February 8th marked the “Year of the Monkey” on the Chinese calendar, but I keep writing, “Year of the Goat” on all my checks.
I meant to make that joke when I was in San Francisco but forgot.
I’m in The Beaver State, home of the Ducks. I was in Eugene, so I asked someone why the mascots weren’t the same for the state and the university.
He explained that the University was called the Ducks before Oregon was called The Beaver State. The state adopted that nickname the same year the school started allowing co-eds to matriculate and some thought it might be in bad taste to switch at that time. Makes sense.
One of my first stops in Oregon was a gas station. California fuel prices are a good buck higher than everywhere else because of high state taxes. Also, it benefits all of us, ecologically speaking, because those high taxes keep many poor people off the roads. So, negligibly cleaner air for all! Except those poor people who suck down bus exhaust on their daily commute.
When I pulled into the station a young man came charging at me intent on doing me harm. I squared my shoulders and struck a Marquis-of-Queensbury pose and started bobbing and weaving. He immediately started back peddling and skidded to a halt.
“Warning: I fight dirty!” I said, ready to defend myself.
“Uhm…I was just coming out to pump the gas, sir.” He said pointing to the station logo on his shirt. “Did you need any help with that?”
“Oh.” I said. “Nah, I’m good.”
After a moment of awkward silence I said, “I didn’t know there were any full-serve stations left.”
He explained that it used to be mandatory in Oregon. They just changed the law this year to allow folks to pump their own gas if they want to.
When I asked what brought about the change he said, “People kept saying we were like New Jersey. Nobody wants to hear that.”
I continued north, redwood forests gave way to evergreens.
Redwoods
The views were quite spectacular. The road meandered parallel to a series of emerald green creeks. I passed Lower Finger Creek, and Upper Finger Creek.
Somehow, the mythical and metaphorical “Shit Creek” has come to represent the difficult situations in life we sometimes find ourselves in, with or without a paddle. We should look back on those situations with loving fondness as times of high, decadent living when compared to what fate deals out when one finds themselves crossing “Middle Finger Creek”. I was braced for anything.
Road construction brought the scenic route to a halt while I waited for a flag man to tell me I could proceed. While stopped, the driver of the vehicle behind me, a 19 year old girl, came bouncing and flouncing up from the rear and approached my window. I rolled it down.
“Yes?” I said.
She halted and dropped her smile. She looked slightly embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”
I nodded knowingly, “Brad Pitt? Yeah. It’s the tinted windows. Happens a lot.”
“No. My friend, Brittany.” She said.
“What made you think I was your friend Brittany?” I asked, slightly miffed.
“Your Maryland plates.” She said pointing.
“Does your friend Brittany drive a 1993 Ford Van?” I asked.
“Well, no, but she is from Maryland so I figured there was a 50% chance you were her.”
“50%? Where did you get that figure?” I asked.
“Well…” She said, “…you were either her…or you weren’t her. 50/50. I figured I better check.”
And, just like that she bounded back to her car. Good thing, too. I couldn’t punch a hole in her math.
Along the latest leg of my journey I went here…
I’m thinking about getting “Exit 542” tattooed on my knuckles.
…because You Only Live Once, you know.
The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is old and weak. I considered making a break for home. But the lure of the Pacific Northwest was too strong to not yield to its call. I want to find Bigfoot.
Well, I havent…yet. but I did find something just as rare…
There can’t be too many of these still standing.
Tonight, I dream of Trixie.