Absentee snow and 70 degree days almost made up for 20 degree nights. Waking up with frost on our sleeping bags was offset by the wonderful sights of bison and elk roaming free through Yellowstone, mingling with camera heavy tourists poised like hi-tech voyeurs ready to record Old Faithful's periodic ejaculations on film and video. By the end of the day our brains were fried, filled with shortened tempers and low tolerance for everyone but each other. Even in the off-season, Yellowstone had the power to turn Joe Q. Public into an impatient bumbling asshole, intent on spending as little time enjoying the environment and as much time wrecking it for the rest of us by either driving his Winnebago terrifically slow (five miles an hour to make sure the family gets a real good look at every single one of the seven bezillion burnt trees) or dangerously fast-95 miles per hour-rushing around trying to gather up as much eye-candy as possible before the arrival of the apocalypse. Too many people ruin a good thing and make the Port-O-Potties reek-o-plenty, resembling those at Cornell's Slope Day.
After four days we needed to become obscure. Sandy had her heart set on going to a place I never heard of just because, in her own words, "you never take me anywhere." After peeling off several suspiciously liberal bumper stickers (e.g. "DARE to keep cops off donuts," "The Religious Right is Neither," and "Make guns as hard to get as a building permit") we aimed our car towards the very desolate center of the most self segregated, paranoid, self-righteous state in the nation. We decided to ignore the jeering chants of the local NRA chapter screaming something about "praising God and passing the ammunition," and actually enjoy the splendid beauty of Idaho.
Camping in Craters of the Moon National Monument was a primeval experience. Nestled in a field of volcanic rocks as far as the eye can see, the park is an obscure testament to the power of nature, with hidden caves and deceptive hills. Think crunchy, pointy rocks and cinder fields. Funny, I always thought cinders were man-made. It's also a nice big petri dish for the Hanta Virus which sure beats the pants off Montezuma's Revenge. I'd rather have shit running down my legs than die because I caught a nasty chest cold from some mouse droppings.
Three days later, after a torrential storm soaked our campsite in Oregon's worst state park-10 feet off I-82-we arrived in Seattle, the gray capital of grunge rock and Hot Java (that's coffee, silly). After removing the last offensive bumper sticker proclaiming "Nuke a Gay Whale for Christ," we drove to Capital Hill, the mostly gay section of town, to meet Renée, my long lost lesbian cousin. Her home would be our crash pad for the next five nights.
A high ranking employee at Microsoft, Renée and her lover are rolling in more dough than we could fathom. They just bought their first house and have no qualms about flying here or there to take the latest in gay-oriented resort vacations.
Even though it rained almost constantly the whole time we were in the Pacific Northwest, our old Ithaca friends swore that we just missed four months of the most delicious weather. "It's never this bad," J.C., Matt, Jeremy, and Sasha exclaimed in unison one evening after a terrible downtown drenching. In fact, it can be so bad that the runaways and junkies, exasperated by another long wet season, turn to heroin and other opiates in their quest to escape, to "return to the womb." Yeah, that's the smartest move we've heard so far: "It's so gray and rainy here, I'll just shoot some smack and spiral deeper in depression." DUH!
After eight days of escalating lethargy, it had become too much. We'd had enough of the catcalls begging us for some "spare change for dog food," enough of the $2.00 coffees, enough of the classifieds announcing "Bagel" and "Espresso" job categories, and enough of the dead-end job leads. Hopping the ferry, we waved goodbye to the smoke-free cafés, the phallic Space Needle, and historic Underground Seattle-the old city buried under three stories of asphalt and sawdust. We crossed Puget Sound and headed for the Olympic Peninsula and the coast.
Going to Olympic National Park was like driving through a foreign country. Tree farms stretched from horizon to horizon, interspersed with hectares of clearcut land, slowly eroding. This is the land America has forgotten. Stretching from Northwest Washington to Humboldt County in Northern California are the last vestiges of Old Growth Forest, filled with gigantic trees hundreds of years old; trees older than America itself. Despite the fact that tree farms churn out enough lumber to supply America's demand, despite the fact that fewer than ten percent of Old Growth Forests remain, many Republicans in Congress want to dismantle environmental protection and promote the wholesale destruction of the remaining virgin land. It reminded me of the right wing propaganda we spotted way back in Pittsburgh: a bumper sticker proclaiming pro-life murderers "Paul Hill and John Salvi: Martyrs & Heroes" next to one extolling the virtues of: "Earth First: We'll Mine the Other Planets Later." This twisted self righteous logic is going to destroy the planet, and bring about the cultural apocalypse the right wing wants to see as their self-fulfilling prophetic Judgement Day. With this knowledge in mind, we set out to see, perhaps for the first and last time, the wonderous Ho Rain Forest-the only temperate rain forest remaining in North America.
Over the next few days, we explored the craggy Washington coastline (here we observed state beach signs defaced with "OJ's Free! At last justice prevails against white America." Funny, I thought the justice of equality was nearly complete after the civil rights acts of the 1960s, not after a rich black man was acquited of murder due to a degree of doubt. OJ, like the rest of the super rich, can afford to buy his "innocence."), Mount Saint Helens, and Southern Washington. Pushing through most of Oregon, we found ourselves camped out on a farm in Cave Junction, a little logging town caught up in the latest environmental controversies. Sara, an old granola-eating, commune-living, dope-smoking high school pal, was the farm's caretaker. She put us up in her hayloft apartment-cows downstairs and a big field out back to use for a toilet. Cats offered us a selection of freshly caught critters nightly. We investigated the wonders of a composting outhouse, while pondering news of local ecowarriors munching hash brownies during their arrest at a protest. The soothing bliss of Oregon winery tours slowly faded as we entered California.
The golden state of California looms large in the minds of many as the quintessential place to fulfill one's dreams: making it big as an actress, becoming a surf bum, or just plain avoiding real winters. We soon discovered that this is a place where one can be happy as long as someone else does the driving. With highways that are constantly under construction from earthquakes that rip them apart like a ten year old with Matchbox cars and an M-80, California roads are to be avoided at all costs. Drivers beware: rush hour here is 6-9 am and 3-7 pm.
On a more relaxing note, marijuana is poised to push Rice-a-Roni out of the limelight to become San Francisco's new treat. Proposition P, passed by over 80% of S.F.'s voters, made arresting and prosecuting those who use marijuana as medicine the absolute lowest priority of law enforcement. Those who come to town with a legitimate doctor's note can join the Cannabis Buyers Club, a four story downtown pot bar that caters to mostly terminally ill patients. Inside grass is sold Amsterdam style: B grade weed is Mexican brick selling at $5 an eighth; A grade is standard street fare, priced at $20 an eighth; AA is the two or three bong hit stuff, sold for $40; AAA is like killer Tompkins County kind, $60; and AAAA is labeled as true "medicinal marijuana," an $80 per eighth one-hit wonder that will do you all day. They also sell potent snacks and treats such as pot brownies, banana bread, and space cake for $5 a slice. Do what I did: split a piece with a friend or two and make a day of it in Golden Gate Park.
Continue to Part Three
