ZIGZAGGING INTO SASQUATCHLANDIA
As we were leaving the motel in Crescent City, a woman gotour attention with a two-armed wave. Was there something wrong? Without sayinga word, she pointed. There were elk grazing on the trees and bushes at the edgeof the parking lot.
We were heading out of California, into Oregon, andSasquatchlandia. A different state.
A different region. Different flavors of weird.
Across the border in Brooking, gas was less than $5 a gallon, andthere were a helluvalota cannabis places.
We grabbed doughnuts at the Honeybee Bakery. That is, after makingour way through the building’s mural-festooned maze.
Driving through the marine-layer fog, we found a coffeestand and it had decaf!
Then we headed through the mountains on our way to Bandon pastPrehistoric Gardens.
Suddenly, the roadside was crowded with a lot of fantastic woodsculptures.
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 andcovered with muddy dust.
In back were some shipping containers converted into what lookedlike a later-day hippie commune—
some of them looked abandoned, others seemed occupied, butcrumbling.
A UPS truck pulled up. The driver wandered around, quicklyrealizing we were tourists. A guy who looked both hippie and nerdish staggeredout of one of the shipping containers. When the driver asked about the occupantof the barn/workshop, the answer was: “Oh, he’s here. Sometimes he answers. Sometimeshe 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 hadlunch in a well-muraled Mexican restaurant called Pueblo Nuevo.
Back on the highway, I saw a truck flying a huge flag. I couldmake out the word FUCK, but it was flapping so hard I couldn’t read if it wasmeant to insult Trump, Biden or some other poor sucker.
Then, in a seaside antique mall guarded by a statue ofGodzilla, one of the vendors has a bedsheet-sized JOE BIDEN SUCKS sign. Out ofhis 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 lookedlike 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-likefigured in masks and costumes, murderous clowns, witches, werewolves, lots ofskull faces, and pop culture references.
No doubt someone’s continuing art project, with more figures beingadded every year.
One fine day, there will be so many of them that they will seem tohave taken over . . .
Further north, gas was $3.89 a gallon. It just kept gettingcheaper.
In a motel in Lincoln City, I had a vision: Oz overrun by suburbsand corporate land developments. The funky and fantastic stuff is relegated tojunk yards, thrift stores and museums where tourists shop. Wizards and witchesare unemployed and homeless. Winged monkeys beg and steal in the streets.
Lincoln City was dripping wet when we left. Even the air. Astrange, cold humidity.
The spider webs on folksy western-themed wooden statues werecovered in dew beads, like a peculiar Christmas decoration. Did the spiders mindthe cold? Do they shiver?
The heavy mist covered the farmland.
In Hebo, the crossroads of the Nestucca valley, Mike bought uscoffee at the Yellow Dog Espresso.
In Garibaldi, we saw the first Trump sign of the trip. It wassmall, low key and managed to be tasteful, as was the house it was mountedon.
Then the mist, that had become a heavy fog, became a lightdrizzle.
In Rockaway Beach we came across more Halloween yard decor thatincluded a vehicle.
In Seaside there was a big sign advertising TSUNAMI MARIJUANA.
There were still a lot of espresso places along the 101, though mostof the yoga places we saw last time we passed through didn’t survive thepandemic.
In Westport along the Columbia River, there was a weird stickertableau. Orwellian signage and a mutation of Charlie Brown. Dystopian small towndada. 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 theusual franchises peeking through tall trees. Generic corporate America, exceptfor a hand painted sign with Uncle Sam asking: “How many Americans will weleave behind in Ukraine?”
Autumn leaves were changing color.
I kept seeing signs with the names of tribes I had never heardof.
The traffic got heavy in Seattle. The graffiti showed skill, thecolors were more conservative. More media than message. Not very arty. Mostlytags.
Then in Conway we found a wacko junk art place, bristling withcharacter, creativity, and craziness. That spirit lives here too.
And the gas station across the street played jazz and sold icecream.
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