Peenie Wallie

They wintered there for about 5 months, I think it was from December of 1803 to the spring of 1804. They had a dog named Seaman - I believe it was a Newfoundland. He got one because McKenzie had one when he explored Canada in 1789. Apparently, he was the first white person to cross North America, but he did it in Canada, so it doesn't count, of course. Kinda like kissing your sister.

The dog was sort of a status symbol, I think. They paid $20 for the dog in St Louis, a lot of money back then.

They kept amazingly detailed diaries, so we know when they started building the fort, and when they finished. Apparently they started on December 9th, and then had completed it by December 25th. So, they built the fort in less than tree weeks.

They didn't describe the dwellings, however. They did describe the measurements of the fort, but the buildings were sort of a guess. In 2006, this fort was built in the manner to which they think the original fort was built. And also, they believe they've nailed down the location to within a few yards of the original fort, which is pretty cool.

I start working my way south, cruising south on the US 101. The road loosely follows the coast in northern Oregon.

After a while, I pull over to refill the bike and a guy shows up and leans against the gas pump like he owns it. I stare into his dark shark-like eyes.

"Oh. That's right. I'm in Oregon," I remembered. They have this stupid state law that Obama would love that makes it a crime to pump your own gas. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. You can't own your own gas. Unless you're on a motorcycle. But even so, they have to "sign on" to the pump to get it to work. So, they have to key in essentially a pin number/password to get the pump to work. Brilliant.

So, this genius shows up and he's standing there gawking at the bike.

I give him my credit card, but it's declined, for whatever reason. Not a good sign, but this is why I carry cash. U.S. Dollars always work. They don't get declined. Unless you're in Canada. Then, they just give you the sucker rate of 1 USD = .90 CAD. So, I used Canadian currency while I was up there, and I spent it all before I left. It actually worked out quite well, all things considered.

Now, while I'm on the subject, I should point out something about getting gas in Canada. Namely that, you can't. Get gas. You can't get gas very easily up there, anyway. Basically, they haven't figure out the whole "pay-at-the-pump" type of situation. Now, I know...someone will say I'm wrong. But I should know. I just drove across the country for several days, and you can't pay at the pump. At least I can't. And, most stores don't allow you to pay at the pump. They all have a different song and dance as to why, but, in a nutshell, if you want to buy gas in Canada, you have to go inside first and set up some sort of arrangement.

As best as I could ever determine, it goes something like this. You hand them a credit card, and tell them how much gas you want. Because you're not a magician, and you're not clairvoyant, this presents some difficulty. It's like gas pumps used to be in the U.S. back in the '70's, essentially.

So, I hand them my credit card, and say "$25 of the high-octane good stuff". This is because, although there's only one pump handle normally, they actually need to know which fuel grade to turn on. I know. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't have to. We're in Canada, eh?

$25 = $5.00/gallon * 5 gallons, which is what my tank holds. So, in theory, unless I'm pumping gas onto the ground, it should never cost more than $25 (Canadian) to fill up the tank. Saying this shuts up most of their stupid questions. And, If you use less than this, then they refund you the difference, or so I'm told.

I'm not 100% clear on the story, but apparently, someone tried to drive off without paying for gas in Canada, and the person ran out to try to stop them, and they were dragged to their death, it seems. And, as a result, a country of 33 million people now has to get out of their cars and walk into the store every time they want gas. An overreaction? Hardly. Makes perfect sense to me.

So, I was glad as hell to be back in Washington where I could pump my own gas without going inside and without adult supervision. But now, I'm back in Oregon, the land of the nimrods.

"Where you heading?" the station attendant asks.

"Back to San Francisco."

"Where you been?"

"I drove to Alaska."

"You rode or you drove?" he clarifies.

"I'm not sure what you're asking. I'm not sure what the difference is. I wasn't riding on the back of it, if that's what you're asking."

"You drove this dirt bike to Alaska?" he stammers.

"I did."

"Really?"

"I'm telling you that I did,"

I'll miss this part. This part where I'm driving across the planet on a filthy dirt bike with a suitcase and a Givi case and the gas station attendants and everyone else I meet are sort of eyeing me with jealousy. And I get a lot of looks. I get a lot of looks from guys and they see me and they know. They know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. I'm driving across the planet on a dirt bike because I can. That's all.

The fact that it's dangerous. And exhausting. And time consuming. None of that detracts from the fact that it's cool. It's cool because it's crazy. Because not many other people are doing it. As JP once said, "If it was easy being cool, everyone would do it."

At the gas station, bunch of sirens come screaming down the road towards me as I'm refilling the tank. I'd almost forgotten about those annoying things. The nice thing about British Columbia was that there was no one there. When I killed the bike, it was this unbelievable silence. Sometimes, you'd hear sea gulls, but mostly, you'd hear nothing at all. That was amazing.

Now, I feel like I'm slowly drifting back toward civilization, and I'm not overly thrilled with the prospect. True, I won't miss the rain and the cold and the mosquitoes, but I will miss the solitude and the serenity of the road.

On the side of the roads, every so often, a pile of wood with signs, "Wood - 5$ a bundle". This is all on the honor system, of course. Also, signs for "Cut Flowers", and boquets of cut flowers on times on the side of the road. This is Oregon. This is where we are. This is what it's like. You are here now.

Everywhere, fields of Fireweed. Washington also had wild Fox Gloves everywhere. I've never seen wild Fox Gloves before, anywhere on earth, but in western Washington state, they were everywhere.

As I roll south, the fog rolls in really thick.

All of the bridges in Oregon, or many of them I should say, have these massive bookends on either side of them when you enter and exit from the bridge. I'm not sure what to call them "bridge andirons"? I dunno, but they look awesome.

Every time I shift, I have to think about it. Normally, this happens without my knowledge. The hands at the feet drive the bike. It has nothing to do with the brain. It's all automatic at this point. Has been for as long as I can remember.

But my left leg has shifted the bike so many thousands of times over the last two weeks, that I can hardly move my left leg any more. Now, I shift a little differently. I position the instep of my left foot on the footpeg in such a way that I use my foot as a lever to shift up. Normally, I do it differently. I'd have my heel on the footpeg and just lift up my toes to shift up. But this hurts too bad at this point.

The visor on my helmet is not functioning properly, for some reason. It's hard for me to open the visor. It drive me nuts, but it's a new helmet. It seems to me that, any time you try to solve a problem by buying something new, you may solve one problem, but you create others. This is how I see the world. Each solution may solve problems, but it creates more problems as well.

When the fog clears and the sun comes out, I immediately think that now, the flowers will be hard to shoot. I hate to shoot them in bright sunlight. But this is really how I think. I see the downside of every situation in the blink of an eye. When it's foggy, it sucks and I'm cold. When it's clear and sunny, it sucks because I can't shoot. This is sort of retarded, but it's basically how I think. Why this is, I'm not clear. But this is really how I see things. Every silver lining has a touch of grey.

I'm not going to make it far today. This will be my shortest day, in terms of miles traveled, of the entire journey. I'm rolling south, and it's getting colder and really misty/foggy. I drive across a bridge over a little creek with a white sand bottom, and it's so foggy, misty, dark that I can't even get a shot of the creek. I decide I've gone far enough. It's not worth driving in the dark. It isn't safe. And it defeats the purpose of the trip.

I've passed a lot of motels with "No Vacancy" signs. So when I pass the "Terry-A-While Motel", I pull in for the night.

"Who's Terry?" I ask. Surely, someone wouldn't be so stupid that they don't know how to spell "tarry".

"Terry was the original owner. He built all these units."

She says it's been clear and sunny and this is the first day of fog which is depressing. It makes me feel like I have an albatross around my neck.

I wanted to get some miles covered today. I'd hoped to make it to California. Instead, I'm on the central Oregon coast, on the Alsea Bay. It's still beautiful here, however. Even with the cool fog rolling in...this is the pacific northwest. The "marine layer" of fog is just what it is. You can't deny a leopard his spots. If I wanted hot, clear, sunny, and crowded, I'd have gone to Florida.

Now that I'm back in the United States, I pay the cell phone bill and finally, Jennifer and I have working phones again. She tries to call me, but I'm perched out here so far from civilization. Even though I'm back in the country, I have no cell coverage on the Central Oregon Coast, or the Emerald Coast as it's known.

I can only hear her in short bits and pieces...fading in and out like I'm on the moon and finally, we give up.

The motel I'm in doesn't even have a coke machine. The woman at the front desk says there's a store a few miles down the road and I roll up on it in the dirt bike in the fog and I look at their candy bars..."Y'all don't have much here...don't ya'll have Aero bars, 'Mr. Bigs', 'Coffee Crisps', or 'Big Turks' " I ask? Good God how do people live in the U.S. without these candy bars? God I miss that. In Canada, they're in every gas station.

The lady looks at me like i'm insane, which I probably am.

"What's a Mr. Big?" she asks. What indeed?

And I wonder how I got so far away from civilization. How'd I get so far away from home? And how will I ever make it back?

I've got to leave by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. I've absolutely got to make it to Eureka, California tomorrow, a 300 mile drive.