Day 25

I have completed what I set out to accomplish. And as one final testimony, I'd like to share about Jim. Upon reaching Lewiston, I feel pretty hungry. Already a guy named Lance had offered me a slice of his pizza, but I'm thinkin' to run over to the store to grab a couple burritoes. At the register, I inquire about where I need to go to catch the bus the next day and how far it is away. Jim, a local taxi owner from Sitka, turns around and says,

'Ah heck, I ain't got nothin' to do. Jump in the back of my cab and I'll show you right where it's at.'

He not only drives me to the place but also takes me back to my room at no charge. Why am I saying this? Well, if you've been following along closely these past 25 days, you've probably noticed a thread of continuity underpinning just about every day. I suppose if I were to write a thesis for my experiences this month it would read something like this:

The world we live in is often rendered (either through the media or the conversations we engage) in a dismal and threatening way. One might be inclined to remain "safe" within in the confines of a self-created, sheltered sphere of existence. But to do so will absolutely discredit the marvellously generous, kind-hearted, and genuinely friendly people that are everywhere around us. It's a fabulous life we've been given full of amazing individuals and brilliant opportunities, and if we could just get away from our TVs and cellular phones a bit more often, undoubtedly, we would discover how truly blessed we are to be alive.

Day 24

My morning cup of coffee is most welcome and helps to thaw my hands out a bit. While hangin' out in the Last Resort KOA store, me and a local lady get to talkin' and she suggests a different route through the hills: Blind Grade to Linville Ridge, north on Mountain Road and then a shortcut across on Bosley Grade. That comes out at Columbia Center which goes straight up to Sweeny Gulch. ( I understand all of this probably seems a mite redundant if you haven't had the privilege of being there.) They say a picture's worth a thousand... So I highly recommend checking out the photos from today.

I make the junction at Sweeny Gulch and Highway 12 by 17:00, and man am I knackered. My tent is erected on top of a bunch of old deer droppings and as I get inside I wonder if they'll be coming 'round at some point. The wind picks up and makes strange noises as it blows through the thorny tree beside me.

Day 23

After a remarkably pleasant sleep I go down to the lobby and dish up two omlettes, three sausages, and two yogurt cups. The calories don't concern me at the moment since they'll be used up in four hours or so. Almost immediately after getting onto the main street I see my turn. I've decided to take the back roads for a couple days. Patit winds through some beautiful country and continues (quite precisely) along the trail Lewis and Clark followed on their return to St Louis. For about 13 miles it's up one ridge then down into a gulch. However, each depression and every gully presents a unique impression, painted with an elaborate range of colours and textures which display the amazing imagination of a wondrous creator.

Once on Hartsock the scene changes again. This gravel road has a 8 or 9 % downgrade and it takes me right into a ravine where deer are numerous and the steams flow cool and clear. I arrive at the campsite (on the corner of Tucannon and Blind Grade) and proceed to set up. Two gentlemen, Ron and his son Tony, keep me company for a while. They share how they're camping up the road in a leanto with horses and hope to bag some good size bull elk in the coming days. Once the sun's gone, it doesn't take but a moment 'for the cold sets in, so I scurry off to my bag by 19:00.

Day 22

There's some kind of strange bird screaming in a shrill voice just behind my tent. Even though the sun's not up, I'm certainly not getting any more sleep with this unusually loud noise. Packing everything up, I wander into town to locate something hot and caffinated. There in Waitsburg's general store, I bump into Dan, owner and local business guy. We exchange pleasantries and he asks me a few questions about the journey. Then, he buys my coffee, something I'm grateful for and sends me on my way to Dayton with a reference for the Best Western motel.

Well, it's only about a ten mile walk 'till I get to BW. I figure ten miles is justifiable seeing as how I'd made 31 the day before. I check in, take a shower, send a few messages to mom, and then flip on the TV to a show called Pawn Stars... 2:37 am, I wake for a moment and realize the television is still on.

Day 21

The numbing chill in my hands takes a little while longer to wear off this morning. Even so, most things seem to be on the up and up. Everything out here is farmland. Some of it goes on for what feels like an eternity. After breaking camp I walk 5 miles and then polish off the remainder of the Poweraid. Not a big problem though cause a couple more miles and some lovely women at an agricultural company permit me to fill my bottle from their dispenser. Apart from that, nothing much happens. I mean, I walk... a lot.
Twenty-three good but exhausting miles into Prescott and I find that there's no place for a tent. A brief conversation with Tom--I believe he works for the county--gets me hopeful, but the place he recommends has barb wire, so I figure it's probably off limits. Going another 8 miles, I enter the town of Waitsburg, but a inquiry from some locals reveals that there's no place here either, though they do suspect that I can get away with staying near the bridge in the park. It's already dark, so I go into the bar and order a chili dog and some coffee. One of the locals, Tim I think his name is, buys me a Budweiser saying: 'A little antifreeze to keep off the cold.' I thank him and finish up. Once the bill's been settled, I go over to the park and pitch my tent behind the children's play area. With any luck, I'll be out of here tomorrow before anyone cares to complain about the transient in their backyard.

Day 20

Isolated. That's the word that comes to mind when I look around. Not much but fields and farm land far as the eye can see. I'm glad to have found this place. I'm sure the tent isn't visible from the road. Oh, but back up. I've left out what happened before I got here.

Well, I wake at about 7:00 and have one more quick shower. Then, heading east on Lewis Street, I make my way out of Pasco. There's some big hullabaloo going on near the highway, and I can see old campers & caravans lining a giant lot where on a sign in big letters the words 'Flea Market' are written. There are Mexican folks everywhere preparing stalls to sell food, clothes, tires, you name it. It's really quite interesting, and I almost go in for a look, but then the pragmatist in me takes a hold and I move away toward Burbank.

Before you can get into this little town on the edge of Tri-cities, you must cross the Snake River. As I walk across the bridge I wonder where it begins. Next, I get lost for almost an hour, looking for a place to by water before getting on the 124. While I'm at a roundabout looking a bit perplexed, no doubt, a gentleman pulls over and offers 10 dollars cash to buy me some breakfast. Whether a matter of pride or simply an aversion to the thought of food at the time, I decline the offer but thank the man all the same. I think he looks slightly more perplexed than I possibly had as he pulls away.

After searching a little while longer, I find a Shell station and stock up on Poweraid (not because I particularly like the stuff, but because it's cheaper than water) and soon I'm trodding along highway 124, through McNary Wildlife Refuge first, and then past some extensive orchards and vast vineyards. The sweet smell of grapes carried on the wind is a welcome companion for several miles. But then it all sort of tapers off and I'm back to grazing land. And that, I suppose, is where this day ends. It's 19:00 now, but already the temperature has gone down substantially, so this is where I mummy up; the muffled calls of coyotes are my lullaby.

Day 19

After indulging in waffles covered in strawberries and cottage cheese, I leave the posh atmosphere of the Baymont and head across the Columbia for the last time. On the other side, in Pasco, the difference is like night and day. My first impression is that  everything and everybody here is hispanic. I genuinely feel as though I'm a foreigner lost somewhere in Mexico.

Well, it doesn't take very long before I meet a couple non-latino guys, Robert and Doug, and we get to talkin' and they advise me about where I can do my laundry the cheapest and how to find the Union Gospel Mission if I want a warm place to stay for the night. Helpful men, these two. So, I find a place to wash my clothes (they needed it badly) and by the time I finish and have a burrito, it's 16:30. A bit too late to start off down highway 124, so I get an inexpensive room in a motel called The Thunderbird. This place captivated my imagination as I could almost envision how it was in the late 50s, early 60s when it would have been in its prime. Quite sad what it's been reduced to now, but I'm sure that in its day, there was nothing finer.

I attend the chapel service at the mission in the evening and have some really great conversations with a couple of the guys before returning to the spinach coloured shag carpet of room 201. One more hot shower and I'm ready for the final stretch tomorrow.

Day 18

Out of camp and moving north by 8 o'clock, I'm thinkin' to split the difference between Plymoth and Kennewick in two easy days. But once out there on 395, all the joints start to loosen up and the mussel pain goes away, so I think, 'heck, if I'm feeling this good I might as well go all the way.' Only problem is that my little 500 ml bottle of water isn't quite adequate for the 23 miles. Half way in, I'm thirsty and starting to get dizzy. Looking at discarded bottles and cans along the shoulder, I begin to focus on the contents, if any.

'Empty... empty... too old... looks oily... empty... urine...'

Then, amazingly, I see one that actually appears to be okay. The liquid inside doesn't smell, and the label hasn't yet been bleached beyond recognition, so it can't have been out here too long. Oh well, I'm really thirsty and there's still about 250 ml in this one so, 'bottoms up.'

I get into Kennewick around 17:30 and book myself a room in the Baymont Inn. After the last five days, everything in this place makes me feel like I'm in the lap of luxury. 'Yep, life can be pretty good', I say to myself as I recline in the jacuzzi.

Day 17

Sage brush scratches against the side of the tent as powerful gusts of wind blow through the gorge. I can't say I treasure the thought of leaving the warm confines of my bag, but I'm encouraged by the possibility of putting up good numbers again. I decide to have a competition with myself to see how quickly I can tear down camp and be back on the road. Unfortunately, in my haste, I knock over the tumbler of drinking water I'd prepared the night before. An emphatic 'CRAP!' leaves my mouth when I see what's happened and I kick myself--idiomatically speaking, that is--for the next three or four miles down the highway.

Ten miles pass in good time so I rest for a moment just outside of Crow Butte Park. My parched throat is telling me to cross over the bridge and try to find water somewhere on the island, but I detest the thought of loosing two plus miles in order to quench my thirst. Therefore, with a little difficulty, I convince myself that a more conducive watering hole lies somewhere up ahead. Sure enough, within a couple miles I happen upon the Chateau Michelle winery wherein a guy named Jamie avails me of their water dispenser.

Another nine or ten miles and I reach the junction at Paterson, not much of a town per se, but there is a little store where my water can be replenished again. It's almost 16:00 and I've made twenty miles already, but the country here is flat and barren, not exactly what I've got in mind for a stopping place.

Continuing, mile after mile, the landscape stays pretty much the same. At one point a passing truck slows and tosses a full container of pomegranate juice out the window. There's no malice in his action, rather he's most likely seen me several times over the past few days and taken pity on me. He points to the jug and honks a friendly sequence of toots as he goes by. Tragically, when I finally find the gift amongst a tangle of brush, I see that its brief but powerful encounter with the pavement caused the bottom of the receptacle to shatter. Bummer! I think about how nice that sweet nectar would have tasted, but only lament for a moment. I suppose there's no use crying over spilt pomegranate juice.

As the sun begins to set I become a bit nervous. This is not the place I want to be walking come dark. Not only does the rural locality make this a treacherous spot to be in, but also the huge amount of traffic converging upon this area presents an even greater risk. Eventually, I reach a point when I take my situation up with my Creator. The following isn't verbatim, but it's quite close to my recollection of the monolog that transpired:

'Okay, God. This isn't an ideal situation. The light's going out, and I haven't seen anything close to a spot since Paterson. I'm not blaming you, maybe you tried to tell me to hold up back there and I was too numb to get it, but I'll tell you what, if you're not gonna offer something by the time I crest this next hill, I intend to put out my thumb. I know, it'll be a blow to my pride, but walking the next six or seven miles in these current conditions is a risk I'm not willing to take. So, that's all I've got to say I guess.'


Well, no sooner do I come over the crest of that small hill than I see a vehicle pulled over to the right. The window goes down and a head pops out.

'Hey man, do you need a ride?' the driver asks.

So I get in the car, introduce myself to Jose, and have just said 'thanks for stopping' when my latino host interjects, 'I'm a Christian.

'Ahhh, me too.' I reply, a bit hesitantly.

'I work in that onion processing facility back there.' he states, and then adds a query: 'What are you doing on the road?'

I proceed to tell him about my little journey and how I've met so many incredible people, and how hopefully this will generate income for some worthwhile charities and...Then suddenly Jose enquires,

'Have you had anything to eat today?'

No doubt you can tell how this ends. Yep. I get more sustenance. I'd say the gist of it is this: No matter what form a prayer may take, whether in doubt, or even when offered with a somewhat demanding undertone, words spoken to Jesus are always heard, and although it might seem like his response is stifled in silence, it is always there.

So the short and long of it is Jose drives me the last 6 or 7 miles into Plymoth and leaves me with a bag full of fruit and some water. The last remnants of light disappear as he pulls away and I head in the direction of the river, where a sign signals that there is a camping area.

Day 16

Delighted at the prospect of starting my day with food and an orange pop, I wake excitedly and empty my sleeping bag cover of its store of goodies. Ummmh. It occurs to me that chicken sandwiches make almost as good breakfast as they do dinner. The sun seems to be lazing about just over the southern dike, and the idea of crawling back into my bag and doing the same is quite tempting. But just as I'm contemplating the thought, another of BNSF's clamorous trains rumbles through causing such a cacophony among the surrounding wildlife that I put the notion out of mind. I light up my little Colman stove in order to intermittently warm my hands between the stages of disassembling the tent. Brrrrh. The temperature is dropping, noticeably so, with crystals of ice lining the edges and fly.

It's a matter of 20 minutes and the soles of my shoes are again treading the shoulder of Hw 14, something I'm confident they're accustomed to by now. I, however, am growing progressively weary of the monotone in the topographical features I've been seeing. For two days I've been beset by the insipid yellow hills and their inability to evoke much emotion. I miss the verdant forests and singing steams of the Cascades.

In Roosevelt I quickly charge my electrical devices at the general store. I'm elated to find a message from the friendly couriers who'd ferried me across to the Dalls inviting me to stay a night (Seriously, Chase and Katie, it would be an extreme pleasure to meet up with you both again) but sadly I must decline as a sense of urgency presses me to put up some decent numbers for the day.

Around the fifteenth mile an unusually good spot appears off to the right, problem is there's a 'No Trespassing' sign posted. So, effectively, I present my quandary to my creator:

'You know', I say, 'it's doubtful that I'll come across another place quite this open yet secluded from the sight of traffic. I'm not keen to infringe upon the property rights of BNSF, but come on! Are they gonna claim every good access point to the water?'

Now in my limited experience, God's not necessarily the longest-winded of conversationalists, but He does have a making a pretty succinct point. In this case, the words 'No Trespassing' just seem to embed themselves in my retinae and occlude me from taking that first step across the boundary.

In any case, what happens next is really cool, irrespective of one's spiritual paradigm. I continue on up the hill, and at signpost 146 there appear tracks off through the tall grass and sage brush. I follow them and they take me over a hill and onto a pristine plateau which not only provides total anonymity but also gives an optimal view of Lake Umatilla. This is yet another example, solidifying for me, that when you make the right choices, although not the easiest or most convenient, the results tend to be immensely rewarding. After boiling some drinking water, I take a good long time to bask in the beauty of these surroundings. A welcome satiety fills my soul as I watch the sun cast a kaleidoscope of colours over the valley below.

Day 15

As soon as there's some light in the sky, I'm up and tearing down the tent. Last night's spot is too close to the highway, so passing drivers can see me. 'I hope no one's gonna report me.' I think, as I pack up everything as inconspicuously as I can. As I march off in an eastward direction, I have no idea how far I'm headed or what I'm going to do about water, but I figure I'll have to make due with whatever I come across.

By 13:00 I'm feeling the effects of dehydration, so I stop at a place where I can collect some river water to boil. It takes a little while, but I'm glad of the rest. Once the water has boiled long enough I take a sip. Whew! It has an overwhelmingly disgusting pond scum smell. I put a few pieces of dehydrated squash in hoping it'll enhance the taste. Unfortunately, as time goes on the water develops a starchy pond scum flavour. Although not at all appealing, it helps to get me by. I rashon it by taking one big drink every mile until it's finished.

By five o'clock I'm in Sundale and there's an Army Corps of Engineers site which I take advantage of. I get the tent put up and then start chatting with a few hispanic fellows who were out for a little late evening fishing. They mention that they're living in Roosevelt, but we kind of have a hard time communicating. My attempts at Spanish are pretty feeble. Then, all of a sudden a truck and trailer pull in and out hop two gentlemen. I go over to say hello, and the one guy, Tod, seems quite interested in my walk. His buddy, Bucky, is repeatedly playing a duck call MP3 from his phone. I don't know, I guess he wants to see if it works. Well after several minutes--and I think one duck did respond--Bucky and I become acquainted. Well, he and Tod decide that I need some nourishment, so they start going through the cooler in their trailer, and you name it, they load me up with all kinds of food and drinks. I mean, this is a regular banquet for me, and I'm in the middle of what seems to be nowhere. We get pictures together (It would be great if you could send me a copy guys) and they give me their cards, and then they're on their way east, gonna cash in on an early deer hunting season I suppose.

Snug in my sleeping bag, I enjoy a chicken sandwich and a Pepsi. 'Ah, it feels good to have food in the belly.'

Day 14

The alarm clock goes off at 6 am; it's irritatingly loud. The warm bath I'd had the night before causes me to become painfully aware of how much everything hurts. So, the cure...? Get back on the road and start walking. 'My detour has cost me an extra 3 miles.' I'm thinking as I exit the Shilo Inn parking lot. However, the view while walking across the bridge is well worth it. With Mt. Hood behind me, I press on, eager to put up some good numbers for the day. But it seems like every 500 metres there's an exraordinary picture to be taken. By noon, I realize how much I've doddled, and determine not to take any more, at least not for a while.

The road begins to climb and doesn't stop ascending until far past Wishram. At the top, I stop to take in the view of Celilo Lake and wish that I'd been present to see the magnificent falls that once thundered here. My short rest causes me to realise how thirsty I am. I'm out of water, and the next place for a possible drink is still five or six miles ahead. I keep going since there's not much else to do. Then, as though someone had heard my unspoken need, a truck pulls over next to me, and a big fella named Ventura calls out:

'You need a ride?'
'Na' I respond. ' I'm on a walk from Long Beach to Lewiston, hopefully to raise a little money for charity.'
'Oh,' he says. 'Well you want a pop?
'That would be awesome.' I reply.
'Here, take two.' he offers.

I give him a card and thank him for the generosity, and with that the truck pulls away leaving me to sip on the best pink soda I think I've ever tasted.

A couple more miles ahead and I run into Maryhill Museum. The timing can't be more perfect as I need to use a toilet desperately. Inside a woman named Nancy Lee permits me to use the toilet so long as I leave my pack outside. When I return, she tells me about how has champion bull dogs and delineates at great length the challenging events they must participate in at dog shows.

I pass the 97 junction and wave in the direction of my folks (they live in Yakima) and just keep on moving. There's a State park up ahead, but since I don't have any cash I reckon the best place to put up camp is around the John Day Dam. It's dark by the time I find a reasonably acceptable spot. I don't waste time staking the tent down or anything. I just get it up and crawl into my sleeping bag. Within about five minutes I realize that I'm right on top of some sort of prickly plant.

Day 13

Not much to talk about today. I start kind of slow and in the end only make it about 11 miles before making the decision to cross over to the Dalls to get a room, not that it was on my way mind you. It's just, standing there at the crossroads of 197 and 14, I figure that I've accumulated a musk that's not all too pleasing, and the thought of a hot shower is mighty tempting. I hitch a ride to the Oregon side with a couple young folks (I wanna say Katie and Chase but correct me if I'm wrong) and spend the rest of the day resting up.

Thought: any mattress, no matter what kind, feels far more amazing after you've spent several days on the cold hard ground.

Day 12

I leave my newly found friends-- oh, and Stacy, I hope we can get together again toward the tail end of this trip--in pursuit of a cup-a-Joe. Just across the train tracks at the Whistle Stop, providence sees fit to find me yet again. There an amicably inclined barista named Valyn empathizes with my pitiably decaffeinated state and offers to make me a coffee free of charge. 'Woohoo!' I've got a feeling it's gonna be a wonderful day.

I set a pretty decent pace for most of the morning. From time-to-time, people who've talked with me or have seen me consecutive days wave and honk as they pass. Briefly resting at Drano Lake, I read about the elaborate 'fume' (I didn't know what it was either.) that once carried enormous amounts of timber almost effortlessly throughout the region. A little ways further and there's a bit of excitement to be had as I attempt to get through the tunnels. I wait until it looks like no cars are coming, and then make a b-line for the other end. Invariably, however, at least one narrow miss takes place per tunnel, and I gather my nerves again after each success.

As the sunlight begins to wane, my options for camp seem scarce. There aren't many places to pitch a tent once you're passed Bingen. But when I'm just beginning to feel that my luck's run out, and the portentous cliff walls on both sides seem to be hailing an inclement end, a little path emerges just to the right after mile marker after 72. I climb up the embankment and then over a little rocky crag to find a perfect spot with a wide panoramic view of the gorge below. I turn in around 19:30, after having viewed one of the most splendid sunsets of this year.

Day 11

Waking after a good night's sleep, I take the last few sips of the now cold coffee from the tumbler next to my pack. Yawning and then remembering the invitation to breakfast I'd received the day before, I quickly head for the canteen. When I enter, the smell of flap jacks is already in the air, and David is at the griddle flipping a giant pancake.

'Better get 'em while they're hot.' he says.

'You won't get an argument out of me.' I reply.

We all eat together, and take a quick spin around memory lane once more; then it's time to go. As I walk away from the camp site, I'm once again filled with a great sense of wonder and appreciation for all the good folk of this state.

Off down 14 again and on the right hand side of the road a small group of Blacktail does watches me as I approach. I go past the the Bridge of The Gods and then come to Stevenson, a cute little town which appears to have carved out a little niche for itself with passing tourists. I stop in at Robbie's cafe for a coffee and a sandwich, and post my journal entries for the last few days. Then, I'm back on the road, heading toward Carson. By about 16:00 I reach the little town of Home Valley and see a sign advertising camping. The place looks good, but more than that, I get a good vibe that this is where I should be. The feeling doesn't disappoint. Within 30 minutes of setting up, Stacy (a lady from the site opposite mine) comes over with her rambunctious lab, Dexter, to invite me over to their campsite for dinner. As I look down at my cup of recently rehydrated fruit, my taste buds silently exclaim 'Yes!'

At the neighbouring campsite I was introduced to Merel and Vern. They were both friendly enough. Vern is the park host there in Home Valley, and evidently, his friends have come to keep him company as the season draws to a close. Anyway, it doen't take too much time before the delectable aroma of chanterelles is in the air, and Stacy proceeds to inform me that this particular variety of mushrooms is only found in a limited number of places--something about the Douglas Fir and amount of percipitation in the area. Well, let me tell you, they are just about the tastiest shrooms to have ever graced my pallet. Merel's busy fixin' pork chops while Vern rotates the Russet's on the coals. I'm given a plate with a massive mountain of glorious food just as Pink Floyd's Learning to Fly comes on the radio and I'm like: 'Can this day get any better?' Food, fellowship, and Floyd...a mighty good combination. I fall asleep with a full belly and several more magical moments stored away in my memory.

Day 10


The earth is shaking and my tent feels like it's on the verge of collapse. A dozen or so trains rushing by is enough for me, so I get up and break camp. I chew on some fruit leather that my grandma had packed and then shovel in a handful of mixed nuts. And with that, I recommence, meandering along the shoulder of a highway that parallels the Lewis and Clark trail. Right away I spot a board that tells of how the intrepid explorers came upon a black bear with cubs in 1806.

'Hun, good luck seeing a bear these days' I think. 'What with all the ruckus from that train.'

I begin to climb, and soon the Columbia appears hundreds of feet below. At the top of one ridge, called Cape Horn, the whole of the valley opens up. The sheer beauty of the water shimmering below, surrounded by the vicissitudes of granite walls and a vast array of hues blended into the backdrop takes my breath away. I literally can't speak, and get choked up when I try to offer a word of thanks to the creator.

'This is what people were intended for.' I declare.

Soon, I've reached Beacon Rock, and I think, This'll be a cool place to hold up for the night.' I go inside only to find that the camping fees are steep. *Maybe I'm going off on a tangent here, but bare with me. I'm able to freely pitch a tent in parks in Nepal, India, Thailand, Indonesia and a whole host of other countries I've been in. But here, on the soil of my birth, I'm turned away cause I don't have enough cash for the park fees, and the park ranger doesn't take American Express. There's something tragic about this.

Not to worry though, I end up right where I'm supposed to be. Three more miles down the road, at an amazing spot in North Bonneville, I'm offered a choice site to set up in. The owner of the Lewis and Clark campground courteously provides me a place, and once camp's ready Donna, a lovely lady from a traveling RV club, invites me to dine with them. Spaghetti tastes awesome after you've walked 18 miles and just had a few strips of fruit leather. After dinner one of the gentlemen helps me identify several of the park's nostalgic and antique items. There's a great hall here just loaded with treasures from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. What a find!

Day 9

6:10 am, Ebony bounces up and rushes out the door. No doubt grandpa's up and ready to take her for a morning walk. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and go downstairs to get my pack situated. Before dropping me off where I'd left off the previous day, granddad ensures that my stomach is full. I have breakfast with him and a couple of his friends--incidentally, they were going fishing that morning--and then we part ways. Winding down the evergreen highway, I meet several friendly people. One woman is concerned that I'm all alone and that I don't have any weapons. Another couple applauds the trip and adds, 'We have family in Lewiston.' Funny, seems like every other person I meet has roots in, or ties to Lewiston.

Anyway, after 17 miles (actually 18 since I had to take a detour at 164th to use a toilet) I've just passed Washougal. The wild life refuge is closed as a result of the government shut down, so I'm forced to make camp for the night under a Hw 14 bridge, and 10 metres in front of me are the train tracks. This seems like a great idea at the time, but nearly 10 heart attacks later, at dawn, I vow never to sleep quite so close to the tracks again.

Day 8

It's chilly this morning but thankfully everything is dry. A light fog hangs around St John's making the morning feel a little eerie. I break camp and head down Lombard Street which I hope will lead me to I.5. It takes a little longer than expected to find the bike path leading to the bridge, but eventually one guy give clear directions to cut through Delta park. I arrive on the Washington side again and head into downtown where I'm due to meet up with my grandparents later in the evening.

That night I'm blessed immensely through my grandparents generosity and a Denny's omlette. We all get back to their house around 22:45 and my grandmother immediately goes about reinforcing the stitches on my pack supports. Thanks Gran, it's holding up great. I doze off around 00:00 but awake an hour later to find company on the bed...Ebony, a little Man. Terrier.

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.