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.