Redemption

A very fortunate chain of events had us back at Sydney Olympic Stadium (aka ANZ Stadium), but we actually caught a game this time.

We knew that there would be an Aussie-Rules Football game tonight (and we were pretty sure that we knew where), but we had been debating about whether or not to go. The weather had been crappy, but I was still looking for a way to make up for taking Tim to Yankee Stadium to watch the Knicks play.

After vacillating back and forth all day, we decided to head down to the stadium and see if we could get tickets at the door. We knew that the weather was keeping people home, so we were pretty confident that we'd get in.

While waiting for the train, we noticed some guys in Sydney Swans jackets, and asked them how to get to the game. They recommended another train that we ended up switching to. (Don't worry, I'm not wasting your time, this is an important detail.)

The train that we were recommended was actually much faster than the one that we took the night before. When it arrived at Olympic Stadium, we heard an MC, of sorts, directing people to the event. As we were walking, the MC asked if anyone needed a ticket (for free). Someone apparently had an extra, but no one took it, since everyone at the park already had theirs. But we didn't. So we gratefully accepted the ticket, and thanked its prior owner. (So it's a good thing that we took the train that we did, or else we would have missed the free ticket offer.)

As we were walking to the stadium, Tim noticed that the ticket was in the premium section. It was the most expensive class of ticket, and much nicer than the budget tickets that we were planning on buying. So our new plan was to just buy one cheap ticket, and then show the nice one to the usher, who would hopefully assume that our other ticket was just as good. We knew that the rain would free up a lot of seats, so sitting together would be no problem.

Turns out that if asked nicely, the woman at the box office can give premium tickets at severely discounted prices. Especially to friends trying to sit together, when one of them already has a nice seat.

So, armed with one free premium ticket, and one budget-priced premium ticket, we made our way to the field. About 20 rows from the field, to be exact. Right on the center line, to be very exact.


The game was great. Aussie Rules Football is a religiously popular rugby derivative that is played on a huge field. The point is to run the ball across the field and kick it though two field goal-like pylons. It's very fast paced, and had me jumping out of my seat throughout the game.

ESPN I'm not, but here's a clip of a jump ball followed by a quick goal. There are probably better clips online, and they're worth seeking out; the game's brutal.




By the way, Sydney won, again.

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Oh, that Sydney Football Stadium

I've outdone myself.

Tim and I spent today rounding out the Sydney attraction package with two tower tours. They were both nice viewpoints over Sydney, but the cloudy weather didn't lend to any amazing pictures.

The highlight of the day was supposed to be a rugby game. I bought the tickets a few weeks ago, to celebrate Tim's birthday. For whatever reason, I was absolutely positive that the game was at Sydney's Olympic Park. I was wrong. However, we didn't realize that until after we had a handful of beers in the pub across from the main Olympic stadium. By the time that kick-off was scheduled, there were only about 30 people at the pub, and no one at the stadium. Tim kept telling me that something was off, but I just assumed that the crappy weather was the reason for a low turnout. But when we got to the ticket counter, and found all of the windows closed, I came around.

There was an adjacent stadium (there are many in the park) that had its lights on, so we walked in to see if that's where the game was. There actually was a game going on, so we were getting closer, but it ended up being a youth game between a couple of local schools. When I realized that we were 0 for 2 on the stadium picks, I asked a pack of dads where the Sydney Roosters played. The told me that I was about 45 minutes away, and the stadium was surprisingly close to our hostel. I told them that I had tickets to the game (which was already underway), and they said that we'd have a pretty tough time making it. So, I decided to cut my losses, and I asked which high schools were playing where we were. At least we'd be able to catch one game. They that that I was hilarious. Tim didn't.

We decided to take our chances, and hopped back on the train. Not surprisingly, we were the only ones on the train. We should have been suspicious when we noticed that we were also the only ones on the train to the stadium.

Here's a quick run down of our journy. We started at A, went to the Olympic park at B, but should have gone to the Sydney Football Stadium at C.


View Larger Map

Oops.

By the time that our train arrived back in town, the game was nearly over. We decided to have a beer at a pub by the train station. They happened to have the game on.

Sydney won.

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That's a liter?!

Well, the good news is that I made it to Sydney. Let's hear it for discount airlines. I booked the flight two days ago,

The (bad? Well, let's just say "other") news is that I rekindled my affair with the bottle. Last night (my first night in Sydney) was the birthday of an Irishman that Tim and I met at our hostel.

And about that hostel. So, Tim and I had left it pretty open when it came to meeting in Sydney. We figured that we'd just email each other when we knew more. However, I left Melbourne before any of the internet cafes had opened, so I was pretty much flying blind. And to make it worse, there were no internet cafes in the Sydney airport, so I had to hop on the train without knowing where I was going. (Well, in all honesty, there was one internet terminal in the Sydney airport, but it was on the other side of security, and I didn't want to risk declaring Yaqona, again.)

Anyway, I took the train to Sydney Central Station. I figured that any "central" station couldn't be too far from wherever Tim was. I arrived at the station about 20 minutes later, and I found a nearby internet terminal. I had an email from Tim that told me to meet him at Town Hall by 4pm. It was 3:30, so I had about 30 minutes to 1) figure out where Town Hall was, and 2) get there. I felt like I was in a spy movie, racing against the clock. But then again, I always like to pretend that I'm in a spy movie.

Ok, wow, so before I revealed my inner 12 year old, I think that I was talking about an Irishman. His birthday had us drinking beers at a local pub. And drinking, and drinking, and drinking. (For the record, every time I've used the toilet lately, I check to make sure that I haven't crapped out my liver yet. It's only a matter of time.)

By the way, Tim and I also played tourist yesterday, and took a tour of the Sydney Opera House. You may have heard of it.


Thank you, thank you.

The rest of the photos were taken up close. Notice the individual tiling on the outside. The television shots don't pick up the grandfather's-bathroominess of the place.


Inside, at the intermission bar.


Me taking a picture of Tim taking a picture. Deep.


Another late night gem, taken from the Opera House grounds.



And that brings us to today. First stop: Sydney aquarium. Some highlights: The Eastern Long-Neck Turtle. Aka The Eastern Way-Cute Turtle.



I love this sign. Only in Australia.


And these are the f'ing pigeons. I love this place.



Our next stop was a harbour cruise. It was part of a package of attractions that we purchased (like the aquarium, etc.). A surprisingly filling fish and chips lunch left us both too tired to get a lot out of it, but I did get a photo to prove that I was here.



The evening was capped off by a pub crawl in The Rocks, Sydney's semi-touristy drinking district. We chatted with some of the bartenders, after noticing that most of them had an Irish accent. Turns out that they (and 13,000 other Irish 20-somethings) were on work-holiday visas, like Shawn, my non-kleptomaniacal roommate from the last hostel.

One of our stops was a German-owned, Oktoberfest-themed booze barn. They happened to sell one-liter beers.



Sigh.

My birthday present to Tim is a ticket to tomorrow's Sydney Roosters rugby game, so if I don't post again for a while, it's because I'm hungover.

M

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What tunnels?

Melbourne's a great city, but I felt like leaving it for a day to see some of Australia's famous coastline. I picked the Mornington Peninsula region to visit, since it was easily accessible by public transportation (it took a few hours, but the trip was well worth it). The drive down there felt a lot like San Diego, by the way, but it was still very impressive.



View Larger Map

I went to the visitor's center of Point Nepean National Park, my destination. I asked for some directions, and the park ranger told me that there was a 6km walk along the coastline to the fort.

"Wait, there's a fort?!"

Turns out that, despite a beautiful coastline, the main attraction was actually a fort that was build in the 1880's to defend Melbourne against whoever the 1880 Aussies were worried about. Who knew?

Nature, Schmature; I spent 2 hours crawling through underground tunnels!

The fort was based around two huge cannons that were intended to punctuate any invading ships (but, of course, never were). Here are the remnants of the cannon's shield.

But the scenery really was amazing.

Notice how the sky gets progressively more ominous in those photos. I got caught in a nasty thunderstorm 6km from the visitor's center. It also happened to be a Tuesday during the off season, so I was the only person walking though a huge network of tunnels. Semi-creepy, but fun.

I made it back to the hostel, and managed to book a cheap flight to Sydney. More in the next post...

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Boomerangs, kangaroos, and women's dormitories

Must...fight...urge...to...open...with...G'day, mates.

Alright, I'm sitting in an internet cafe after a day of walking through Melbourne. It's a great city, and I've got a bit to say about it, but I'd better start with last night.

I arrived at the Melbourne airport around 11pm, so I had to book it through customs to catch the last bus into the city. Australia, by the way, has the toughest customs regulations in the world. It didn't help that I had to do a little tap dance to explain that the large, unmarked paper bags that I was carrying contained an acceptable chopped green herb. (There was no way that I was going to leave Fiji without a bit of Yaqona.)

They did eventually let me pass with almost all of my possesions. I used the airport info desk to find a hostel, and then I took the bus into town.

The hostel that I stumbled upon didn't seem that bad. I figured that there was only a 50/50 chance of waking up with mysterious skin bumps. Not bad odds, compared to some of the places that I've stayed.

By that point, it was a bit after midnight, so I crept in as quietly as I could. I found an open bunk in the back. I unpacked a few things, and then left the room to brush my teeth. I came back a few minutes later and continued to arrange my area, until I heard a very soft voice in the darkness.

"Excuse me"

Now, I had been moving around like a ninja on cottonballs, so I thought, "No way, is she really going to tell me to be quiet!"

"Excuse me"

"Hi," I said.

"Hi. I think that this is a women's dormitory."

"Great. Good night."

Well, actually I used my conversational muffler to curb that response. It does work occassionally. But I did say that I'd go downstairs and find out. Turns out, it was. The clerk felt really bad, but I told him that this wasn't the worst predicament that a traveller could be in.

My second room assignment was with Rocky, a young Chinese architect, and Shawn, a South Korean on a work-holiday visa looking for farm jobs. They were friendly, and most importantly, didn't steal my stuff while I slept!

Ok, on to Melbourne. It's another green city that has great public transportation, and a lot of city parks. It's an interesting blend of Victorian and modern architecture, that will probably be clearer through pictures.

I'm going to head out to a coastal preserve tomorrow, and then meet Tim in Sydney on Wednesday. I'll probably check back in again after the preserve.

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The long road to recovery

The last couple of days in Fiji were marked by waves of celebration and recovery. Mostly recovery.

The three of us walked around Lautoka on the morning of Tim's birthday, and we happened to find a public carnival. It was a simple neighborhood fair that we've all seen as children.



The night of Tim's birthday was the blow out that it was supposed to be. And then some. We rinsed and repeated the following day at a fund raiser for Lautoka's over-60 field hockey team, containing such characters as this guy:



He's a native Fijian that says that he's 75, but I don't believe him.

Walking home, we didn't have much luck hailing a cab, so Tim flagged down the local police troop carrier that happened to be passing by. This was, with no exaggeration, only the third time that I had seen a police officer during my week on the island.

The officers already had a couple of local Fijians in the front seat, so they tossed us in the back, and asked where we were heading. Tim gave them directions in Fijian, and they happily gave us a ride. Very happily, by the way. I think that they were pretty excited to have some fresh meat in the truck.

This probably wasn't one of our better decisions, but Tim said that he had hitched a ride with them before. Apparently, they're quite bored. Here's us in the back with a riot officer and three of Tim's Peace Corps friends.



I look ridiculous.

The next morning, we packed our bags and said our goodbyes (through the hangover to end all hangovers). We hung out at a local beach by the airport until we had to go check in.



Sam caught his flight back home, and I left for Melbourne (where I'm sitting now).

All in all, not a bad run.

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Couch hopping in the South Pacific

I've slept on a lot of couches over the last several years, but none of them were, well, in Fiji. Sam and I have been sharing bunk space on the floor of Tim's kitchen/foyer/living room/dining room/den/study. It's nice to finally look behind the curtain into day-to-day Fiji life. (But I'm not saying that I don't miss the umbrellas in my cocktails.)

Tim lives in Lautoka, a small city on the northwest coast of Fiji's main island. The primary industry seems to be agriculture (mostly sugar).



View Larger Map

We spent our first night in Laukota at Tim's sports club. It's essentially a neighborhood bar where locals (mostly Aussie ex-pats) can get together and share a drink.




I don't think that we were there for an hour before Sam broke his fifth glass of the trip. And that was before the drinks even got flowing. And flow they did, by the way.

After a night of very punctuated sleep (and multiple trips to the toilet, face first), we woke up and got ready for a boat ride. One of Tim's many local acquaintances (another Aussie ex-pat) knows a group of Fijian locals that run a boat tour of the outlying islands. We joined about 40 other visitors for an all day tour. The boat ride included a delicious bbq and an open bar (yes, we participated). It also included a snorkeling trip off of one of the many outlying mini-islands. They're the type of deserted islands that we've all pictured. In fact, Castaway was filmed on one of them.



Here's Tim, halfway through an ill-fated flip attempt (with our snorkeling island in the background).



He's still rubbing his chest.

Today, we visited Tim's office, where he helps coordinate microfinance loans.



These loans of $20-$60 can help farmers buy seeds or help women start their own businesses. In fact, we ran into one of Tim's appreciative borrowers in the local market. Tim helped him acquire the funds necessary to rent a stand. If you look closely at the picture (click it to zoom in), you'll see the coins that a recent payment contained. These loans are very small (by our standards), but they go a long way towards helping people get on their feet. Interestingly, their payback rates are much higher than those for loans made by large banks in develped nations.

As beautiful as the scenery is, though, I'm having a hard time separating it from the less-than-beautiful reality. After all, this is every bit of a Third World country.







But even in poverty, people still have birthdays. And tonight, Tim has his. The sporting club won't know what hit it.



Happy birthday, buddy. We're proud of you.

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Bula!

There's an old bluegrass song about the Big Rock Candy Mountain, where alcohol streams trickle down the rocks, and the jail bars are made of tin. That place is real.

Well, I don't know about the jail bars (or even the police, which don't seem to exit here), but this is a pretty good attempt at paradise. At least that's the side of Fiji that I've seen over the last two days. Tim is buttering Sam and me up (as if we needed it), before we go spend the rest of our trip at his house. The three of use are staying at the Sofitel resort, which is the type of place that most of us think of when we think of Fiji. Take a look.

I can deal with this place, if I have to.

The title of this post is the Fijian word for hello, by the way. It's 50% of the Fijian that I've picked up; I've been a bit slow on the uptake. The alcohol doesn't help. Tim, on the other hand, sounds like he's lived here all his life. He keeps impressing the locals (and Sam and me) every time he opens his mouth. In fact, his ease with the locals had us drinking Grog with a group of taxi drivers the night that I arrived in Fiji.

Grog is made by filling a large bowl of water with Yaqona, a nice little plant that has some pretty impressive psychotropic properties. It isn't a narcotic, but it has a similar effect, using a slightly different neurological pathway. Long story short, I've never found my hands so interesting.


And now, for a few more local pics.




This is type of place that turns anyone into Ansel Adams; you just point and shoot, the scenery takes care of the rest.

Mom, former professors, and those easily offended, please skip the next two paragraphs.

Everyone else, we've really been having a good time. The breakfast at our hotel had a champagne bar, and that starts the ball rolling every morning. It still hasn't stopped. Well, actually it did stop yesterday when Sam smashed a champagne glass in the middle of the buffet, inspiring management to cut off champagne service for him and everyone else. (For the record, he probably wasn't drunk, that's just something Sam does. He'd already broken three of our in-room glasses, too.)

I don't want to dwell on this part of the trip for too long--since this is a travel journal, and not a MySpace page--but there are a few other highlights to point out. Sofitel's Banana Daquiris: outstanding. And last night, while we were waiting to take the bus to dinner, Tim hijacked one of the hotel's golf carts. Sam and I may have hopped in, too. (I don't remember, officer.) A crowd of thoroughly amused New Zealanders were waiting for the bus as well, and one of the more ambitious (or drunk) of them hopped in the cart, and then immediately realized how bad of an idea that was. ("Ay, mate, why don't I just 'op off here, my wife's going to kill me.") Tim circled back around to the front entrance of the hotel, and dropped us back off. He then had a pretty hard time parallel parking on the left side of the road (remember, the British laid out their roads). To the amusement of all of us bystanders, one of the Kiwi's yelled out, "must be an American."

Putting those hijinks behind us, we've spent the rest of today in the real Fiji. The resorts were a facade (a wonderful, wonderful facade, but a facade, nonetheless). The real Fiji is very rural, very poor, and very rough. Tim's apartment is basic, but seemingly safe and hospitable.

Notice the "refrigerator" under the table. However, his local market was very impressive.


The few areas that I have seen are clearly struggling, but the people are all optimistic and very friendly. There are obviously more important issues to the Fijians than their government and GDP. I'm paying close attention.

M

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Good morning, Auckland!

Auckland is wonderful, but before I talk about the city, I need to give Air New Zealand a pat on the back. The staff was friendly, the food was tasty, and the wine flowed freely. And then there's the entertainment system. Oh, the entertainment system. With hundreds of movies, TV shows, and full length albums available on demand, Air New Zealand has successfully overcome the last good reason to be literate. I was almost disappointed that I slept for most of the flight. Almost.

I arrived in Auckland at 5:00 am, local time. (Wrap your head around this. I'm writing this on Monday, and you're reading it on Sunday. I'm like Dr. Who, minus the scarf.) I breezed through customs and took a shuttle bus into the city. It dropped me off at the downtown docks, and I spent the early morning exploring them.




After a bite to eat, I toured the country's flagship museum. It's a three-level behemoth covering the indigenous Maori culture, the natural environment, and war artifacts. I had a great time, and learned a ton. I'm hardly an expert on any of these topics, but for an interesting and engaging look into the Maori world, rent Whale Rider.

I've spent the rest of the day walking around and trying to get a better understanding of the city. Auckland, like most islands, is particularly environmentally minded. I've seen bicycle assembly stands at the airport and door to door compost pick up trucks. Maybe it's a byproduct of their environmental-mindedness, but there are as many sailboats in New Zealand as there are people (impressive), and 12 times as many sheep (ridiculous).






So this is where all of our 1s got shipped to! But remember, this sign shows New Zealand dollars per liter; it roughly converts to $47/gallon. Actually, I have no idea what it converts to, but I'll bet it's still more expensive than ours.

Alright, time to hop back on to the bus to the airport. Next stop: Fiji. Sam's already there, and over a beer in the Tucson airport, he told me that they were planning on playing golf today.

This is turning out alright.

M

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A little rusty

Hi. It's been a while.

I'm 24 hours away from hanging up my hammer, turning on my email AutoReply, and setting off for the South Pacific. A very good friend of mine is currently serving in the Peace Corps. In Fiji. Yes, Fiji. I know. We'll get to that in a second, but first, Tim.

If you're reading this, you might know the guy. But in case you don't, meet Tim Hatfield:


This is the face of America to a whole slew of Pacific Islanders. I, for one, couldn't be happier.

By the way, we ended up hitching a ride home the night that this photo was taken. The taxis were all full, and we clearly couldn't drive. I vaguely remember some Los Betos, too. Vaguely.

But back to the task at hand. I'll be heading down there to visit Tim and restock his liquor cabinet. You'll have to ask him which one he's more excited about.

I'll be joined by Sam Swift, another very good friend. To give you all a bit of background, I've probably had about 70% of my total alcohol consumption in the presence of these two guys. And remember, I lived out of town for five of my most prime drinking years. (We had to pack a lot into Christmas vacations.) The three of us will be doing our best to explore the country through blurry eyes and a splitting headache. Probably not doing it justice.

Ok, now on to Fiji. The country's general lack of film inspirations or CNN-worthy conflicts means that all I really knew about the place is that they grow some tasty water. So after Tim told me where he was going (and retold me until I believed him), I looked the place up. It's actually pretty rough.

A lot of Fiji's problems stem from the economy (as they usually do). The country's 5th largest export is mineral water. Not oil, not wheat, but mineral water. The GDP per capita is less than $2,500. Ours is $44,000, and we're in a recession.

The other source of local strife is the country's strained ethnic relations. The US State department breaks down Fiji's ethnic groups as: Indigenous: 57%; Indo-Fijian: 37%; White: Tim.

Fiji was first populated by Melanesians and Polynesians 3500 years ago. It was taken over by the British in the late 1800's (during which time they repopulated the island with indentured Indian workers, laying the foundation for the current Fijian/Indo-Fijian tensions). The Brits left in 1970, leaving the island's inhabitants to leapfrog between pseudo-constitutional democracies and military dictatorships ever since. In fact, the current government is the product of a 2006 military coup. Many foreign governments, including ours, feel that the current leadership acquired its power illegally and refuse to grant full relations.

The State department has some great background on the country. Here's my favorite excerpt.

Chaudhry [the first Indo-Fijian prime minister] and most other members of Parliament were taken hostage in the House of Representatives by gunmen led by ethnic Fijian nationalist George Speight. The standoff dragged on for 8 weeks--during which time Chaudhry was removed from office by then-president Mara due to his inability to govern while a hostage.

How would you like that on your pink slip: "Inability to govern while a hostage." Holy crap! That event happened this decade, by the way.

Moral of the story: this is hardly the island paradise that Fiji's tourism bureau would like us to believe it is. Should make for some interesting stories.

Well, I should get some rest. I've got 18 hours of flying ahead of me. And that's just flying. That doesn't include all the time that I'll spend finding my gates, dropping certain boys off at certain pools, and convincing airport security that I'm not that kind of Lebanese.

I've got a pretty long stopover in Auckland, New Zealand. I'll probably check in from there.

M

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Quick Trip: Berkeley

First a little background: I'm applying to teach an MCAT review course for one of the bigger test prep companies. Part of the process requires me to fly out to the regional office in Berkeley for what was supposed to be a simple training weekend. It turned out to be a gruelling boot-camp-for-nerds, and only 50% of the people who are accepted are eventually offered the job.

I'm still not quite sure what possessed me to relive the hardest test that I've ever taken, but I decided to jump into the process after a letting a year's worth of dust settle on my anatomy books. And it showed.

The flight, meals, and spending money we all paid for by the company, so I was pretty happy flying into Oakland, CA. I strolled through the airport, hopped on the bus, and made my way to the train station. But by now you should know that I wouldn't be writing about the trip if there weren't at least a few hiccups along the way.

The first little snag came when I was forced to play the travel version of "Think Fast". It's a pretty common traveler's paradox: you enter into an unfamiliar train station and see a train closing it's doors. You quickly weigh your choices. 1) Let the train go so that you can get your bearings and catch the next one (the prudent option). Or 2) Sprint to the train and barely squeeze in past the closing doors (the Myles option). As soon as I got on, I went looking for the in-train map. Putting on my best "No, I'm not a tourist" face, I went up to the map that only tourists read. (After all, who's dumb enough to get on a train and not know where it goes?)

Yes, folks, it should come as no surprise that I managed to slip onto the wrong train. And let me tell you, there's no worse travel-related feeling than getting on the wrong train and having to wait until the next station to fix it. I speak from experience. Lots. By the way, any time that you realize you're on the wrong train, you will inevitably have to wait 30 minutes until the next station (even though all the other ones seemed to be spaced only a few minutes apart.

In my case, the next stop happened to be a transfer point, so I hopped off and watched the train glide away before I noticed that it had dropped me smack in the middle of Raider Nation. I was in my nice interview clothes, and I've never felt so white in my entire life. But I survived.

I made it to the first night of training, and it was relatively low key. They just explained who they were and what we would be doing. The next day kicked my ass. It was nine hours of teaching and watching others teach. The alternating cycles of stress and boredom had me pretty tweaked out by the end of the day, but I still had to prepare for the next round. So I appealed to both of my sensibilities and went to a quiet little pub to study. And drink. What I was studying wasn't very interesting, so I'll focus on the drinking part.

The menu featured their house specialty on the cover. No ingredients, no picture, just "Borneo Fogcutter". Being in a bit of a fog myself, I thought that this would be perfect. Here's what arrived:



I was already feeling pretty ridiculous, reading a stack of bio books in a bar on Saturday night, but this really put some color in my cheeks. I must say, though, pretty damn tasty! Downside: I'll have to snort three straight bottles of Whiskey to get my Man Card back. Oh well, it was worth it.

Day two: more of the same, but with a deadline. My flight left around dinner time, so I'd just barely have enough time to catch it, as long as we didn't run long. So every dumb question (yes, they do exist), and every kiss-ass comment tested my will power as I choked back a "SHUT THE F' UP AND KEEP MOVING!!!" But we did manage to end about on time, and I made it from Berkeley to Oakland in 45 minutes. Northern California public transit is, hands down, the best I've ever seen. And get this, their bus drivers actually avoid pedestrians!

The flight back was pretty uneventful, but I did make a stop-over in Vegas for a bit. If you've never flown into Vegas, this about sums things up:



If you're still trying to win back your money at the airport, you need to call somebody. Although I must admit, my pockets are a few quarters lighter.

So, after what felt like a year and a half of Biology, I still don't know if I got the job. But I did get a great trip out of the deal, and that's pretty much the only reason I work, anyway!

M

About time!

Alright, I finally finished up my account of the Oregon camping trip (those pesky classes are always getting in the way). To read the postings in sequential order click here, and then click the "next" link at the bottom of each page.

Enjoy.

Low Elevation!

So, we finally had a warm night last night! We pulled into a campsite alongside the "Wild and Scenic" Rogue River (Oregon's state tourism board didn't have to think long about how to describe this one). The campsite was at an elevation in the hundreds of feet, instead of thousands, like the nights before. I've never been so excited about wearing flip-flops. This was our back yard:


Perhaps the most notable event that evening was stopping in Union Creek (in between Crater Lake and the Rogue). The little mountain town is home to Beckie's Cafe, home of what is quite possibly the best piece of pie I've ever had. The house special was Huckleberry, so we brought a few pieces back to the campsite. We couldn't eat them there, after all, we were roughing it.

This morning was spent hiking along the gorge carved out by the Rogue and the Lava streams before it. I was as amazing as what I've come to expect from the Oregon wilderness. Take a look:




One of the coolest parts of this region is a natural bridge carved out by Lava flowing underneath the surface rock. It was a big shortcut for getting back to our car, so we hopped the fence and put it to use.


Our next stop was the product of some logging executive's guilty conscience. The Boise Cascade company set aside some of its privately owned forest. It was a nature preserve containing the aptly named Avenue of the Giant Boulders:


and Mill Creek Falls:


We got back in the car and headed to the Whisky Creek portion of the Rogue river. We had found a great little place to hike to and camp in. It was pretty secluded--we had to take 15 winding miles of backcountry roads to get there (think Deliverance, plus trees, minus Ned Beatty). For a trip that was suppposed to be all backpacking, it was about time we left the car for a bit. The trail ran through the cliffs above the river and had one of the best views of any I've ever hiked.


After a couple hours of hiking, we came to the campsite, and I could have sworn that is was straight out of a North Face ad.



It was a wonderful place to spend our last night.

As I was unpacking my tent, I saw a huge spider crawling around the inside. And since it wasn't unzipped between then and the time when I was in it...Ugh, I don't want to think about that.

A few minutes after we set up camp, a group of boaters came floating up to the river bank and asked if they could share the campsite. We agreed, and were especially happy to have done so once they took out their half keg of beer (one of four). They called themselve the PLRG--Puffy Liver Rafting Group--and were a hilarious bunch of guys.

While they were unpacking their 2 grills, overhead canopies and iPod speakers, us low-level campers were out picking blackberries. Believe me, that's way more manly than it sounds. The bushes (weeds in OR) posess spikes that could hold a shish-kabob. Or in my case, a whole lot of skin. [Fast forward: it was completely worth it once I had them in my oatmeal the next morning. Mmmm.]

We made it back to the campsite just in time for the PLRG's 3-course dinner, in which they happily let us partake. Over torillini and beer, we talked about the electric fenced area in the campsite. It was clearly to prevent Yogi and pals from partaking in our dehydrated niblets. One of the PLRG (a first-timer) paid particular interest to this device, or better yet, the need for it. He hadn't spent much time in the outdoors, and the thought of a two-ton hunk of furry muscle didn't sit too well. Of course, the other guys jumped on the opportunity to scare the shit out of one of their buddies. They all traded bear stories, and I laughed along with the old-timers. But I was crying on the inside. Here I am, a fairly well traveled adventurer-in-training, and I was crapping myself over a couple of bear tales. But in all fairness, my usual romps aren't too bear-friendly, so it was a relatively new concept for me. But a relatively scary one, also. (Looks like I'll get to use those bear jokes, after all.)

I didn't want to brave a trip to the outhouse that night, so I held everything. I didn't need much help staying awake the night, and that definitely didn't help. I went in and out of consciousness, jumping up everytime the wind rustled my tent ("That's a bear. No it's not. Yes it is. No it's not, stop crying."). Every time my campmates rolled over in their sleeping bags, and every time nature played another note in its evening symphony, I saw my life flash before my eyes. Every time I woke up, I'd peek out from under my tent to see if the Sun had made any progress (as if bears, like vampires, scurry at the first sight of morning rays). I've never been so happy as I was when I heard the PLRG getting started on breakfast.

That morning, I took one of the top 3 poops of my life.

The next day was spent hiking our way out of the park (with me cautiously peeking around every blind corner). But the view made my bear-scares disappear.




We did end up surviving, although there really wasn't much to be afraid of (except my imagination). After a quick stop in Eugene for some amazing ice cream, we collapsed into our Portland beds for some amazing shut-eye. The next day, we took another tour around Portland, stopping in the city's Chinese and Japanese gardens.




Despite the snow, spiders and bears (oh my), I had an amazing time. Travel takes on a whole new dimension when you're sleeping under the stars. The nature was wonderful, the company was better, and the tranquility was perfect. But it sure is nice to be back under a roof.

See you next trip.