Like any good newlywed, just days after my wedding I left my wonderful new husband at home to go on a road trip with my cousin. In my defense, she is going to school in Boston for the next three years and this was going to be my last opportunity to spend time with her for a while. We set off on Sunday at a leisurely 11:30 am, after poached eggs on toast and sugar cake at Café Fanny. We stopped in Redding, where it was ungodly hot, to pick up some camping supplies and did not get away without being told: “you’re not from around here are you. Your accent sounds like you’re from Minnesota.” (WHAT?) After reluctantly divulging the fact that we are actually from Russia originally I was asked my least favorite question in the world: “Oh wow, how do you like it here?” My new last name is supposed to keep that from ever happening again.Our goal was to drive to Shellburg falls, a mysterious campsite about an hour and a half from Portland where we were supposed to meet up with Dasha’s friend. We were well on our way until we decided to stop for beer and firewood. Having been on the lookout for a good place to stop and finding little on our path aside from gas stations, when we saw Wal-Mart we did not want to miss our chance. Neither Dasha nor I had ever been to a Wal-Mart before and did not know what to expect. When we walked in we both stopped stunned and unable to speak. The place was HUGE. I sensed the approach of a mild panic attack and fought bitterly against the feeling that we had landed on an alien planet. The fluorescent lights heightened the sense that we were in some kind of giant aquarium full of floating 300+ pound white people who looked at us with hostility. We wandered around lost for some time, then found the beer aisle and settled on the only thing besides Coors and Bud, which was Tecata. As we were making our way to the checkout line it felt like we were walking through something cool and viscous that slowed our movements. The racks full of unbelievably cheap and colorful clothing were beckoning. Resistance was futile. We pushed our cart aside and were lost in the Wal-Mart forest. We separated and for some time I bravely fought the lure of $3 tank tops and $5 shorts until Dasha came wondering over with a glazed and feverish look saying “you’ve gotta check out their underwear isle!” Here my resistance crumbled and we both went wild.
Our checkout person had many items of ‘flare’ surrounding his slanted nametag which read Michael, and had the look of someone moments from a catatonic state. Our tangle of colorful underwear mixed with beer did not seem to help him. He fumbled with the bags as he tried to touch our items as briefly as possible, got his thumb caught in a bra strap and seemed on the verge of emotional collapse. The experience left us both elated and dirty. An hour and a half had passed. Back on the road we had to pay for our weakness by finally arriving at the highway we were looking for late.
It was 11pm and the 2-lane road we drove on was completely deserted and poorly marked. We put in a cheerful CD and tried not to think of the fact that we hadn’t seen a car in over 20 minutes and that the highway was awfully dark and deserted and that we were two women alone in a car… suddenly, its steel flashing brightly in the dark, we saw a gigantic rotating saw blade. That’s right, I’m not kidding. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere a lumber company thought this would make a good ad. Having recovered from our initial shock we were plunged in deeper by a small sign a few yards later that read ‘state penitentiary. 5 miles, to the right.’ A few minutes after that, we realized we were lost.
I think that at this point if it wasn’t for the iphone, which mercifully had some reception, I would have given up and driven anywhere that had light and people, but with the help of technology we were able to find the elusive street we were seeking. Unfortunately my dreams of a nicely paved road leading to a well-lit state park were soon shattered as we found ourselves on a gravel road, surrounded by little more than beautifully ominous tree shapes, on which we could not travel faster than 10 miles per hour for fear of puncturing a tire. We reached our destination at around 12:30 and were warmly greeted by the flares of Dasha’s friend Sarah and her boyfriend Chris, who cheerfully informed us that the 4-site campground was actually maintained by the inmates of the penitentiary. Thus ended our first day.
