As we were leaving the motel in Crescent City, a woman got
our attention with a two-armed wave. Was there something wrong? Without saying
a word, she pointed. There were elk grazing on the trees and bushes at the edge
of the parking lot.
We were heading out of California, into Oregon, and
Sasquatchlandia. A different state.
A different region. Different flavors of weird.
Across the border in Brooking, gas was less than $5 a gallon, and
there were a helluvalota cannabis places.
We grabbed doughnuts at the Honeybee Bakery. That is, after making
our way through the building’s mural-festooned maze.
Driving through the marine-layer fog, we found a coffee
stand and it had decaf!
Then we headed through the mountains on our way to Bandon past
Prehistoric Gardens.
Suddenly, the roadside was crowded with a lot of fantastic wood
sculptures.
We stopped and took a lot of pictures.
There was a wide-open barn turned workshop that looked abandoned—
it made Mike sad to see all good woodworking equipment rusting and
covered with muddy dust.
In back were some shipping containers converted into what looked
like a later-day hippie commune—
some of them looked abandoned, others seemed occupied, but
crumbling.
A UPS truck pulled up. The driver wandered around, quickly
realizing we were tourists. A guy who looked both hippie and nerdish staggered
out of one of the shipping containers. When the driver asked about the occupant
of the barn/workshop, the answer was: “Oh, he’s here. Sometimes he answers. Sometimes
he doesn’t.”
Once again we stopped at the place that sold Bigfoot Nuts.
We were in and out of fog all day.
In Coos Bay, I found a book on the mound builders, and we had
lunch in a well-muraled Mexican restaurant called Pueblo Nuevo.
Back on the highway, I saw a truck flying a huge flag. I could
make out the word FUCK, but it was flapping so hard I couldn’t read if it was
meant to insult Trump, Biden or some other poor sucker.
Then, in a seaside antique mall guarded by a statue of
Godzilla, one of the vendors has a bedsheet-sized JOE BIDEN SUCKS sign. Out of
his radio, I heard: “I’m beginning to think we don’t deserve Trump.”
Later, back on the road, the news of the trials in Washington D.C.
made us smile.
In the forest-y area near Florence, we came across what looked
like a wild Halloween party in bright colors and broad daylight.
Only no one was moving.
They were all frozen in place, like statues.
That was because they were statues of a sort, scarecrow-like
figured in masks and costumes, murderous clowns, witches, werewolves, lots of
skull faces, and pop culture references.
No doubt someone’s continuing art project, with more figures being
added every year.
One fine day, there will be so many of them that they will seem to
have taken over . . .
Further north, gas was $3.89 a gallon. It just kept getting
cheaper.
In a motel in Lincoln City, I had a vision: Oz overrun by suburbs
and corporate land developments. The funky and fantastic stuff is relegated to
junk yards, thrift stores and museums where tourists shop. Wizards and witches
are unemployed and homeless. Winged monkeys beg and steal in the streets.
Lincoln City was dripping wet when we left. Even the air. A
strange, cold humidity.
The spider webs on folksy western-themed wooden statues were
covered in dew beads, like a peculiar Christmas decoration. Did the spiders mind
the cold? Do they shiver?
The heavy mist covered the farmland.
In Hebo, the crossroads of the Nestucca valley, Mike bought us
coffee at the Yellow Dog Espresso.
In Garibaldi, we saw the first Trump sign of the trip. It was
small, low key and managed to be tasteful, as was the house it was mounted
on.
Then the mist, that had become a heavy fog, became a light
drizzle.
In Rockaway Beach we came across more Halloween yard decor that
included a vehicle.
In Seaside there was a big sign advertising TSUNAMI MARIJUANA.
There were still a lot of espresso places along the 101, though most
of the yoga places we saw last time we passed through didn’t survive the
pandemic.
In Westport along the Columbia River, there was a weird sticker
tableau. Orwellian signage and a mutation of Charlie Brown. Dystopian small town
dada. Couldn’t tell if it was a statement or just spontaneous juxtaposition.
Then we crossed the bridge into Washington.
It was an urban sprawl along the I-5 with signs for all the
usual franchises peeking through tall trees. Generic corporate America, except
for a hand painted sign with Uncle Sam asking: “How many Americans will we
leave behind in Ukraine?”
Autumn leaves were changing color.
I kept seeing signs with the names of tribes I had never heard
of.
The traffic got heavy in Seattle. The graffiti showed skill, the
colors were more conservative. More media than message. Not very arty. Mostly
tags.
Then in Conway we found a wacko junk art place, bristling with
character, creativity, and craziness. That spirit lives here too.
And the gas station across the street played jazz and sold ice
cream.
