Gold Beach or Bust

Andre and I stayed at Johan’s apartment last night, which sits atop a gallery right in the middle of downtown Ashland.  We did laundry and caught up on emails and phone calls, then tucked ourselves in for the night and watched documentaries until our eyes hurt.  What a luxury, technology.  This morning we woke up, pressed a cup of coffee, sliced some bread for breakfast, and read the news.  There’s trouble in Israel, nothing new. 

After a lovely walk around town for me, and a visit with a friend for Andre, we loaded up Butter, said goodbye to Ashland and the luxury of his humble abode, and headed up a mountain road towards Gold Beach.  Passing through Medford on the way, I suggested we pop in to Trader Joe’s.  Ordinarily, I’m not an advocate for diving during business hours.  First of all, I don’t want to scare employees who might have to run us off on an otherwise ordinary trip to the dumpster and, second, I don’t want to risk the bins getting locked for those who rely on diving as means to acquire food.  That said, we went anyway, but took extra precautions so as not to be seen. That certainly doesn’t excuse the fact that I violated my only rule—no diving during the daytime.  Sometimes, though, rules are meant to be broken.  Before the dive, as we always do, we made our “grocery list,” wishing for almond butter with flax seeds, yogurt, and eggs.  Everything else we already had, more or less, thanks to our luck in the forest and the bounty of Johan’s garden.  The dumpster granted our first two wishes, no eggs, plus we got pasta, soft baked chocolate chip cookies, a pound of cheddar cheese, peanut and flaxseed butter (in addition to the almond butter), cocoa and almond butter (almond-style nutella), jalapeño and cilantro hummus, and so much.  This waste would not go to waste, not this time anyway.

Fully loaded, we continued on our drive towards beach.  The journey was absolutely spectacular, coasting along the winding road lined with giant redwoods and cedars, then finally reaching a 4,500 ft pass where we took in the view of Mt. Shasta peering out just above the cloud forest.  The snowy peak looked as if it was hovering in mid-air.  We must have stopped 5 times, at least, to take in the beauty and much needed (and well-deserved) sunshine.  Unlike the past few days, the past month actually, the sun was out in full force. Just before sunset, we found a lovely old growth oak forest where we stopped for the night to set up camp.  We built a fire, enjoyed the clear sky filled with twinkling stars, and sipped wine while the vegetable soup I put on the fire finished cooking.  I sat, looking up at the stars, and wondered how I will fair when I return to my normal life in Venice.  I cannot even imagine what it will be like to live with constant access to hot water, an oven that I can use to bake cookies, and all the luxuries I’ve grown to realize and appreciate as true luxuries.  Thankfully, I still have a couple of weeks on the road, and I am still enjoying every moment of the adventure.

Applegate Fox

I hopped on the back of Johan’s ATV before breakfast to go harvest some apples in an old abandoned orchard down the road.  We picked about 6 or 7 pounds thanks in part to the picker I brought along on this trip.  Riding around the forest, up and down hills and over bumps, I realized why those pesky kids back at my mushroom spot in Colorado seemed to be having so much fun merely going back and forth on the dirt road along which Andre and I were camped out.  Riding on an ATV is fun, but so is hiking. 

On our drive in to town, we spotted a dead fox in the road.  It wasn’t there last night, so it was probably fairly fresh.  The curvy road must be a real hazard for many animals.  After catching up on phone calls, emails, and the news in Jacksonville, Andre and I decided to check out the dumpster at the new Trader Joe’s in Medford.  As usual, it was full of goodies.  We hauled out organic chickens worth nearly $20 each, bratwursts, heaps of vegetables including 4 avocados, which I haven’t had since leaving LA, 6 pounds of rice, and on and on and on. 

On the drive home, Andre said he wanted to keep an eye out for the fox.  He wanted to bring it back to Johan’s to take a look at it, but it was already gone by the time we had to make our last turn onto the forest road that leads to his house.  We jokingly said that Johan probably snatched it up; in fact, when we arrived back to his place he was not so patiently waiting for us hippies to arrive.  We were late as usual, and he was ready to skin it and cook it up for us for dinner.  Yes, you heard me.  Fox was on the menu tonight.  Roadkill fox, that is.  It took about an hour to skin, mostly because he was being careful not to tear the pelt, which he intended to stretch, salt, and dry for its beauty.  Afterwards, he quartered it, removed the parts that had been traumatized by the impact to its leg, and cooked up the heart and the loin.  The rest went in his freezer for later use.  We had a 6 pound organic dumpster chicken to cook, after all.

Why was it so easy for me to play with the chicken, wrapped in plastic, under a running faucet like I’d play with a baby when giving it a bath?  I washed its belly, held its legs and moved it as if it were dancing, then quartered it with ease before tossing it in a big pot to cook on the wood-fired oven.  I could barely manage to take pictures of the dead fox being prepared in the kitchen sink, much less touch it or play with it.  Why is it that packaged meat, dumpster meat even, is so easy for me to cope with, but salvaged meat killed by a motorist—perfectly fresh and good looking meat, was so difficult to contemplate eating.  I don’t eat body parts, hearts, gizzards, livers, tongues, unless I’m in a third world country and its expected of me.  Tonight, Johan sliced a bit of fox heart, fried it up and stabbed it with a fork, then handed it to me to taste.  Holding the fork for a few seconds, pondering what it was and where it had come from, I was reluctant to put the fork to my mouth.  Finally, it went in and I began chewing, rapidly, like I chew raw garlic because I know its good for me even though it burns going down.  Hmm… it was actually pretty tasty, chewy but tasty--it was a heart, after all.  I took a bite of loin that had been charred ever so slightly on the wood fired oven.  Much to my surprise, it was also quite tasty - I mean, WOW.  I took several bites, being mindful to share with the others.  Would I eat it again... YES, but only IF it were served to me.  I can’t honestly say I’d pick up an animal from the side of the road, skin it and consume it with the same ease (and it wasn’t easy) as I did with Johan that evening.  I can say that I was happy the animal didn’t go to waste.  I was thankful for the nourishment that the animal gave me.  I was thankful that I didn’t have to kill that animal, that it didn’t come wrapped in plastic, that there was no waste, and that I’d get to see that animal again next time I visit Johan’s place, at least it's beautiful exterior.  Maybe there'd even be a little fox-chop left.

Tillamook

Today we woke up in the state forest and had a quick breakfast of acorn bread topped with assorted goodies—almond butter with flax seed from the dumpster, honey from Denise’s farm, blueberry jam and apple butter made from rescued and foraged fruit that I canned prior to our departure.  Being a lover of factory tours and learning how everyday products are made, we decided to visit the Tillamook cheese factory.  It’s a farmer-owned coop, and they’re famous for their colorful and flavorful block-style cheeses.  We weren’t expecting to be impressed, but a tour sounded like fun.  On our way in, I noticed most of the people exiting were chowing down on ice cream cones, so despite the rainy weather Andre suggested we buy one.  It’s a treat to buy food, so we vote with our dollars carefully.  I noticed the painted murals on the walls depicting gallons of the various flavors, labeled clearly with the words “natural and artificially flavored” in large font.  Hmm… the bright hues—greens, yellows, oranges—not found in nature gave us another tip that I might not want to vote for this one.  We asked whether they had any all natural varieties, and the young man behind the counter handed us a very large binder full of nutritional information for each flavor they made.  I was surprised to see the list of ingredients, although I suppose I shouldn’t have been so naïve.  FDA regulated colors, corn syrup, artificial flavorings, preservatives… ice cream is cream, eggs, sugar, and fruit or spices.  Why the laundry list of ingredients I couldn’t pronounce from a farmer owned coop?  We skipped the ice cream and took the self-guided tour.  Again, more disappointment.  I knew we weren’t visiting an artisan farm, but to see the waste inside the factory was really disheartening.  Plastic bits of wrapper covered the floor that assembly line robots and people (it was hard to distinguish between the two) worked on.  We learned that cows can drink up to 50 gallons of water per day.  We also ate more free samples of cheese than either of us would have preferred. Foraging makes us hungry, especially for junk food.  Evolution kicks in and salt and sugar become our goal.  It wasn’t like we gorged ourselves, but the cheese wasn’t so good—even just a couple of bites would have been enough of this rubber-like product.  They even slap extra slices onto the blocks to make weight and the slices just fuse to the block when it gets heat wrapped—it’s not cheese, it’s jello.  It’s what American’s like.  It’s what we’re used to.  Like white bread and jelly that contains more sugar and pectin than real fruit.  It’s what’s cheap.  It’s also pretty tasty, especially when you don’t think of it as cheese but rather a cheese-like product.

After our tour, we drove to a nearby forest and asked the rangers where we could find some old growth forest.  We ended up camping out in the Suislaw National Forest just outside Hebo.  After over an hour of searching for mushrooms, to no avail, we hopped in the car to look for a nice spot to sleep out.  On the drive, I spotted something white in a tree stump and yelled for Andre to pull over.  My wish from earlier came true—a huge cauliflower mushroom weighing in at 2 pounds.  It was enough to make us decide to camp here for the night, looking forward to searching the hills tomorrow, hopefully less our rain gear.  We celebrated with Mexican fiesta night.  I made a big pot of black beans and chili peppers, sautéed a pan of squash with onions and greens, chopped red cabbage and spiced it with apple cider vinegar, and topped our corn tacos with freshly made salsa and farm fresh eggs (from the dumpster).  Andre made vodka soaked marshmallow flambé treats topped with dulce de leche from Argentina (a gift from Rich) for dessert, which he served on graham crackers left over from our camping trip with my brother back in St. Louis.  We couldn’t do them on the fire, since we were stuck in the bus—it’s raining again, and again, and again.  We’re both looking forward to some sunshine!

Warrenton, OR

We hiked in the state forest near Warrenton, OR, for a couple of hours today in search of a porcini spot that Joseph told us about.  As I suspected, we didn’t find any.  We did, however, find a nice handful of oyster mushrooms, which will make for a delicious appetizer tomorrow night, when we’re cooking again.  Tonight, we have the night off from chores with enough soup leftover and no dry wood to make a fire in this rain.  So, we’re parked in the state forest, enjoying our books, writing, and staying in for a change.  What a luxury it is to relax, to have no food to process or cook, to sip hot coffee on a cold, rainy day while reading and writing.  Even though I miss my usual life, my work, my schedule, my neighborhood, and especially my friends, I know when I’m back I’ll be missing nights like this.  Off the computer I go.

Olympia and Tumwater

Breakfast in the hotel was much less desirable than our usual free breakfast at HIE.  Of course, the hotel was a third of the price, and we were thankful for a dry place to sleep for a change.  Everything on the buffet table came in a package, well, nearly everything.  Waffle mix came in a styrofoam cup, muffins came in plastic wrappers, butter and cream cheese, and cream for coffee in plastic and aluminum.  I opted for an English muffin, which was the only food that didn’t come all wrapped up except for the bulk sugary and colorful cereal.  Still, I used a butter and a honey packet.  Why do we insist on individually wrapped lifestyles?  Are we afraid of someone else’s germs?  I pulled a plastic spoon from the trash and washed it to use for my yogurt because Andre was still sleeping in the room and I didn’t bring either the room or car key.  Did I question my decision… yes.  Of course.  What if the person who used that spoon had some infectious disease?  I pulled out a clean one when my washing failed to remove the previous user’s breakfast leftovers.  After my breakfast, I washed the spoon I used carefully and placed it back in the bin.  Walking the line, I know.

Needing to escape the confines of our room we headed out to the Tumwater Farmers Market and hit the jackpot on trades.  For just 2 pounds of chanterelles, we got red cabbage, kale, parsley, cilantro, several onions, 4 pounds of carrots, a bunch of beets, and a few heirloom tomatoes.  It’s been a while since we’ve had this much fresh produce.  We chatted up the farmers for a while, learned how to press apples at a demo, and hopped back into the car in hopes of finding more chanties to trade.

It’s Halloween.  I watched children walk the streets of a tiny seaside town holding plastic bags that would soon be filled with individually wrapped corporate candies filled with artificial colors and flavors.  I relived my childhood memories of Halloween with Andre.  How our pillowcases would be so full of candy that dad would have to carry them for us.  How my sisters and I would empty our bags onto the kitchen table and sit there with mom ogling all our loot, each taking a turn to select their favorite.  That candy would last us almost a year.

We spent most of the evening cooking over the fire, which we felt lucky to have given the constant rain.  I baked bread and we whipped up the most delicious meal we’ve had on the trip so far – a huge pot of chanterelle and leek soup with potatoes and some of our pumpkin.  It was spiced with garlic, the garlic scapes I dried over the summer, thyme, fresh parsley, and salt and pepper.  We made a béchamel from flour, coconut oil, and fresh milk and cream, and added it at the end.  It was quite an elaborate meal, but we have enough leftovers for a second night, which means we can spend an evening working, learning, writing, or making things rather than cooking.  What a feast.  What a life.

Hoh Rain Forest

The temperate rain forest is really spectacular.  If you haven't been, go... the sooner the better as the local activists are constantly struggling to save the old growth.  Today, we left Quinault and headed to the Hoh Forest where hiked around in the drizzle.  The hall of moss trail was spectacular—trees covered in long strands of green moss that flowed in the breeze, downed logs covered in new living ecosystems, and… more mushrooms!  We found several more lobsters, another handful or two of chanterelles, and filled a small sack with angel’s wings.  We were back in mushroom territory and I was ecstatic.

The next couple of days, we hit the jackpot over and over again. On the outskirts of the national park, we wandered around the state forest and picked pound after pound of chanterelles.  In just two or three hours, we probably harvested about 12 pounds of chanties, several pounds of lobsters, and few other goodies. The following day, still pouring cats and dogs, I donned my fancy new rain pants and we hiked for about an hour, filling our bags with nearly 8 more pounds of chanties.  That evening, we slept at Joseph’s house, Yanis and Max’s friend, who we randomly met in the grocery store parking lot in Forks.  Joseph is a mushroom buyer.  He’s an interesting guy, and he lives a tough life.  When the mushrooms are good, he makes a lot of money.  When they’re bad, like this year, he loses a lot.  It’s like gambling on the weather, and these days the rains are so unpredictable.  Creeks and rivers all across the states we’ve explored have been dry.  Seattle didn’t get rain for 82 days.  Vancouver 87.  Records.  No rain, no mushrooms, no money for Joseph, no food for us.  It's no wonder our ancestors, tired of the uncertainty, opted for agriculture.  It seems to have worked for a while...

Quinault Rain Forest

Our first stop on the Peninsula was in the Quinault Rain Forest. We were on our way to the Hoh Rain Forest where we planned to camp for the night, but the largest Sitka spruce tree in the world caught our attention.  I spotted the Quinault Lodge, a quaint little hotel parked alongside a lake and tucked under some giants.  Feeling sicker than I’d been, maybe since I was a child, I told Andre I wanted to stay.  It was getting dark, my fever was rising, and the rain showed now signs of letting off, meaning we’d have to sleep downstairs and I was ready for bed.  I was prepared to spend a fortune on lodging, but being the off seasons prices were really reasonable, plus, we were upgraded to a room with a fireplace and a television for just $10 more. 

Almost immediately, we went down to take a sauna.  I’m a firm believer in fevers, to a point.  Our bodies are designed to kill off whatever bad guys have taken over with a fever, but too much of a good thing can be a bad thing, so I was careful not to overheat in the sauna.  Afterwards, I treated us to dinner in the lodge restaurant.  The soup of the day just happened to be what the doctor ordered… chicken and vegetable soup with a nice clear broth.  I fell asleep next to Andre, who was glued to the television.  The next morning, I barely got down a piece of toast and had to nap after the effort of eating breakfast.  Being a terrible lounger, I desperately needed to escape the confines of our hotel room, so we drove about 10 miles up the road where a hike would take us into the old growth forest.  Our destination, a bridge crossing a mountain creek, was about 3 miles away.  Stopping to poke around the meadows and fern patches along the way, we gathered several handfuls of chanterelles and a few lobsters.  The walk back to the car was arduous.  My fever was still climbing and my body felt achy, so I was glad that we decided to stay at the lodge a second night despite the fact that I missed sleeping in Butter.  When we returned to our room, I sat next to the fireplace and watched as Andre cooked up a big pot of miso soup and sautéed a batch of chanterelles that he served with pasta.  I drank the soup with ease, but ate just enough of his pasta dish to make us both feel good about the effort. That evening, I took a hot bath and went to bed early.