After the previous night’s ordeal it was nice to see Oregon showing me a softer side, and though I was penniless once again when I left the diner I was smiling as I hiked back to the highway. My birthday was off to a good start. Now if I could just make it to Portland by nightfall, in time to claim a bed at a homeless shelter, I’d really have something to celebrate . . . With that hopeful thought in mind, I got busy wagging my thumb.
The coffee was long gone, and my hands and feet were frozen numb by the time I caught my first ride an hour later, with a sheep rancher heading home to Baker City, seventy-five miles up the road. My first impression of the sandy-haired little guy was that he looked like he’d had an even rougher night than I’d had. His skin was sallow, and the bags beneath his eyes were puffy and as dark as ripe plums, so it didn’t surprise me when he confessed that he’d just spent the weekend getting chemotherapy treatment at the VA hospital in Boise. ‘Liver cancer,’ he said, before I could ask. ‘Agent Orange took its time, but it finally caught up with me.’
His name was Elvin, and he’d been drafted into the army as soon as he’d finished high school, back in 1965, during the heyday of Operation Ranch Hand, the US military’s campaign to chemically defoliate Vietnam’s jungles and deprive the Viet Cong of their hiding places. Back then, Elvin said, our troops were given little warning about the risks of the chemicals they were handling.
‘Whenever we set up a new base camp, we had to strap on backpack sprayers loaded with Agent Orange, and then our dip-shit looey would march us out into the jungle to poison all the bush on the perimeter. Nobody bothered to tell us we were poisoning ourselves in the process. Which was typical. Everything over there was FUBAR, if you know what I’m saying.’
‘Fucked up beyond all recognition’. I nodded knowingly. Though I hadn’t served, I’d read enough war memoirs to recognise the acronym. But I’d always wondered why the defoliant was nicknamed Agent Orange, and out of curiosity I asked Elvin. He explained that there were a number of herbicides being used during Operation Ranch Hand and the fifty-five-gallon drums the chemicals were shipped in came marked with different colour codes so you could tell them apart. ‘We called it Agent Orange because the barrels it came in were painted with orange stripes.’
‘Makes sense,’ I said. Which was more than you could say about most things connected with that tragically senseless war.
Hoping to steer our conversation into less painful territory, I asked Elvin if he enjoyed raising sheep. He laughed at my question and grinned as he replied, ‘If I didn’t enjoy it, I’d be crazy to keep at it. ’Course, there’s some would say I’m crazy just the same. There’s a lot easier ways to make a living, no question. But I like being my own boss and working outdoors, so sheeping suits me fine.’
‘I’m from Brooklyn, so all I know about sheep ranching is what I’ve seen in the old Westerns,’ I confessed. ‘Seemed like in the frontier days the cattlemen were always picking fights with the sheep ranchers for fencing their pastures. Do you still get hassled by cattlemen?’
‘Nah, those feuding days are over, but cattlemen still look down on us – that much will never change. You know what the cattle ranchers round here call sheep?’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Meadow maggots,’ Elvin chuckled.
‘Jesus, that’s harsh!’ I replied. Still, I have to admit, the cattlemen’s slander made it hard to sustain my idyllic view of the sheep I saw dotting the hillsides of the alpine meadows as we approached the Baker City exit.
After Elvin dropped me off, I soon caught a ride to the town of La Grande with an elderly gent in a Chrysler Le Baron. The back seat of the car was crammed with open boxes full of King James Bibles and I wondered if he might be a preacher, but he turned out to be a travelling salesman who specialised in religious books, and for the next hour, as the road climbed steadily higher into the Blue Mountains, he bemoaned the dwindling prospects in his line of work. Apparently, in recent years, his sales territory in Eastern Oregon had been overrun by Mormons relocating from Idaho and Utah, and as a result the demand for ‘true Christian’ reading material had plummeted. When I asked why he didn’t just broaden his base by stocking books the Mormons would buy, he scoffed and said I obviously didn’t know much about Mormons. Which was certainly true enough, so I asked him to explain.
‘Mormons will only deal with their own, son,’ he replied. ‘Doesn’t matter what you’re selling, if you don’t know the secret LDS handshake you’ll never get your foot in the door.’
I couldn’t tell whether the salesman’s explanation was the truth or just sour grapes, but his bitterness was definitely genuine, and I was glad to get away from it and back out into the fresh air when he dropped me off at La Grange.
By now it was mid morning, and the bright sunshine had warmed the air considerably. Which was fortunate, because it took me nearly two hours to flag down my next ride. Still, it was a picturesque spot to be temporarily stranded, and as I stood gazing west at the evergreen slopes of the Umatilla National Forest and the snow-capped peaks of the Blue Mountains I was thrilled to spot a white-tipped black speck tracing spirals high above me – the very first bald eagle I’d ever seen in the wild. It was a sight I’d have missed if I hadn’t postponed my trip until daylight, and it made me feel a lot better about the frigid night I’d just suffered through in Ontario.
As noon-time approached, my growling stomach kept reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s spaghetti dinner, and I could feel a case of the hypoglycemic shakes coming on. I was reluctant to leave the highway to go foraging for food in La Grande, so I made do with the only source of sugar I had handy – a McDonald’s ketchup packet I found burrowed down like a plump little tick in the furry lint at the bottom of my overcoat pocket. Ripping the packet open, I stuck out my tongue and slurped up every drop. It was a pretty pathetic birthday Happy Meal, but at least that squirt of ketchup kept my shakes at bay until an old Chevy pick-up with dealer plates pulled over to pick me up a short while later.
The pick-up’s young driver, a blue-eyed blond named Jakob, turned out to be a fellow Norseman, and as soon as we were back on the road he pointed to a baggie of homemade cookies on the seat between us and told me to help myself. ‘Norwegian butter cookies,’ he said with a smile. ‘Cherry-almond. My sister Ingvild baked them last night. When our grandma passed away back in December, Ingvild inherited all the old family recipes and she’s been baking like a fiend ever since. I guess it helps her cope. Grandma pretty much raised us on her own after our parents got killed in a car wreck when we were young, so losing her was like losing a second mom.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for your loss, but tell your sister she’s done your grandma proud,’ I said, after wolfing down one of the buttery, rich wafers. The pastry chefs at Ebinger’s famous Scandinavian bakery in Bay Ridge had nothing on Ingvild, that was for sure. I couldn’t have asked for a tastier – or more timely – birthday treat.
When I told Jakob I was heading to Portland, he said he could take me as far as Pendleton before he had to turn north into Washington to drop the truck off at an auction lot in Pasco. He worked as a detailer for a car dealership in Boise and occasionally they’d have him drive one of their trade-in vehicles to Pasco and then return to Boise by bus. It was cheaper than shipping the vehicle by truck, Jakob said, and he enjoyed the trips because they gave him a break from his everyday routine. ‘The only hassle is when they stick me with an old beater like this one and I have to worry about it holding together long enough for me to make it to the auction lot.’
Maybe Jakob should have knocked on some Norwegian wood before sharing that thought. Before we’d gone twenty-five miles up the road, the truck’s engine began to sputter and cough like an asthmatic climbing stairs and he was forced to pull over onto the shoulder, where he began pounding the steering wheel in frustration and cursing out someone named Tommy.
‘Out of gas, sounds like,’ I observed. ‘Didn’t you gas up before you hit the road?�
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‘I would have,’ Jakob frowned. ‘But Tommy at the shop swore he’d filled the tank last night. The gas gauge on this piece of shit is busted, so I just took his word for it. But I guarantee you, the kid’s ass is grass when I get back to Boise tonight!’
‘So, what next?’ I asked.
‘Guess I’ll have to hike back to Meacham and pick up a can of gas. I hate to ask, but would you mind hanging out with the truck till I get back? I’m afraid some highway patrol cop will ticket it as an abandoned vehicle if there’s no one here keeping watch.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered,’ I told him. ‘Any cops come by, I’ll let them know what’s up.’
‘Thanks, man. Meacham’s only a couple of miles back, so I shouldn’t be gone long. Help yourself to all the cookies you want while you’re waiting.’
It was a good thing Jakob left me to mind the truck because, just as he’d feared, a highway patrol cop came cruising by a half-hour later and pulled up on the shoulder behind me to ask what the problem was. When I told him Jakob should be back soon with a can of gas, the cop said he’d sit tight and escort us across the median to the eastbound lane so we could get back to the Meacham exit to finish filling the tank. According to the cop, the nearest gas station on the westbound side was too far to reach on a gallon of gas, and he didn’t want us going through the same drill again a few miles up the road.
Fifteen minutes later, Jakob came trudging back with a gallon can of gas, and while I emptied it into the tank the cop went through the motions of checking Jakob’s licence and registration. Unlike me, Jakob had his papers in order, and as soon as we got the truck started the cop hit the cruiser’s lights and led us across the grassy median to the eastbound lanes.
‘Pretty cool cop,’ Jakob grinned. ‘I was thinking I’d have to back up two miles on the shoulder to get to the westbound exit, which would have gotten me a ticket sure as shit if I’d been spotted. Lucky thing you stayed behind to mind the truck.’
‘Yeah, he was cooler than most,’ I agreed, thinking of the redneck cop who’d tried to run me out of Lumberton. ‘We were shooting the breeze while you were gone, and he told me the stretch of road up ahead is pretty hairy. Good thing we ran out of gas where we did.’
‘Yeah, we’ll be climbing two thousand feet to Deadman Pass. Supposedly, it’s one of the most dangerous mountain passes in the country – six per cent grade, and nothing but double hairpin curves all the way.’
‘Then let’s hope the brakes on this beater are in better shape than the gas gauge,’ I remarked uneasily.
Jakob grinned and told me not to worry, the brake pads had just been replaced that week. But I worried anyway as we climbed steadily out of Meacham toward the grimly named heights of Deadman Pass, staying cautiously in the slow lane, while a succession of maniac drivers went flying by in the fast lane, making suicide passes on blind curves to overtake the two massive log-hauler trucks we were sandwiched between. When we reached the crest, however, my uneasiness gave way to amazement as I looked down at a sun-splashed panorama of farmland and forest that stretched clear to the gorges of the Columbia River and, far to the west, the blurry, jagged line of the Cascade Range. And, once again, I was glad I’d decided to cross Oregon in daylight.
Twenty miles later, I parted company with Jakob at the Pendleton exit and started hoofing it along the shoulder toward a rest area Jakob said was five miles up the road. Down in the valley now, it was warm enough to shuck my overcoat and I worked up a sweat (and a fresh set of blisters on my heels) as I hiked past wheat fields and cattle pastures and a string of faded billboards hawking the town’s big rodeo, the Pendleton Round-up. Whooee, pardner! I thought. You’re in the West for sure now!
Though I kept flashing my thumb whenever I heard a car coming up behind me, I couldn’t get anyone to stop, and I ended up hiking all the way to the rest area, which turned out to be more like seven miles down the road than the five Jakob had estimated. But it proved to be a lucky spot. I’d just finished gulping a quart of water from the outdoor fountain when a dusty white Ford Falcon pulled in beneath one of the rest area’s two scruffy shade trees, and a pony-tailed old hippy climbed out and began doing yoga stretches beside his car. He was easing into the salutation to the sun pose when I walked over and complimented his car, which, except for its white paint job, looked to be an exact replica of my buddy Kenny Brown’s high school party mobile, ‘Fanny Falcon’.
‘Sweet ride,’ I grinned. ‘Man, did I have some wild times back in the sixties in a Falcon just like this one.’
‘Didn’t we all,’ the hippy grinned back. ‘My pops bought it new back in 1960. Been in the family ever since. She’s on her third rebuilt engine now, but she still runs great. Can’t beat a Ford.’
‘Any chance you could give me a lift toward Portland?’ I asked.
‘Sure, dude, no problem,’ he said. ‘I’m heading to Hood River. That’ll get you most of the way. Just give me a minute to drain the lizard.’
The hippy’s name was Nate, and as soon as we got back on the road he reached beneath his seat and pulled out a baggie full of pre-rolled joints and fired one up.
‘Check it out, bro’,’ he said, passing me the joint. ‘Strawberry Mountain homegrown. Me and my partner have got a grow spot up in the Malheur National Forest. I was just up there helping him clear our patch for spring planting.’
‘Nice,’ I coughed out, after sucking down a big hit.
The stuff tasted like dirt, but I kept that thought to myself, and after a few more tokes I was too mellow to care how it tasted. Next thing, I was telling him stories about my time as a freelancer for High Times magazine, and how the staff used to congregate in the mail room at delivery time, vying to be the first to get their hands on the sample buds that marijuana growers like Nate would submit in hopes of seeing their handiwork selected for display as one of the magazine’s pot-porn centrefolds. Which was certainly a perk no other publisher could offer its staff – until the postal inspectors started cracking down and the magazine had to caution its readers to submit only photos of their buds, not the buds themselves.
‘Dude, you’re not going to believe this, but I know a guy in Corvallis whose Sativa bud got picked for a High Times centrefold. He took the picture to a commercial photo lab and had them make a wall-size blow-up for his downstairs den. Cost him a bundle, but he didn’t care. The publicity tripled his business. Till he got busted, anyway. That’s why my partner and I don’t sell our shit. We grow strictly for our own heads. Who wants to worry about some snitch setting you up for a buy-and-bust? Defeats the point of smoking weed, you ask me.’
I couldn’t argue with that. In fact, before long I couldn’t argue with anything. I was so high, my half of the conversation was reduced to nodding at whatever Nate said, and for the rest of the trip I mostly just gawked out the window at the amazing scenery, as we cruised deeper and deeper into Columbia River Gorge country, where every bend in the river seemed to offer another rainbow-making waterfall or fern-covered cliff to catch my eye. A few hours later, just as darkness was falling, we passed the huge hydroelectric dam at The Dalles, and Nate announced we were getting close to his exit in Hood River, the end of the line for me.
‘Thanks for the mellow ride,’ I said, as he pulled onto the shoulder a short while later. ‘You sure made my birthday a lot more festive.’
‘No shit, it’s your birthday?’ Nate replied in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you tell me! Hold up a minute, let me give you a little something for the road.’
‘That’s okay, Nate, you’ve done enough for me already,’ I said, but he climbed out of the car anyway and motioned me back to the trunk. He popped the latch to reveal a big Hefty bag half-full of dried marijuana plants that hadn’t yet been trimmed. Before I knew it, he had filled a small baggie with a couple of handfuls of loose pot from the bottom of the garbage bag. ‘Strawberry Mountain shake,’ he grinned, tucking in a pack of Zig Zag papers before passing it to me. ‘Should hold you for a while,
till something better comes your way. Portland’s only about eighty-five miles up the road. Good luck the rest of the way.’
Watching the Falcon’s tail-lights recede, I found myself remembering what Jack Kerouac said about heaven: if you show kindness to everyone you meet, you’ll find that paradise is right here on earth. The real gift Nate had just given me wasn’t the pot but the reminder of a truth I’d been neglecting for far too long, and I was more thankful for that than anything. Oregon was turning out to be full of pleasant surprises, and as I waited for my next ride I began to wonder if I shouldn’t just stick around Portland for a while and take my chances in the Northwest. With no job waiting for me in San Francisco any more, there seemed little reason not to give Portland a shot. But first I had to get there, and that turned out to be harder than I’d figured, given the smooth way the rest of my day had gone.
I was stranded in the dark in Hood River for nearly two hours and had long since given up hope of catching supper at a Portland rescue mission by the time a college kid in a Subaru wagon finally stopped to pick me up. His name was Jed, and he was on his way home to Portland from Eastern Washington University to spend the weekend with his girlfriend. I asked what he was studying, and when he said he was majoring in geology I laughed and told him about the only geology class I’d ever taken at Dartmouth – a dumbed-down intro course that was nicknamed ‘Rocks for Jocks’ because it attracted so many football players who needed an easy way to pick up part of the required minimum credits in math and science. ‘The funny thing is, quite a few of the jocks got hooked on geology and ended up majoring in it,’ I said. ‘Which was fine with the volcanologists on the faculty, I’d imagine. Every spring they’d take a group of geology majors down to Central America to do fieldwork and it must have been handy to have a few muscular athletes around for the heavy lifting.’
‘Yeah, the fieldwork’s tougher than most people imagine, but I love it,’ Jed said. ‘I’m hoping to land a job as a field geologist with one of the big oil companies once I finish graduate school.’
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