The Washougal River Mercantile

Pulling off the Washougal River Road into the gravel parking lot, I scanned the dozen or so parked cars for a familiar face.   None stood out,  but then again,  I hadn't been a regular at the Washougal River Mercantile for the better part of a decade.

"Do you still come here a lot Mom?" I asked.

"All the time." She responded from the passenger seat.

"Good."

Parking in an empty place, I checked my pockets for my wallet and grabbed a handfull of change from the ash tray.  I was hungry, and the Merc (as it is is called by locals), was the only option for 20 miles.

The steel bell chimed as I pushed the door open.  A few members of the Fuller family (three generations work at the store) stood around the cash register and met me with a familiar smile. I said hello back and continued towards the grocery section.  They layout, selection and prices, haven't changed much since is started going there 20 years.  Heading towards the  deli section,  I searched the heat lamps for a bacon egg and cheese breakfast sandwich.  All sold out.

"A little late to the party." I murmured as I checked my watch and headed towards the expansive beef jerky section for my protein fix.

Growing up 10 minutes away from the Merc afforded me an intimate knowledge of its offerings.  Some of the more glamorous purchases over the last 20 years include but aren't limited to; my first .22 there, a Savage Single shot bolt action, my first rated R movie there, The Rock,  and my first steelhead fishing set up were all purchased at the Merc.  In addition to these notable purchase are countless Charleston Chews,  gallons of milks,  pipe fittings, and dozens of eggs.

As a kid,  it seemed liked the best store in the world with everything I wanted and nothing I didn't.  It still holds true.

Once ubiquitous in rural areas,  these stores are fading to obscurity in the wake of suburban sprawl and shopping centers.  It's happening in Washougal.  With the Portland Metro area constantly growing outward,  places like the Merc are feeling increased pressure from chain grocery and sporting good stores.

All the beverages you need.

The hunting and fishing bragging wall. Someday I'd like to make it on here.

Two locals.

Grabbing my coffee and Tillamook beef jerky pack, I walked past the pluming section towards the cash registered.

While searching my pockets for rolled up dollar bills I made small talk with the clerk.  She had been my baby sitter when I was 10 and hadn't recognize me.  While talking, I noticed a hand written sine taped to the cash register.  The Sharpie on 8.5X11 paper read, "Gas Purchases limited to 10$."  Taking a swig of my coffee, I bid farewell and pushed the sliding door open.  Walking towards the syncro, I milled the implications of the sign over.

"No gas sales over 10$?  Would that even get you to Washougal?" I asked my Mom as she walked up to the Syncro. I stood with my back against the drivers side.

"It's not good.  They must be really strapped for cash."

"Those places are going the way of the Blackberry.  what a shame," I said popping open the drivers door and jumping into the seat.

"Sure is," she agreed.

Here are some more links,

Washougal River Mercantile (Yelp).

BC or Bust Part 2

We were a few hours out of Tofino when the wind picked up.  The mellow waters of the fjord lost their shine, developing half a foot high waves that rattled the small aluminum boat and all of our supplies. Sitting on a cooler with enough food, water and beer for two nights,  I bounced along as Jeremy piloted the seventeen foot aluminum boat towards the mouth of the fjord. The cold air and increasing waves kept small talk to a minimum.

"How long till we get out of here?" I yelled to Jeremy.

"The fjord?"

"Yah,"  I replied nodding towards the mountains on the right.

"15 minutes.  It's going to get rough for an hour or so."

I smiled in acknowledgment.

Twenty minutes later, our boat was cutting through five to eight foot ground swell a mile off the coast of Vancouver Island.  Dressed head to toe in Gortex,  frigid water covered me each time we bounced off the the top of a wave.  Keeping my head down, I avoided the bulk of the spray, but this left me blind from anticipating the jolt of larger waves.  Every few minutes, a wave shook the boat like a screen door, jaring me from my perch on top of a Coleman cooler.  One such wave sent my Wayferes flying, eventually shattering against the gunnel.

After that, I went quite and focused on nothing, the way you do on a long run.  Time stands still and speeds ahead at the same time.

Campvibes.

A trail to hot springs.

Displacement hull.

The BC Ferries.

Jeremy and Trevor kickstarting a fire.

Seasonal housing.

A grey whale off the coast of Vancouver.

Jeremy checking the weather forecast.

Equipped to rip.

Coffee time.

Light house.

Trevor at the Harbor.

Bald eagle.

#vanlife.

Heater.

Hidden Kitchen.

Sea lion Bonanza.

Boatlife!

With a descending whine, Jeremy eased off the throttle and the boat coasted.   Looking up from my stopper,  Jeremy motioned towards a stretch of ocean just off of a point.  Shifting the throttle handel back into reverse, he anounced, "Thats the wave.  The tide is still way to high."

"So we made it?" I asked, signaling my relief.

"Yah we are going to camp over in the bay."

"Awesome.  I want to get the fuck off this boat.  That was brutal."

"Ahh come on" Jeremy said in his Vancouver accent.  "Last winter Pete, (Peter Devries a pro surfer from Tofino) and I made the same trip in three times the swell and howling 30 knots."

"I don't doubt that shit, but I'm a land lover. I feel 3 inches shorter."

"Cry about it pro blogger (Jeremy's nickname for me).  The winds nice,  lets get our camp set up.  We'll be able to surf before sunset."

Standing up, I stretched and looked down at cooler.  One larger circular dent in the green aluminium correlated with the placement and subsequent jarring of my ass during the ride.

Here are some more links,

BC or Bust Part 1 (ART),

BC or Bust (Cleanest Line).

BC or Bust Part 1

Keeping my eyes on the empty 101,  I retrieved my iPhone from my camera bag and tapped the top button, illuminating the screen.  10:13.

"How are you guys doing?" I asked Jeremy Koreski and Trevor Gordon.  "I'm pretty spent."

Waking from a doze,  Trevor spoke over the syncro's highway noise, "How far are we from Crescent City?"

"Hhmm,  maybe four hours?  We just passed Garbville,  the pot capital of the world, and we're still a few hours from the coast."

"Yah, lets call it," Jeremy agreed.

"Cool, I'll look for a place.  We are in National Forrest now, gods country."  I turned down the heater, in attempt to keep me from nodding off at the wheel.

A few miles a head,  I spotted a gravel road heading off the highway on the right.  Down shifting, I breaked and prepared to take the gravel road at speed.

"Shit..Is everything okay?" Startled, Jeremy moaned from the backseat.

"Don't worry,  this is not my first rodeo," I laughed as we bounced up the steep grade, coasting down from 60 to 35mph.

"You sure this is Kosher?  What kind of road is this?"

"Ehh it looks like a logging road.  It's in really good condition," I surmised looking at the well worn tire tracks. For a mile or two, we rumbled up the steep grade in second.  Along the way, we passed a few drive ways with gates and "No trespassing" signs.  This raised some redflags, but I kept my mouth shut.  In northern California,  these signs, when coupled with large gates on dead end access roads, often indicated a thriving local economy.  Marijuana cultivation.  They proprietors are notoriously paranoid and often chase people away from their property with friendly serving of rocksalt courteous a 12 gage shotgun.   I wanted none of this but after a full day of surfing Ocean Beach in San Francisco, I could have fallen asleep at an Insane Clown Possie concert.

Spotting a large shoulder out on the right, I pulled over.

"This should be good," I told Trevor and Jeremy as well as myself.  Rocking between first and reverse, I found a level spot and turned off the van.

Crawling over camer bags,  surfboards and food for three for a week, I cleared space for three on the folding bed.

"It's going to be real cozzie tonight,"  Jeremy laughed.

"Sure is, either that or one of us sets up a tent, and it sure as fuck wont be me."

No one volunteered and within a few moments, the three of us were laying down.  Pillow talk was scarce and in a few minutes all over us were snoring.

Trevor on the six string early one morning.

Equipped to rip!

Trevor and Joe Curren checking waves on the Northern California Coast.

Welcome.

Joe searching for steelhead in Oregon.

Coffee stand.

Kanoa Zimmerman removing a stick from his truck at Ocean Beach.

Laying it out plain and simple.

Howling off shore somewhere on the southern Oregon Coast.

Unmuffled engine breaking started down the logging road before sunrise.  Rapping a fleece around my head like bandana, I prolonged the inevitable  separation from my sleeping bag.

"Rise and shine, its buttwhipping time!"  I announced to Trevor and Jeremy.

 Grumbling, we emerged from our sleeping bags and set t he van up for transport.  Firing up engine, we headed down the gravel road towards the 101.

"We'll be in Arcata by lunch."

Here are some links,

BC or Bust (Cleanest Line).

A Fellow Van Dweller

The sun sagged in the west as I rounded a bend near Tioga Pass in Yosemite National Park. Up ahead, a handful of rented RV's and cars filled to the brim with backpacks and climbing gear dotted a large parking lot.  At 9,000 feet,  the Syncro's engine labored at 5,000 RPM's in second gear.  Fifteen miles of this climb up from the Valley had warmed the oil up.  Shifting into neutral,  I coasted into the lot and pulled into a parking space.   A lone Vanagon with a hand-painted mural stood a few hundred feet away.

Grabbing a down jacket,  I locked up the Syncro and checked out the Vanagon.  It was an early 80's aircooled hard top that, based on the bike, curtains and artwork, was most likely someone's home. Scanning the parking lot, I saw no likely candidates.

I turned on some Pink Floyd on my iPhone and shoved it into my breast pocket,  as I often do when alone. Marching to the tunes of Wish You Were Here, I followed the setting sun's rays up the hill.  Following no defined path,  I saw a group of Teva wearing, DSLR brandishing hikers heading down the hill.

"Certainly not van dwellers...RV'ers for sure.." I mumbled to myself and continued up the hill.  My sea legs, and lungs, were burning by the time I finally made it to the top.  Scanning around the 360 degree view, the last rays of light bounced off the granite.  Picking a ledge, I sat down and turned up the volume on my phone.

The sun lowered over the sheer granite faces.  Zoning out,  the Pink Floyd songs meshed together.  Slowly, I realized that I wasn't the only one on top of the mountain listening to my playlist.  Sometimes you can sense it.  Turning around, I saw a man in his late forties sitting a hundred feet behind me watching the sunset.  He sat calmly and without  the anxiousness of a most tourists on a weekend trip.  He had been traveling for a while and was very familiar with spending time by himself.   He didn't fidget or fire away blindly with a digital camera.  Instead, he sat with watching the sunset over Yosemite Valley as if he does this every evening.

"He must be the van dweller..." I thought to myself.

For a moment, I felt like breaching the silence and starting a conversation.  For a song or two, I debated in my head.  A certain type of person is drawn to traveling by themselves and that type of person, although often lonely, values solitude.

I kept to myself.

Back in the parking lot, I fired up the Syncro and blasted on the heat.  The late October evening was chilly, and according to a Park Ranger,  Tioga Pass would soon be closed for the season. Backing out of the space,  I rolled down the parking lot towards the exit.   The lone man from the  hill was just getting back to his yellow Vanagon.  Rolling past, I waved in approval and respect.

He nodded in return with a smile.

Here are some more links,

Vanlife (Tumblr).