One hundred thirty-three minutes later, Ted and John departed the hotel. John had sat through breakfast as Ted talked about places he had a mind to visit over the next few days. It became clear that this was the closest to a “route plan” as Ted cared to devise.
Mount St. Helens. The Columbia gorge. A small town about an hour from the Oregon border, Shaniko, which had a
one hundred and twenty-year old hotel with a café that served a cold pea and cucumber pureed soup rumored to come from the private recipe book of the Queen’s favorite chef. A
volcano field west of Redmond. Crater Lake. A road that ran somewhat parallel to I5, but seventy miles to the west which passed by a small campground,
Happy Camp, where Ted insisted they had to camp, and beyond which the roads curved for miles as they first crested a pass and then plunged into a valley before following beside a winding river for nearly a hundred miles, ending in Weaverville.
John quickly surmised that at
a rustic café in Weaverville, Ted would devise the next “ride plan” over a similarly long and probably late breakfast of eggs, grilled tomato, and toast.
Only this time there would be no breach of civility. Owing to a thirty-minute long detour to the local Whole Foods (commenced a mere five minutes into the start of their journey before they ever reached I5), Ted had located and purchased two jars of
proper English marmalade, along with a small box of dried
fig and black olive toast, thinly sliced.
John had first watched as Ted saddled up his mostly stock BMW GS, mounting a waxed-cotton duffel bag atop his rear seat secured with a nylon rope, to accompany two lightly stuffed soft bags hung on either side. John could not discern any spare gas cans, nor did he see evidence that the side bags contained a suitable air pump or meaningful tool kit. Ted’s tent bag looked to be a third the size of John’s and would later reveal itself to be a one-man backpacker’s tent, patched from previous tears and with a hand-sewn bug net as its front door. His sleeping bag was housed in a camouflaged stuff sack bought at a military surplus outlet.
Somewhere in the soft bags was a tiny folding box stove from which Ted would later deposit whatever combustible materials he could gather at the campsite, lit by a fire starter made of of cotton balls that Ted had earlier stirred into a glass container filled with melted petroleum jelly and let dry and harden. Ted’s mess kit would prove similarly frugal – two matching rough- enameled grey steel mugs, one for tea and the other for everything else, housed in a non-matching enameled small royal blue steel pot for boiling water. Ted let on that said kit ranked among his best “finds” at the monthly community yard sale held back home, secured for a mere $5 (and haggled down from $10). His one splurge appeared limited to
a small metal “spork”, purchased the day before at full retail from the REI store.
After the marmalade detour, Ted asked John to lead his preferred route to Mt. St. Helens, since John clearly was familiar with the back roads route. John felt privileged, and he set upon a brisk pace. He was somewhat worried about getting through the rough paved roads leading up to St. Helens. They were marked with severe frost heaves, and he worried equally about the deer that wandered out on the roads at dusk.
But Ted fell quickly behind, and where John customarily wicked up the speeds on sparsely traveled backroads, Ted seemed content to motor along at a more relaxed pace. At first, this forced John into a whip-saw pattern, as he would speed up, then slow back down so as not to lose Ted. Fairly quickly, he lowered his speed ten miles per hour and that seem to settle Ted in several car lengths behind.
They made their first gas stop in Randle, which sported only
one gas station. John relieved himself and fueled up in just ten minutes. Ted disappeared for almost twenty, and when he emerged from the small attached store, John joked.
“Everything come out ok?”
Ted smiled, nodded, and as he fueled up his GS, he shared with John that the gas station owner was the third generation owner, having taken over from his father who had run the station for thirty years. His father had followed the thirty-five year tenure of the grandfather, who had installed the original pumps using his GI money earned after he returned home from the war.
“He’s worried” shared Ted.
“His son moved to Seattle for an engineering job eight years ago, and his daughter is now in Portland with her two teenage kids. He’s doubtful either could be convinced to return home and run the station. Rather a sad tale, really.”
“We’d better get moving if we hope to see St. Helens and get to the Gorge before dark” urged John. He quickly mounted his GS, and then waited as Ted refilled his water bottle, put on his gloves and helmet, and then had to take his gloves off again when he forgot to tie his chin strap. They got moving fifteen minutes later, and it took another ninety minutes to reach
the visitors center at Windy Ridge, overlooking St. Helens.
Ted was floored by the view and the surrounding devastation, painfully evident even twenty years later. He stopped and read every placard at each display, growing quiet as he learned the fate of those who lost their lives observing the last few minutes before mountain blew its top and sent superheated gasses racing toward the observers. He didn’t immediately respond when John noted
“we’ve got to pick up the pace to get to the gorge now.”
They followed the winding road back until it once again wound its way south. Miles later, it turned into an unexpected dirt stretch, and then climbed in elevation. For a while they were surrounded by foliage and tall trees. As they descended, they caught glimpses and then full views of Mt. Adams. Then Ted suddenly pulled over, forcing John to turn around and ride back to meet him. It was now on the verge of dusk, much later than he wanted, and it was quickly becoming clear that reaching the Columbia gorge before sunset was not happening.
Ted pointed to the full view of Mt. Adams.
“Amazing! Let’s stay here tonight.”
John looked puzzled.
“The nearest campground is about thirty miles south”
Ted pointed to
a small clearing off the road.
“We can sleep there.”
John stared. It was barely big enough for his tent and bike.
“There?”
“Yes, let’s set up now before we lose the light.” Ted grabbed his duffel and stuff sack and headed toward the clearing. His bike was off the road just a foot, but Ted seemed quite unconcerned.
Ten minutes later, John had finished carting his tent bag and one pannier back to the small clearing. He glanced over. Ted’s one-man tent was set up, and Ted was knelt over his assembled stove, lighting the cotton ball fire starters and igniting the small collection of twigs he had hastily collected.
Another fifteen minutes later, when John emerged from his setting up his two-man tent (which seem to dwarf Ted’s small structure), he was handed a mug of hot tea. Ted then thrust the cover of the boiling pot which now doubled as a serving tray for the fig and olive toast smeared with marmalade. John ate in silence.
“What an amazing day!” Ted gestured back to Mt. Adams. It had turned from white to deep pink as the sun quickly began to sink. They leaned against a large granite rock. Over the next thirty minutes, they said nothing as the sky turned from pink to orange, then purple.
An hour later, it reached its final dark blue hue.
When John awoke the next morning and glanced at his watch, he was surprised to see it was already seven thirty. He poked his head out of the tent. Ted was leaned against the same boulder as the previous night. Atop the stove, steam rose from the boiling pot. Ted’s tent was gone, folded and stowed on the bike with his sleeping bag. Ted gestured to the pot.
“Tea is ready, and there’s toast and jam. Plus I sliced an apple.”
Forty five minutes later, after Ted finished two cups of tea, John had finished packing and stowing his tent and gear and pannier onto his bike. Ted waited patiently as John sheepishly searched his pannier for the ignition key, which he had stowed in the metal box the night before.
“I’m ready”, volunteered John once he found the key and repacked the pannier.
Ted grinned back in a wide smile, deliberately showing all his front teeth.
“Well good then, dear chap. Honestly, I thought we’d be at least a hundred miles away by now.”
