Happy (Memory) Trails - A Tale of Two Odysseys

Chris enjoying a hard-earned freshly caught fish
at his secret spot (taken from self-filmed footage)

Me with friend Kim at one of the many Cape Lookout vistas
(taken by other hikers passing by)

Chris and I usually travel together and share our adventures. But recently we decided to split up for the day and take different paths through the forest to wind up with similar outcomes. Revisiting memories buried by the passing of many years—memories as vivid as if they had occurred yesterday—we both had the common goal of hopefully seeing through “today’s” eyes the beauty of a time and place long ago enjoyed. Would we each find our place, or would we discover as Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again.”

Chris’ journey involved a secret place along Oregon's Santiam River he had been fishing for over 50 years, including with his daughter over 30 years ago. He last visited/fished it about 20 years before and wondered if he could find the same solace there now. 

Chris' daughter Rainy over 30 years ago
at her dad's Santiam spot...

Rainy proud of her trout...

For me, I had hiked an Oregon coastal cape about 30 years ago and had vivid memories of the spectacular vistas; I wanted to at least find the hike again and see if the views would still inspire me.

Different Strokes...

We like many of the same things, Chris and I, but we do have varying degrees and brands of enjoyment when it comes to hiking through the woods. Believe me, I knew that I was marrying a Jeremiah Johnson 20 years ago. In our 4 years together prior to “sealing the deal”, I learned how much he liked his independence and was witness to many examples of how he leans towards handling everything by himself. He also likes to...shall we say...“off-road” on foot. In other words, no trail needed. He just tromps through brush and other impediments without a care. His Dad calls him a “billy goat of the woods” and it certainly fits—he seems to merrily skip and hop along, whether it's crossing a log over rushing water or bulldozing his way through Devil's Club or other atrocities. Bruises and scratches are a proud result of a great hike for him.

Chris' trail today--lots harder to navigate than it was years ago...
lots more stuff to plow through!!

Today, there is no end to the obstacles on Chris' "trail".

Me? I really like a good trail. And those logs he's skipping along across? You'll find me crawling and dragging my carcass in order to make sure I don't break any (more) bones, thank you very much. And I prefer my wonders of nature to be relatively injury-free.

Kim walking ahead of me on our Cape trail...
Notice the actual trail here!

The other thing we differ on is the appropriate time to go do our outdoor things. Chris is an early bird...like EARLY...we're talking 3:00 or 4:00 am. I like to try and get a good night's sleep of oh, say 7 hours or so and ease into the exploration, but if I care to join said Jeremiah-Johnson-husband Chris on adventures, and most of the times I do, I have to alter my clock accordingly.

The most extreme example of this difference happened on our last trip to Idaho when we scouted/explored that country for a hunt tag Chris had applied for. Okay, so when Chris asked the woman running our Motel/Cafe what time they opened for breakfast the following morning, I naturally jumped to the conclusion that we were perhaps going to have some breakfast before taking off for some scouting. When she said “6:30,” I thought, “Great! It's 9:00 pm...I should be able to get in a good bit of sleep before we have breakfast and take off—cool!” My bad. Shouldn’t jump to conclusions—duh!

We got to sleep around 10:00 pm and then I had to get up at 2:00 am for a “calling” in the bathroom. I stumbled into the little room, and looked forward to stumbling my way back to bed when I opened the door. But then greeting me upon cracking said door was a very excited Chris—with all the annoying enthusiasm of, say, Richard Simmons on 5 cups of espresso—exclaiming, “Hey! Let's go scouting NOW!” like it was the most exciting idea he had come up with in a long time. I managed to get myself together by 2:30, much to Chris' exasperation at my slowness, and we did head off. 

Now here's the thing Chris keeps pointing out to me about getting such early starts: you do wind up seeing some pretty amazing things. And that morning was no exception. As we crept along the road towards our scouting areas, I saw an adorable little baby fox by the side of the road...probably not something I was likely to see after a comfortable get-up followed by a 6:30 am breakfast. I'm not crazy about him being right, but there you have it.

Chris and the Santiam...

Chris fishing one of his beloved Santiam spots...

So, it's no great surprise to anyone that Chris and I took very different approaches when given our separate days of exploration. Chris' Santiam hike to his secret fishing hole involved a way-early departure and a steep bush-whacking time of it. His oasis place had always been a bit of a challenge to get to, but it had been made way worse over time. 

To top off this challenge, he decided to film himself making the sojourn, as you can see from some of the still pictures from his video. His hard work paid off, and he wound up feeling reassured that his place was untouched. 

Chris examining his freshly-caught trout...

Chris building a fire where he cooked his trout in a
butter and garlic-laden foil wrap he had packed in...

He not only caught fish, he took supplies to make his own fire so that he could cook and eat his lunch right there on the rocks by the beautiful Santiam River. He was gratified that his secret was safe...even after 50 years' time. 

Enjoying his fish lunch...

Chris then lamented that the spot which used to be his "honey hole"
years ago had definitely changed.

Although he prefaced showing me his video of the horrible things he hiked through to get to his spot with, “Oh, you are going to be SO GLAD you weren't on this hike!” and I thought several times while watching the video, “Oh I am SO GLAD I wasn't on this hike!”, I was proud of and happy for him to have accomplished such a feat.

Darcie and the Cape...

One of the many views of the ocean
through the forested trees along the trail...

For years now, I have been wondering where the coastal cape hike I had taken 30 years ago had been exactly, and had been toying with various explorations to re-discover its magic. I invited my hiking buddy and long-time friend Kim Claggett to join me and off we went to try out the Cape Lookout trail near the coast.

The memories I had of the hike that lingered from years ago included a pretty secluded trail—had the place to myself!--but what really struck me back then were the vistas along the way. I remembered a winding trail through the forest where you could actually see the ocean below through the surrounding forested slopes. I loved that feeling of being in the woods and yet having the ocean right there as well. The other thing I remember well was the breath-taking place where I ate my lunch on top of the cliffs, looking out at the expanse if ocean and way-way-down at cliffs below with seagulls, looking so tiny, flying above them. I shared these images and memories with Kim and we were on a mission to decipher if this was indeed the trail that I had taken.

It was really quite thrilling to feel the same sensations and to be thinking, “Wow, I think this just might be the place!” as we rounded corner after corner of the forested ocean views. It seemed to get more and more clear that we were on the right “path” and then Kim, who was hiking ahead of me, suddenly asked with a smile, “Darcie, is this the place where you had lunch maybe? Look down there!” I actually gasped; it was such an amazing feeling to see those cliffs with seagulls swirling about way below us.

Sitting on the cliff to eat our lunch, we could see way below us,
the seagulls flying (barely visible white spots close to the cliffs here)

I had tears in my eyes as we relished the views and then sat down to eat OUR lunch, not far at all from where I had eaten mine back then. We couldn't directly recreate that bit because, due to safety issues, my old spot was chained off.

Unlike Chris, my odyssey did not involve a well-kept secret. Not at all. I don't even remember there being much of a parking lot 30 years ago and now there's quite a crowd of cars, especially in the summer. It's heartening to know that so many Oregonians get themselves and their families out for this kind of entertainment, but I felt a little whimsical for the quieter and more private days of yore. Kim and I still managed to thoroughly enjoy the day and the hike. In spite of the number of parked cars and people, we still had many parts of the trail to ourselves, so there was enough of it to spread us all out at least.

Back Home…

Would Chris have enjoyed my hike as much as I did? Probably not. He would have appreciated the vistas, but preferred to have found a more secluded place to enjoy them. He was very happy for me in finding my old “haunt” though, as he has been a part of my reminiscing over the years. He reveled in the fact that I had re-discovered my little Utopia almost as much as I did.

So Chris had his kind of day and I had mine. And we both discovered that although you can't always “go home again”, you can usually find ways to recreate your own magic around what exists today.

Come Fly with Me...Maybe NOT!!

My Worst Flight to Date: March 26, 2018

Who knew what I was in for when I boarded American Airlines Flight 1787 at 6:15 pm out of Charlotte, NC…

Some reputations you can be proud of; this is not one of those. I’ve become notorious for having the worst luck with flights—well, okay, not the REAL WORST where I don’t live to tell about it, but bad enough that when I begin a story of my latest flight experience, the head-shakes and eye-rolls begin with my family and friends. Some now even stop me in mid-sentence to say, “Wait a minute!” and pull out the beer and popcorn…here comes your latest entertainment, folks…MY bad luck!

A Little Background

As my sister says, “What IS it with you and flying?!!” To which, I can only agree, “I know, right?” There was the famous 2010 reunion flight (my “Houston, We Have a Problem” blog) where I managed to do battle with a red-eye flight and wound up going through security 3 times in one day, then arriving in hurricane country in time for Hurricane Earl. Another time I overheard the pilot arguing with the control tower—“Doesn’t anyone know what they’re DOING out there?!”—when getting ready to take off at O’Hare; this was back in the day when they let you plug into the cockpit goings-on…I’ve noticed a lack of that feature since then. One turbulent experience had the whole plane flopping back and forth and dropping so hard that, upon landing, the uniformed pilot in front of my row who had hitched a ride with us, turned and said, “I really did not think we were going to make that one!” Needless to say, there was a long line at the first available airport bathroom after that flight.

On and on it goes… I’ve experienced all of the usual common complaints of frequent flyers—screaming babies, sick people who don’t cover their mouths when coughing and sneezing next to you, and turbulence that has you reviewing your whole life while the flying sardine box whizzes and bounces seemingly out of control. But this time, on my March 26^th flight from Charlotte, N.C. to Portland, Oregon, it appears I have taken my own special brand of excitement to significant outer-reaches.

The Foreshadowing

First off, my flight TO the East Coast on March 16^th had a new “thing” for me—I had never before heard a pilot actually scream over the intercom but this one did—“Sit down and belt up NOW!”—because the Nor’easters were playing havoc with our beloved plane and he wanted all flight crew to abandon the snack cart idea and get back in their seats immediately. Also, a gentleman who had been in the bathroom during our extreme turbulence came busting out and literally ran to his seat to buckle in, zipping up his pants as he squirted past our row. I began my mantra and reviewing-of-life, “I’ve had a GOOD life…” and we proceeded to toss about some more before roughly landing, with me wobbling off the craft.

Little did I know that so far what I had experienced in my aviation adventures was nothing in comparison to my flight back to the West Coast on the 26^th. NOTHING.

The Happy Beginning

After an awesome visit with family—including a memorable shared time with my sister, our special visit with our mom, and an epic time with my son and his family, which of course included spending precious time with my amazing granddaughters in Charlotte—it was time once again for me to face the beast of the airways and, to my credit, I did so with a positive attitude. I was thrilled to have a non-stop flight, unheard of since it was spring break and Easter was just around the corner, and I called my husband to share my ultimate hope that this would be a quiet flight where maybe I could get some sleep. Ahhhhhh. Ignorance IS bliss, isn’t it?

Smoothly went the boarding process and I settled into my window seat—yes!

When all passengers were onboard and the safety instructions started, the guy in the aisle seat of my row and I made eye contact and gave each other a thumb’s up since it was evident that we had an empty middle seat between us—unheard of in these days of flight overbooking—sweet!!

Déjà Vu Begins to Rear its Ugly Head…

As soon as we were in the air, the flight crew began dealing with a young couple who had been seated apart, and their distressed toddler who was trying to get back and forth between them, getting crankier in his distress. The flight crew politely asked Mr. Aisle Seat and me if we would consider moving to the 2 aisle seats that the family had occupied, giving them the row where they could be together, and we quickly agreed. They moved my row buddy to the aisle seat directly across and me to the aisle seat directly in front of the row we were in.

I took a quick scan of the row I was now sitting in—a doe-eyed 20-something young lady smiled at me from her window seat, and a 40-something odd-looking guy looked up at me but didn’t respond at all when I said hello and sat down next to him. Fine. No problemo. “He will be quiet and so will I,” thought I. The toddler behind me took this opportunity to have a screaming jag, and 2 of the people across from me, began coughing and sneezing with Bubonic Plague sounds and the light caught the sputum flying in the air towards me since they weren’t covering their mouths, thank you very much. There’s comfort in the familiar, and I knew just what to do; I wiped my surroundings with disinfectant sheets and popped out the Airborne. Here we go again!

And Déjà Vu Takes a Nasty Left Turn…

I tried to settle into my book, but almost instantly, Middle Seat guy—I’ll refer to him as “M”—started rocking back and forth, and jerking forward and back; he could not keep still—his legs were dancing everywhere. It didn’t take long for me to realize that something was a bit off about “M”  and I felt kind of sorry for him—hang on, this too shall pass!—and I figured that perhaps the Window Seat young lady might be flying with him—a relative maybe—and would know the issue. I made eye contact with her and she immediately returned a rather frightened look and threw up her hands as if to say, “I have NO idea!”

I quickly forgot about getting any sleep, and tried my best to be polite and read my book, but “M” would have none of that. He took off his belt, draped that around his neck, then took a back brace he had on and wrapped that around his head, holding onto it and throwing his head back/forth and side-to-side. Within the first half-hour of flight, he needed to use the bathroom—which he needed to do at least 8 more times during the flight—so I got up, let him out. He spent some time back there and I talked to the young lady a little bit—we agreed that it would probably be a long flight.

When “M” returned, he began hitting his tray table and kicking the seat in front of him, so the people in front of us were naturally irritated and turning around. I quietly whispered to them that he was a little “off” and I’d talk to the flight crew about any solutions.

So back I went to the flight crew—the first of many trips to their area as it turned out—and asked if any of them were aware of “M”s issues, as in, were they given any kind of heads up by the people who helped him get on this flight? They said no, and began watching him. It didn’t take long for “M” to show his colors and for them to agree that “M” was indeed not quite right.

“Oh my God!” said one of the crew, “Here we move you to another seat and it turns out like this! Drinks and snacks are on us—do you want anything?” I was full from a big lunch before my flight and I hadn’t been doing a whole lot of drinking the last few years, but this seemed like an exception—“Well, I wouldn’t mind a vodka cranberry, actually.” She immediately made me a double, and I’m thinking, “Okay, maybe I can make it through this flight…”

“M” See “M” Do…

One of the crew went to speak to “M” and asked if he would like anything, as he was obviously in some distress. He requested a double whiskey and water. Seeing as how none of us knew what his problem was or whether he was on some kind of medication for whatever his condition was, they were a bit squeamish about giving him liquor, but decided to give him a single to see if that helped calm him down at all.

It did not.

The crew then asked if I would like to move; there was a middle seat on the exit row—more leg room—that was available if I wanted it. I was really tempted but I was also thinking about the young lady in the window seat who could not escape from him as easily as I could. I suggested we ask her if she wanted to move, then maybe give him the window seat with a seat between us—and maybe the extra space would help relax him a little. The young lady jumped at the move, thanking me, and then one of the crew told “M” he could have the window seat and stretch out now.

I went back to my seat with a little hope in my heart, vodka in my veins, and an extra bottle they had plied me with in my pocket. Added note: one of the staff wanted to ply me with several more bottles but before I could say, “Woah!” another pointed out that if I was going to be their “eyes” on this guy, they didn’t want me passing out. We all laughed.

“M” definitely stretched out—bobbling back and forth so that sometimes his head was almost in my lap, sometimes his legs were bumping into mine. The couple in front of me was thankful that he was moved over so he was no longer torturing them but now, unfortunately, that meant that their window seat woman was his latest victim. He kicked her seat repeatedly, belched with a distinctive odor in her direction which she commented loudly on, then pounded the tray, and shook the top of her seat vigorously.

No Longer Ignorance, No Longer Bliss

As the snack cart made its way back to us—and the flight crew nervously watching his latest actions—“M” suddenly stood up and leaned forward over the chair in front of him and the lady then quickly scooted to the front edge of her seat, turned around to look up at him and irritatingly exclaimed, “Are you WELL?!!!!” to which he replied, “Yeah, well, no, sorry,” then plunked down to continue thrashing about. When the crew got to her row, the woman pointed behind her and asked, “Is this a known issue?” to which they said, “We’re finding out all we can.”

When they then reached our row, “M” ordered another whiskey and water. The staff looked at each other quickly and the one at our row said, “Sir, we’re cutting you off. No more liquor. You’re welcome to anything else—soda, water, snacks—but not liquor.” He bought a snack box and ordered a soda. The crew member then leaned down to me and whispered, “Darcie—anything you want—any snack? Any more drinks?” I was still not hungry but ordered some more cranberry juice to go with the vodka bottle I still had from the last time she plied me. “M” proceeded to trash the 2 seats he occupied—snacks everywhere, spilled his drink in the seat, with wrappers and cardboard all over the place.

After tiring of sitting at the front edge of her set, the window seat woman finally got up and went back towards the bathrooms, and then “M” wanted out too. It was his 4^th trip in about 2 hours and he made his way back with belt draped around his neck, holding his pants up while zipping/un-zipping them. The window seat woman did not return and “M” came back after a long bit of time.

Very soon, there was the distinct smell of smoke. The couple with the toddler behind us noticed it right away and pushed the call light. I smelled it and the people in front of me smelled it; we were all looking back towards the restrooms. When the staff took the call, they immediately charged back to the bathrooms, banging on the doors to stop whatever was going on. Two poor souls emerged professing their innocence. One girl, almost in tears, was sobbing, “I swear to you I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life!”

So, gee, where might the smoke have come from? A dreaded kind of premonition caused me to turn my head to the right and that’s when I saw “M”s left pocket with a big ol’ box of Camels sticking out.

The crew was in the back trying to figure out the problem and I headed to them, explaining that I may have an idea of who was responsible. When I poked my head back into their area, I spotted the window seat woman—who had earlier departed from our area—with a drink in her hand, sitting there calming her nerves. She raised her glass in a salute, and obviously intended to stay there as long as she could. Couldn’t blame her a bit.

On my way back to my seat this time, the guy who had been moved with me in the beginning offered to switch seats with me for the rest of the flight. “I can’t believe the raw deal you got!” Nice offer, but I declined…I was ready to ride this one out.

In Denial

One of the crew went to “M” and asked “Sir, were you smoking in the bathroom?” to which he shook his head and grumbled, “No!”

There was nothing to do but return to my seat and when “M” inevitably wanted to use the bathroom again, there was nothing the crew could do but let him lock himself in and hope he didn’t burn anything down. He came back not smelling of smoke this time (whew!) and plunked down again, banging on the now empty seat in front of him. I mentally saluted, “Here’s to you, window seat woman in the flight attendant station with your drink!”

Soon, “M” was fidgeting in his pockets—I was trying to simultaneously read my book and use peripheral vision to see what he was up to—and pulled out his wallet. He got up on his knees and turned to the couple-with-toddler behind and said, “Will you buy me a whiskey and water?” to which the father said, “No sir, I don’t drink.” He said, “You don’t have to drink it, just buy it for me with my money.” Nope. He then turned to me—focus-on-your-book-Darcie-focus-on-your-book!—and would not let me ignore him. I gave him a resounding no, and headed back to my spot with the flight crew once again. “Okay, now he’s offering money to others to buy him a drink.” Eye-rolls all around and then window seat woman—nursing the same or another drink—said, “Well, that takes care of wondering if he’s in his right mind, doesn’t it?” Nodding, and unhappy faces all around. Reluctantly, I returned to my seat.

About this time, the recent vodka cranberry took effect and I actually dozed off, in spite of everything. I awoke to the flight crew leaning over me sternly talking to “M” about his latest escapade which evidently involved a lighter he was flicking and making other passengers nervous. She also explained that they would have to have him arrested if he continued in this fashion. He denied the lighter action and I was now wide awake once again. Oh joy.

Why Can’t I Keep My Mouth Shut?

“M” began his thrashing again and I noticed out of my left side that the young lady sitting in the aisle seat across from me was looking over at him skeptically. “Boy, he really makes me nervous!” she said, to which I said, “I know, right? Do we have the row from Hell or what? I’ve got him and you’ve got those sickos next to you,” referring to the Bubonic plague duo not covering their mouths to cough and sneeze. Not long after I expressed that observation, I came to the realization that she was with those 2 and I had just stuck my foot in my mouth big time. I’m going to blame the vodka. Just sprinkling my sunshine everywhere I go, I guess!

Can There Be Any More Drama?

About 90 minutes before landing—and after the longest 4 plus hours of flight ever—I was trying once more to focus on my book when I saw out of the corner of my eye a glint of metal. I turned to “M” and saw him flicking open a pocket knife in his hands. When he caught me looking at him, he quickly snapped it shut, putting it in his left pocket.

I actually toyed for a moment with not reporting it just because I was tired of complaining about him, but then better judgment got the best of me and back I went. This was the last straw for them and the crew jumped into action.

The security person on board contacted the Portland Airport security and they arranged for police to meet the plane once we landed. Staff picked up my stuff and moved me to a middle seat that 2 businessmen had been using for an office, and I felt bad busting up their party but explained a little of what was going on. The guys were pretty muscular and tough-looking so when the one sitting to my left asked how far back “M” was—he was 9 rows back from this new row—I thought he would try to go do something but instead he said, “That’s not far enough back; I don’t like that guy behind us!” Oh, cry me a river.

The landing at Portland Airport was smooth enough, then the pilot came on the loudspeaker to explain that everyone needed to stay seated after landing. The 2 guys on either side of me knew why but everyone else began looking around nervously.

After several minutes stopped at the gate, with everyone sitting still, 2 vested up police officers tromped down the aisle towards “M”. I didn’t look back but saw “M” scuttling up the aisle, with one of the officers running to keep up with him. The other officer proceeded behind and asked, “Now who saw the knife?”

“That would be me,” I said, and we talked for a few, me showing him about how big it was, adding that he put it in his left pocket. He thanked me and continued on.

15 Minutes of Unwelcome Fame…

I felt sort of like a celebrity for a little while…all the crew knew my name and hugged me on my way out, apologizing for my awful flight. Then others were curious and had to ask me questions all the way out. Some questions were rhetorical: “How did he get past security with a lighter and a knife?—I couldn’t even get my water jug past them!”

“M” was at the gate when we got off, talking to both police officers, and my legs were rather wobbly, so as soon as I found an empty gate, I sat down facing a moving walkway.

On the way there, a woman had said, “Well, that certainly wasn’t a boring flight!” I agreed and said, “My husband’s not going to believe this,” to which she said, “Honey, you just had 200 witnesses to what happened; he’s got to believe you!”

So I called my husband and he was probably popping the popcorn as I began my tale. The officers went by on the walkway as we talked, then the flight crew…then “M” who saw me and stared at me the entire time he was on the walkway, which I reported to my husband who then stayed on the phone with me in the baggage area, until I caught the Hut Shuttle to Salem.

Lessons Learned

A flight that crashed would have been worse than this one, but I have to admit to several times thinking, “If we crash now, I have 3 fewer hours to deal with this guy…” etc. But now, of course, I’m glad it didn’t.

In trying to figure out how to turn this into a positive, I’ve decided to start a web site where I outline every flight plan I have in the future. This way, all of you innocents can plan accordingly—doing the opposite of what I do.

You’re welcome.

2017 Meanderings - John Day, Oregon - Good Will Hunting

Late September to Early October

So since this was after all a “hunting trip”, Sis, I should first explain Chris’ philosophy of hunting and mine too, I suppose.

 

For Chris, the process itself is the reason he goes—being in the woods, learning about the animals, and interacting with a variety of critters in their domain.  There are those who go hunting for the trophy horns, and hardly get out of their trucks, breaking all the rules; they’re looking, looking, looking, and then jumping out to shoot.  They’re trashing their surroundings, and are loud and raucous. 

Luckily, they are the minority, but unfortunately, because they’re loud, they create a reputation for all hunters.  The ones who honor the sport—and actually don’t enjoy the shooting part—will tell you that those people (they have other names for them) are the ones who give honest hunters a bad name. 

Chris’ approach is way more complex, involving at least a week of scouting, research, and miles of walking, listening, and observing.  His “success” ratio isn’t very high, but he enjoys himself a lot more.  Chris defines success as “getting-out-in-the-woods” and seeing lots of critters.  For him, ALL hunting trips have been successful.

For me, a long-time animal-lover as you well know, I approached our first hunting trip years ago with a lot of trepidation and misconceptions.

I still don’t go on the hunt itself (have never been able to handle the actual shoot), but it quickly became clear to me that I enjoy the heck out of scouting (hiking, walking, observing, listening) and learning.  Since then, I’ve gained a respect and admiration for the honest hunters and have learned a lot about the compassion and respect that they have for the animals whose lives they ultimately take.  I’ve even witnessed hunters who pray after the hunt, thankful for the meat and the gift of food.  It has been more of a humbling experience over time than I had expected.

Chris' official deer hunt was the first 12 days of October.  We took off from Salem on September 21st (with Shoppie the campin' cat, naturally!) in order to arrive there in plenty of time to scout.

The "travelling crew" with Shoppie in her box between us.

She actually prefers to stay in there rather than wander
around the cab of the truck (we have given her a
choice many times!).

The Journey to John Day

The drive to get to John Day is really quite beautiful.  This year, because of all the forest fires we had, I did not to expect to enjoy it as much as I did.  The colors of the burn combined with the fall colors to provide an amazing array:

The scenery around John Day itself is spectacular.  The fossil beds are magnificent (and the colors amazing).  When you're here, we will definitely have to plan a little trip over there if we can, Sis!

John Day Fossil beds - the ones in the foreground
are actually green...really cool-looking.

More of the glorious fossil beds.

They are especially brilliant on blue-sky days!

The beautiful John Day River
which is right behind our Clyde Holliday camp site.

We decided for the first week to stay at a known (nice) camping spot right outside of the town of John Day called “Clyde Holliday” while we scouted out places to set up our remote camp.

From this full hook-up (plug-in water, plug-in electricity) convenient base camp, we set up our home-away-from-home to scout by truck for areas where we might dry camp (no plug-in water, no plug-in electricity) in the remote area where Chris would be hunting.

 

Trailer Layout

I figured you might want to get an idea of what living in our trailer is like, Sis.  It’s good we get along because it is pretty cozy.  The inside of the trailer in total is about the size of your dining room, a little smaller perhaps, in square footage.  That space contains the bed, the kitchen area, the bathroom, the couch, and “dining room”.  Here’s the basic layout: 

Here you're looking from the kitchen into the "bedroom"

This is the kitchen area above (stove and microwave
on the left, refrigerator on the right).  The open door
on the right leads into our small bathroom.

This is of course me, putting together the dining room table.
That's our refrigerator with small freezer on the left,
and the bed is behind me.

We often play Scrabble at the table and yes,
that's Shoppie behind me on one of her afghans.

Truck Scouting

So, our first week is largely spent in the truck (with Shoppie holding down the “fort” at our camp).  We look for possibilities of where to camp and, of course, we look for deer and any other animals we may happen onto.  We enjoy seeing the wildlife surprises and oddball things we run into as we stop for various walks and hikes along the way…

We saw about 12 bucks during the scouting weeks...

  

A barn owl, spotted not far from our remote camp...

An interesting "stand-off" we witnessed between
coyote and cow.  The cow looked bored, as if to say,
"Just you try something, pip-squeak!"

Lots of wild mustang and turkeys grace the remote
camping areas...it's still pretty special when you
run across them!

The roads you traverse for these scouting expeditions are some of the worst on the entire planet.  So here’s my big tip:  Don’t drink coffee while scouting the back roads in the truck because it does NOT work.  As soon as you think it’s safe to take a sip, BAM, you hit a rut and your coffee is now largely in your lap.  Enjoy the rest of your wet day.  Just sayin’.  Everyone’s entitled to my opinion (ha-ha!).

Move to the Remote Camp Spot

After about 5 days of scouting in this fashion, we finally landed on a remote camp spot and headed for the hills.  Speaking of bad roads, the ½-mile road into our remote camp took us almost 15 minutes, it was that bad!  Here’s a picture of it at night time, where you can see some of the ruts we faced:

Dry-Camping Chores

So dry-camping involves some extra work, which is the price you pay for truly getting away from it all.  As I said, the other place had water and electric hook-ups, so we didn’t have to think about those conveniences.  When dry-camping at this spot, there’s a bit more to these amenities:

·      Our water (drinking, washing, all water that we used) came from a spring about 5 miles away.  When the trailer needed more water, we:

o   Took 7-gallon jugs (these weigh 56 pounds when full—no way could I hoist them around the way Chris could!), and filled them at the spring.

o   Trucked back to camp and offloaded the jugs.

o   From there, it was a 2-person operation to get the water into the trailer—me holding the funnel into the trailer input and hanging onto Chris so the weight of the jug didn’t send him toppling backward, and Chris hoisting up the jug so that he could pour said water into the funnel.

·        Electricity is supplied via the generator when you’re dry-camping, so there are the daily chores of firing it up when needed, and keeping it filled with gasoline (and more heavy jugs Chris gets to hoist around).

Extra Privacy

Hey, Sis—do you remember how Chris used paper plates on our first camping trip together to scare off other campers (he advertised “James Reunion” on the paper plates and people avoided the entire area where we were—we ended up having 3 camping spots all to ourselves during July 4^th weekend)?  Well, he struck again at the spot we found.  Afraid that someone might try to move in on us (as in, within ¼-mile of us), he set up some “fake camps” around our trailer, so as to give the impression of a larger group of folks.  Wouldn’t expect any less from him!  LOLOL

You see our trailer in the distance there on the left.  One of the fake
camps had a red tent (an old one his mom had used), a couple of
coolers and a chair.  We called it "Enid's Place" after his mom...

Across the road from us was a spot where Chris set up a table,
complete with tablecloth, chair and stool.  We named this one
"Bob's Place" and Chris even had a sign there for a while
(on a paper plate, naturally!), with "Bob" on it...

Scouting Day Rituals

Once we set up camp and got Shoppie used to her new digs, we scouted (drove/walked/hiked) together and then Chris walked his butt off solo into some rougher terrain.  So went the 8 days prior to the actual hunting season:  lots of walking and hiking.  Back at our trailer home, we prepared supper, watched movies, played Scrabble and cards.

As for the deer, they seem to have their own ritual here.  During scouting days, they show themselves in abundance…

But, as many a hunter will tell you, the bucks seem to KNOW the day/hour/minute when hunting season begins and vanish from sight.

Now me, I kind of take the Gary Larson approach to how this works.  I don’t know if you ever checked out the cartoons of Larson (“The Far Side”), Sis, but he really had an odd sense of humor and some great stuff; many pertained to animals and how they must be thinking and behaving:

So MY thought is that, just like in baseball where you have the base coaches telling the runners to hold up or go-go-go, the same happens with the deer…like some “coach” is in the hidden woods with an arm out, making the other deer wait until the coast is clear, then “Okay—go-go-go!!”

Hunting Routines

We each had our own routines during the hunting days.

Chris

One of several directions from our trailer
where Chris hunted.

Of course, Chris was hunting (duh!) which actually involves a lot of the stuff he loves, as I mentioned before.  He interacted with some does that played with him, hoofing their way to him, cautiously/slowly, trying to figure out what he was.  He ran into a coyote that jumped with surprise when he made some noises at it.  Then he came across a bunch of tracks that had been made by a herd of about 15 elk just minutes before. 

This is the real reason he hunts…to be at one with the woods and animals and have those incredible moments.  I hope I can forever remember the look on his face as he described how beautiful one particular doe was.  He was absolutely enthralled.  I love how he lives in the moment and how he enthuses about nature.  He hadn’t bagged a deer for a couple of years before this trip, but he has had what he considers successful trips every time because of all of these “moments”.

Me

While Chris was hunting the better part of the day, I had my own walk that I took which went for a mile up an old gravel/dirt road and ended at a tree which had a distinctive broken limb on it.  I called it the “Broken Arm Tree” which, shortly after became the “BAT”, which then made it the “BAT Trail” that I (also a bat perhaps) took daily.  I was careful to be noticeable (not mistaken for a deer), making sure to wear my bright orange cap every time I wandered.  I never ran into anyone on the BAT trail…very peaceful and quiet—a nice way to start the day.

The BAT trail leading away from our trailer.

Grassy meadows about 1/4 mile from the end of the BAT trail.

And the BAT there at the end of the trail...

...the TREE, the TREE!!

My own special hunt

So, I may not be a hunter, but I myself harvested quite the neat little surprise as I picked up “trash” that I found along the trail (I’m glad to report that there was very little of that).  It may look like an ordinary flattened beer can, but if you hold it tab-side with thumb and forefinger and flap it back and forth, it makes a great woodpecker noise (clack-clack-clack-clack-clack!).  I call it my “woodpecker caller”.  Hah!  Take THAT Daniel Boone!

We'll see if video works on this blog, Sis...never tried it before!  If it works, you should be able to play it and hear the woodpecker caller: 

My whole daily routine looked something like this:

• Start generator (sometimes a chore)
• Feed Shoppie
• Wash-up
• Spiff up trailer (make bed, sweep, etc.)
• Take my BAT walk
• Eat breakfast (with Chris sometimes if he came back for a mid-morning break--he's up at dawn, when Shoppie and I wish him well and go back to sleep)
• Read, write, listen to audio books
• Nap (it can happen!)
• Chris comes back and we drive about looking for deer signs so he can get an idea of where he might want to hunt
• Get back and do supper
• Evening run looking for where the deer are at night--again, getting an idea of where they might be at light of day.

Shoppie

And Shoppie has HER routines too, you know.  Of course sleeping is big on the list, but she does a fair amount of looking, especially when there are chipmunks nearby!

Shoppie's sleeping routines...sometimes
on the couch...

...sometimes on the bed with "Daddy's" hat.

Shoppie looking at the chipmunk...

The chipmunk looking at Shoppie.

Shoppie’s new sport

She also discovered a new hide-n-seek game to play using her afghan.  Typically, she sits and looks out on the world from her afghan which sits on the back of the couch. But then she discovered, especially on the colder days, that she could burrow up under the thing and hide:

Not quite completely hidden here...

One time, when Chris and I returned, she was just one big lump of afghan there, and figured we couldn’t see her.  So we played along:  “Where’s Shoppie?”  “Have you seen Shoppie?”  To which, her little butt would almost wag under the afghan—she was enjoying this!  Finally, after about 10 minutes of this, I decided maybe some “brushing” might entice her out of her burrow.  At home, she absolutely begs for brushing and knows the word itself.  When I say, “Shoppie, you want some brushing?” she’ll come flying from wherever she is, squeaking, and jumping onto my lap.  She loves her brushing.  So, with Shoppie still an afghan lump, I said, “It’s sure too bad that she’s not around, because I was going to brush her.”  Chris played along—“Some brushing?” “Exactly, some brush—“

That was as far as I got.  Shoppie emerged with a panic-stricken look on her face and squeaked as if to say, “I’m not really hidden!  Here I am!  You can brush me now!”

The Snow Surprise

On Monday, October 2, Day 3 of the actual hunt, we woke up to a surprise of snow everywhere.  When Chris tried to leave at dawn, he couldn’t even open the trailer door because the awning was weighted down with the stuff.

And this would lead to another laughable moment—we don’t always need the cat to make us laugh.  Sometimes, we laugh at each other or ourselves.  In my defense (yes, this would be a laughing-at-me moment), it WAS the crack of dawn and I’m not THAT morning of a morning person generally.  

The awning was filled with snow which Chris managed to clear, and then asked me to bring it in.  I dutifully went to the button and pushed “in” but it wasn’t responding.  “Now?!” I’d shout to him.  “No—nothing!”  It took me a little time (the hint was that our slide-out behind me was coming closer, freaking Shoppie out—she burrowed under the covers which is her response to “my-cat-world-is-coming-undone”), but I finally figured out I was pushing the “in” button for the slide-out, not the awning, so that our couch was at the back of my knees.  Okay…ooops!  Chris gave me one of those priceless dead-pan looks that says mentally he is absolutely rolling his eyeballs and slapping his forehead.  The awning came in fine once I made that subtle correction.

Success and Fame

The snow came and went, we carried on with our hunting day routines, and we enjoyed our evenings together.  A few times trucks would go by our camp as hunters explored other roads, but mostly we had the whole place to ourselves and saw nobody.

 

By Saturday, October 7^th (the 8^th day of the 12-day hunt), Chris was ready to try new territory.  This involved me dropping him off at a place that was miles away from camp off of the road heading towards town.  It was agreed that I would go into town (John Day), get some supplies, and take the opportunity to make phone calls (as there was no cell signal and no WiFi where we camped) before returning at dark to pick him up.

While in town, I discovered that our security alarm at home had gone off and received some disturbing but not life-threatening (thankfully!) news about our sprinkler system and some hilarious (in hindsight) tactics by friends to get that resolved and our alarm system to shut up.  Police were involved…fun was had.  I think I called you that day Sis, after all of this news, and you and I were able to at least laugh about it by then!

I picked up Chris at his spot a little late—the darkness had made landmarks unclear and he had walked right by where I was parked in the truck, unbeknownst to me!  He had had no luck once again deer-wise and after sharing the news from home with him, he broached the idea that maybe we should go on home before the 11^th, the last day of the hunt, to resolve things on the home front.

Sunday morning the 8^th, Chris woke up with a feeling that he should try a road where we had seen deer while scouting weeks before.  The hunting gods smiled upon him…he spotted a huge 4-point buck, got a clean shot, and with a LOT of work and help from passers-by, got the animal onto his truck for later processing at camp.

Word got around quickly of Chris’ harvest.  It was the biggest buck anyone had seen in that area this year.  Chris has never been one for boasting or feeling the need for popularity, but there he was, at 71 years old, with people of all ages and sexes coming by to meet him and see his buck.  Suddenly our place in the middle of nowhere was like Grand Central Station.  This buck was so big, Chris is now eligible for the “Boone and Crockett Club”—a very impressive deal.

Heading Home

So, after the huge process that is getting all the meat packaged and into the freezer, we headed back to Salem the following day.  We both agreed that it had been one of our better camping experiences.  There is so much that makes the trip fulfilling to us other than actual “success” at getting the harvest.  But this year had an extra thrill and amazement to it because of that, and it was all the more satisfying because it was done in good will.  We gratefully have meat to feed us, but the adventures and experience was seriously priceless.

And…the drive home ain’t bad!!