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.