Living, simply

Friday night

My usual spot on that old forest service road, my secret spot, was discovered by some weekend campers so I was on the hunt for somewhere else, somewhere tucked away.

Just a stone’s throw up the road, I tucked into a nook with a little clearing to park in and start bedding down for the night. Only a few minutes had passed when a comically large pack of dogs of all breeds and sizes started barking all kinds of hell at me. Staggering along behind them was a heavy older woman in an unseasonable and tiny pink tank top, laughing at the brisk evening air.

I jumped on the truck just in case these dogs had a little bite in them, but quickly realized they were pretty harmless and climbed back down to say hi. They started swarming all over me, sniffing and licking and wagging, with the exception of one hanger back who must have been a better judge of character. I learned his name was Carl, or Cara, or Carla. Something like that.

And then there was the lady, trudging her way up the hill, maybe to make sure I wasn’t one of those murdery types. “I think I startled a few of these fellas,” I hollered out to her. 

“No, they’re sweet,” she said. “Get back home!” And the dogs paid little mind to her wild flailing and hooting.

We chatted a bit. I learned her name, C, and made friends with her dogs, especially the massive shepherd, Hades and the tiny thing, Primrose. “She’s sweet,” I said about that last pup, and C. said “She is called Primrose.” Can’t argue with that logic. 

C. headed back and I was alone again, now with the dark setting in, so I put out my bed in and started watching the sky. Looks like rain.

Living, simply

It’s been a month since I started this experiment with alternative living. Call it truck life, or an extended road trip, whatever. Voluntary homelessness. 

This simple life rewards the patient and persistent. I’ve met some really wonderful folks on the road, running the gamut of human experience. The houseless scholar sharing her thoughts on the divine, the salaried everyman starved for adventure. Walking very different circles now.

Lovely weather spring weather is another reward, and on cloudless nights, I’ve taken to ditching the tent and sleeping under the stars in the bed of my truck. It’s cold, there’s no doubt about it. But the cold has been one of the real pleasures of it. When I’m somewhere warm and soft now, I’m really present in it. Now there’s a way to appreciate a cozy bed.

Another thing I’ve learned to appreciate is the value of things. Stuff kind of things. Things with real value. In an age of unparalleled abundance, to live with less can be a principled act of resistance. 

My one cast iron skillet, always trusty. My one good set of woolies, keeping my warm on those cold nights. My one pillow, with its comforting buckwheat. 

On the coast

After a week in the Oregon high desert, I headed to the coast to wash the dust out of my hair in the briny, frigid waters of the Pacific and get lost in that big wall of fog that carries rain to the Cascades and dumps it all there in one big roar.

I have the good fortune of having a friend there, and we took walks along the coast and ate some meals together. For all the faces and stories I had been gathering on the road, it was a joy to spend some time with a real friend, someone with some shared foundation of mutual knowings-about to build on for deep conversation.

We pedaled our bikes on the side of the highway, with its rolling hills and passing cars, and sat and talked for awhile. And I got that feeling again, that scary feeling that the warmth of that company and friendship would be gone soon. Best not to get too attached, and suddenly I was saying goodbye again. 

Forever restless. It makes me sad sometimes, if I’m being honest. But that sadness was far away as I made my way back east, and soon I was seeing Portland again, where I sleep on the floor at another friend’s house from time to time. 

Now there’s a real treasure — these deep friendships that have been such a blessing to me in this particular chapter of life.

Community, wherever you find it

The Gorge was calling, and I answered with a few nights in its impenetrable forests and wet air. It was still cold in mid-April, so I kept warm by layering and drinking hot water. 

The birdsong was incredible in the woods around Panther Creek. I strummed my ukulele in the darkness and listened for owls’ voices. And I slept, that deep sleep I had been needing after so much driving around and searching.

I met a man called Tim who lives in the area and is co-owner of Melchemy Craft Mead. We walked through the woods around his property, and he shared some practical advice about community building. Later, we drank mead together on his porch and talked about this too-big and too-lonely world. Then we parted ways and I went back to my little spot in the woods and he went into his big warm house, and we weren’t really all that different.

In the morning, I took a bath in Panther Creek. The creek’s freezing waters penetrated my blood and for a brief moment I was the water and she was me. Then I was off to Mt. Hood to find another place to post up.

And that’s how I found that spot, that secret spot now occupied by weekend campers in their fancy city cars. And that’s how I discovered that little nook where I slept this Friday night, and where I met C. with all her dogs and her reckless wardrobe and her kind smile. 

To be continued.