with a sense of wonder at the prospect of another day tomorrow.

Day 4

It's 5:45 and dark. But I'm rearin' to go. A breakfast of dried fruit, then break camp. An hour later and the sun is just alluding to its appearance. I'm stoked. It's a fabulous morning and I've got plans to make it 20 miles today. A brisk four hour walk sees me promptly in Cathlamet feasting on a Danish and drinking coffee at the local Cheveron station. Alright, now that I've got enough sugar and caffine, let's hit the road runnin' (or nearly so). When your waterlogged pack is nearly 30 pounds, running is ill advised. But a shuffling sort of jog works well. The wind starts picking up and there it is...the Columbia River. Wow! As I jog my way up a woody hill area, I'm met with encouragement from passing cyclists. 'Alright!' they say, and suddenly I'm in the zone. I hear 'Eye of The Tiger' in my head and somehow get the ridiculous idea that I'm caught up in a montage video. I guess everyone deserves a moment for a delusion of grandiose proportions, eh? Anyway, I make it to the county line park and think: 'Since the government is shut down, I bet I can get away with free camping here.' Unfortunately, a guy there quickly brings me back to earth, informing me the county parks are still operational. I get him to take a picture of me with St. Helens in the background--I grow wary of taking too many of my own picts lest I be labeled a narcissist--and after stretching, hit the road once again. By the time I reach Stella, I can feel the burn. Moreover, my joints hurt and I'm out of water. It's at least another 5 miles into Longview, and who knows how far from there to a motel. I'm only 20 minutes from my self-imposed cut off time, but I'm also still pumped from my earlier tribute to Rocky. 'Why not?' I think, 'It would be good to wash off the accumulation of five day's grime and stench, not to mention, sleep in a bed.' Whether the right choice or not, 9 o'clock sees me limping into a motel, appearing, I suspect, in a manner resembling a character from The Hunchback of Notre Dam. I've covered 31 miles today, the longest stretch of my life so far, and a bed couldn't be close enough.

Day 3

I'm happily aware that the morning chill will wear off once I get my tent rolled up and start moving. Emerging from the little alcove I'd spent the night in, I see mile marker 20 (highway 4) and then begin a short ascent to the top of KM Mountain, not all that impressive as mountains go, but I am able to see a doe up ahead through the morning's mist. Darn it! It's gone before I can get a picture. Oh well. I'm certain to see more in the coming weeks. I've been eating blackberries from the side of the road but haven't had a drink for a long time. Then, upon reaching a mini mart in Skamokawa, I decide to see what my credit will buy. Uh oh. American Express doesn't work here. I'm just about to fill my bottle from the tap when the friendly clerk, Ms Cortney Meyer (Sorry if I've got the spelling wrong) offers to get me bottled water. She says it tastes a lot better. Awesome! Cheers for that Cortney. A couple more miles up the road and I see what looks to be some kind of storage facility. It's hidden location makes it a perfect candidate for camp. Later I come to find that food is stored here for the White Tailed Deer of the nearby Julia Butler Hansen Nat. Wildlife Refuge. The white, tightly bundled feed has an aromatic quality, atypical of alfalfa, which I find oddly refreshing as I watch the sun set in the distance.

Day 2

I awake to find that a small pond has formed in my tent. Oh no! Everything has got wet. Setting off, I'm not in the cheerfulest of moods. A hot cup of coffee in the local town remedies that, however. While situating my gear, a woman filling up her vehicle remarks that she'd seen me walking the previous day and inquires about the trip. She kindly offers some money, but I suggest (with hope) that she contribute it to the cause online. Back on the road, and the rain begins to let up. There're some visually striking views of old growth and the typically singing brooks are roaring with recent inundation. It was in Grays River--while looking for a place to sleep--I was pulled over by a police officer who wanted to know why I had left the pavements on the bridge. Satisfied with my answer that briers were grown high along that particular section, he courteously directs me to a place where I'd be able to get some rest. Soon the sun is setting behind the hills, reflecting resplendent hues off the mists as they slowly role into the valley. Then the temperature begins to drop.

Day 1

After saying goodbye to Jay (the nice fellow who'd let me camp out on his lawn), I proceed to look for highway 101. Unfortunately, my sense of direction isn't that good, so I end up going the wrong way for a bit. Not to worry, it was only a mile or so in the wrong direction; I'm still in high spirits. A couple miles out of town, I pass some cranberry fields and the redolence reminds me of some vague memory from early childhood, a camp perhaps, or a summer holiday by the sea. Five hours into the walk and I stopped to nibble on the Top Raman which had been provided by my previous night's host. Strength regained, the journey moves on. There's an abundance of interesting birds to behold in the Wilapa Wildlife Reserve. A pair of river otters play as I make my way along Bear Creek. Crossing the Naselle River, I realize that it's getting close to the cut off time-- throughout this trip I have determined to start looking for a place to pitch my tent no latter than 16:00 hours. About two miles from Naselle, I find a little glen with signs that deer had bedded down there recently. I set up camp and collect water from a nearby stream. Just as I finish boiling it, the rain starts.