Good friends, good food, & escaped convicts stripping naked in creek beds

The following morning we prepared for our last big push of the trip : eleven hours north to Portland. God knows I wanted to stop in Point Reyes and Bolinas and see once again that beautiful country, witness that enlightened lifestyle and calm state of being – but we had boats to get dirty on. I wanted to get this final drive under my belt – and also have ample time with my buddy Chris Bernard and his wife Kim.

Chris, a writer, took my place at the Sitka Sentinel, when I first left in geez what was that – 1997 ?. An accomplished fisherman, canoeist, and hunter, he’s also a damn good writer, and is working on his first book about Joe Bernard, a relation who spent enough time in Alaska to have a harbor named after him.

Like so many others before me, I allowed Mt. Shasta to lead the way up Interstate 5. We passed logging trucks, and a flatbed with an impressive array of propellers. I kept a steady one out for the police – luckily, going under the speed limit was not a problem Mathilda and I had to deal with.

In one of those great stupid moves I make with unfailing regularity, I decided to get off an exit earlier to find this burger joint that sounded really good on Roadfood.com. I did – and was getting so anxious about county police hiding out for Mathilda I failed to register how low the gas guage was. In truth it hadn’t even got near where the light glowed. To my horror, Mathilda began to jerk like a rodeo horse or hooked salmon – I’d take a moment to pick one but it truly was somewhere in between, taking into consideration what felt like lateral movement. I tried to rock the frame to slosh more gas around and down into the line – it got us just over to the side of the road. Dog was really confused, his ears up, his eyes wide, sitting at attention.

The sun high – the truck hood hot enough to cook frogs legs. Mathilda half-pulled over to the side of the road. No gas stations in sight. My illicit plates on display for the world to see. Surely a cop would pull over, remark what an idiot I was to begin with, running out of gas like that, probably on meds, definitely in need of a cleansing overnight in the clink.

I grabbed my wallet, and starting going as fast as the flip-flops would take me down the shoulder. I’d need to buy a gallon of water, dump it out, fill ‘er with gas, and hope that would get me there. I thought for a moment – then went back to the truck and put a nice button-down shirt over my tanktop. It makes a difference. Sad truth.

No sooner had I walked maybe 100 yards than I saw what looked like a commercial fuel distribution station off to the side of the road. I went in, explained my situation, and – thank you northern California, and the community of Cottonwood – they gave me an auxiliary container, filled it, and trusted me to come back with it – complete with copper downspout for the gas tank.

And then they even let me fill up completely there, despite not having an account. Truly a godsend.

Taurus that I am, stubborn to a fault wider than the Grand Canyon, I found my burger joint, and enjoyed a damn good burger, good fuel to get us the rest of the way to Brooklyn in the woods, as I’ve heard Portland called. I’ve also seen the equation Portland + Detroit = Philly, math worth of the Fielding Medal or whatever they call it in my book.

I got in later that eve, found Chris’s digs, and met his lovely wife Kim.Cal and Shakes, Chris’s hunting dog, worked out some territorial issues, at one point quite literally ignoring one another – but showed great promise on their walk in getting along.

The following morning Chris and I took the dogs for a longer traipse in a small state park – half of which the Willamette River had flooded. The dogs, wanting to swim, had to settle with marshland. We got some good falafels, and just kicked it in the yard. I went into town to have a beer with a friend, who has since started Underland Press – to great, and deserved, acclaim. And saw an HVAC van that ran on biodiesel – quite cool.

That eve we decided to go out and make a night of it, and drank at a wine bar, where I left my sunglasses, then headed over to Saburos for some good sushi. There’s really not so much to tell – I mean, how to convey the bones of spending time with a sharp, humorous, informed friend,  and his wonderful wife ? Stegner did it so well in Crossing to Safety it’s almost impossible. We had a great time. Full stop.

Back at the house I drooled over Chris’ study and library, and he took me on a guided tour from his desk chair, alternately guilty about books on his shelf, and stunned – with good reason – that I hadn’t read others. I have a list I’m eager to get to work on.

We took the dogs for a long walk around the hood, and discussed Sitka, and Alaska, this move, his manuscript, my manuscript, his upcoming visit. Also Chris’  love of the word “defenestration.”

“I mean, that there’s a word for throwing a guy out the window!”

The following day I hit the road for Bellingham – an easy jump of four hours. On the way out I gave a ride to a hitchhiker – Cal took exception. She was quite pleasant and told me her method of determining whether men are crazy or not. I guess I passed the test. Strange to think that she could very well have been someone’s grandmother – but she continues to do her thing, more power to her. 

As I drove north, we passed through the heart of Seattle and the land reminded me more and more of the Alexander Archipelago, and southeast Alaska – the damp, smell of spruce and fir in the air, the purple tint to the air. Also logging and giant propellers, which reminded of my desire to learn to fly a floatplane.

At Everett, at the suggestion of Heather, I broke off onto the Chuckanut Highway, Route 11, and traced the coast north. Down the hill the Pacific stretched out, and the San Juans, Whidbey Island, and Orcis beyond.

Heather and her sister Shannon were some of my first friends in Sitka. At the age of 19, I was working as a lifeguard at the Hames Center pool – reading for a good amount of time on that stool they provided – and got invited to help decorate and attend a Halloween event at the Moose Lodge. Turns out I could help decorate, but not attend, as I was underage.

But I spent a bunch of time with Heather and Shannon. For those seven months living in the woods, I hung in their TV room, watching movies, having all sorts of outdoor adventures – kayaking among whales, survival shelters, volcano hikes. And now Heather was married to the extraordinary cook and gifted dancer Antonio – and they had two boys, Diego and Marco. I had visited Juneau a few days after Diego had been born – and now I visited Bellingham about a week after Marco had been born.

That eve Tonio had an Afro-Cuban lesson he was giving – Heather and I walked over, and Cal watched from the steps as we went through the orishas.We got home and, with the help of Diego, cooked dinner. The next day Cal and I cruised around Bellingham, walking the trails, and discovering, in a gulch beneath the county jail, the discarded clothing, along with the mail, and notes, of a former inmate named Jacob. There was a business card for a public defender, ripped in half, and notes on websites for jumping freight trains, squatting, and, my personal favorite, « whosarat.com. I haven’t checked it out – but imagined it as a website devoted to listing those folks in the jail system who have sold out – with checks by their name recording whether or no retribution has been served.

It sure looked like he made a break for it, to judge from the clothes in the creek-bed, but who am I to say ? I do know that in my first novel The Alaskan Laundry the main character disappeared up to Alaska, leaving the lower 48 behind after a stint for the Army in Iraq – and his name was Jacob.

We continued on our journey, Cal drinking from the public fountain, as he is wont to do. I spent the morning cruising around Fairhaven and Bellevue with Tonio, posting flyers for Reggaeton, Bachata, and Cuban salsa lessons in laundromats, beer breweries, and the thousands of coffee shops that town somehow supports.

We stopped in Fairhaven, at the green where I hung out eating chocolate chunk cake twelve years later, waiting for the ferry. I passed a store selling furniture made from reclaimed wood for absurd amounts of money. We Greensawyers need to get on that.

Tonio had posted on Facebook a notice for a barbecue for a friend in town – and we went down to Boulevard Park, where much of their salsa crew showed up, and we enjoyed the sunshine, and good food, despite Cal almost getting himself kicked out of the park by attacking another dog.He was really at the end of his rope – not that it’s any excuse. I got to dance with Enid – a wonderful Cuban salsa dancer. I had forgotten after dancing so much linear in Philly how much fun it is to be with someone who truly moves in circles – and those circles moved…Anyone ? For $500 ?

I spent time getting my stuff together, playing with little Diego, hanging with Heather and Tonio, and generally preparing for three days on the Columbia, Alaska Marine Highway’s flagship, which would finally transport our sorry, tired selves to Sitka-by-the-Sea. I got all foodstuffs together, packed my sweet little box from the ghost town of South Dakota with bowl mug and silverware, and headed to the terminal. The Diaz/Haugland family arrived to say goodbye, and, following a brief moment of panic when the guy hesitated at Cal’s health certificate, we were allowed entrance to the Columbia – and exit from the lower 48.