Pacific Northwest Journey 2015

Pacific Northwest Journey

Day One

Mount Shasta. Drank at the spring that is the source of the Sacramento River, flowing strong and cold and clean. Otherwise, all of Northern California, and most of Southern Oregon, is dusty, brown, and dry. 

Spare-changed on our last stop in Vallejo, we were eager to get some miles behind us, even though we got on the road much earlier than we anticipated. Approaching Vacaville, where we were going to take the 505 shorcut to Interstate 5, we were both were already hungry, but we'd been up since 5, preparing and packing. Slim pickings at 9:30, not even big box chains were open that early. 

And then we randomly spied Boudin, which I remember from my first trip to SF many years past. Had no idea they had a store way out in Exurbia. We feasted on grilled cheese with figs and apples, and ham & brie on freshly baked bread with delicious side salads. Amazingly high quality fare for less than what we expected to shell out at the likes of Chipotle.

A constant problem on this trip, which was a problem last year, too: Frances, our little doggie companion, was constantly shivering with anxiety. Fortunately, we found some ways to make her more comfortable. But I think it might be high time to invest in some sort Dog Anxiety Sweater. There were a couple of times she was freaking out and sprang into the front seats during inopportune moments. 

The rental car (a Nissan Sentra, if memory serves) was equipped with decent sound system where we could hear with better clarity than my used $10 jam box my Coltrane, Ska & Tom Waits CDs. It was also tricked out with a GPS screen which was both helpful and a bother.

Lack of moisture in Northern California and Oregon meant better road conditions. No two hour delays because of eighteen-wheeler jackknife wrecks in the mountains approaching Shasta. Always a good idea to stop every few hours to stretch your legs, go to the bathroom, get more gas, relax your eyes. Like last year, we stopped at Mt. Shasta and Weed nearby, but kept on past Ashland & Eugene, made really good time going 75-80 mph. 

Robin had the brilliant idea of bringing a huge bag of arugula which kept us sharp on the road. We discovered this was a good equivalent of doing wheat grass shots when we were in Santa Cruz, but much cheaper. Later in the trip, we did this with radish sprouts and watercress.

Saw a billboard in Roseburg, Oregon that now has a new unintended resonance: We Are Umpqua Community College. 

Before leaving, we found out there’s a Uwajimaya in Beaverton not too far from the Motel 6 in Tigard. Tigard is a suburb south of Portland with the cheapest Motel 6 in the area; Beaverton is just northwest of Tigard, and turned out that Uwajimaya (a great Japanese grocery chain with 3 stores in the Seattle area, and this one near Portland) was only ten minutes from the Motel 6. The GPS proved helpful. Almost there, I spotted some guy on the side of the road doing an interpretive dance, not too far away from a strip club, both rather ubiquitous in Portland, or so I have heard. 

The Beaverton Uwajimaya is much smaller than the one in downtown Seattle, yet still with a stunning selection of Asian products, sashimi, produce, and other goods. Their Japanese bookstore had just closed when we arrived (but I checked it out briefly on our return trip). We got our grub, then returned back the other way, everything smooth checking in at Motel 6 in Tigard. Gotta say, Motel 6 is not what it used to be. Much better customer service, rooms are clean, and I love the hardwood floors. The air was moist in South Portland, with ample evidence of rain on ground the ground. 

Settled in the motel room, we ate an Anago & Avocado roll, sashimi scallops, tuna and salmon, small bottle of very smooth dry sake (half price special), local stout, watercress spicy and intense. Robin went to bed early while I watched the last hour of some British detective show, well-acted, no idea what that show was, but there’s no substitute for smart writing and good acting.

Day Two

Leisurely morning. Robin took the opportunity to take a bath in the nice but cramped Motel 6 bathroom. I regretted not taking the opportunity to do this later in the trip, but made up for it on our last night in Tigard. We drank cold brew coffee and had a nice breakfast of Nairn’s oat crackers, fruit, nuts, cheese. Glad I was organized on this trip, but I’m used to moving around and traveling and it didn’t take me long to pack, so glad I thought to bring my church key and corkscrew. Only thing I lost, apparently, were my cheap sunglasses.

The GPS screen was valuable trying to find our way through the veritable maze of bridges over the Williamette and one way streets (some streets inspiring names of characters on The Simpsons) and small alleys (GPS unaware of the sky trams) turning this way, and that, at last arriving at our first stop: The People’s Food Co-op.

This place has clearly been around 40+ years, could be much older—tiny tiny place but it more than makes up for it with that amazing high quality selection: living ginger, heirloom apples (Orleans Reinette, a French variety, is one example: http://www.fruitwise.net/orleans.html), locally grown organic red carrots, local goat cheeses, local beers and wines including blueberry, amazing stuff in the bulk bins (red corn grits!).

While at the People's Co-op, I couldn't help but think about particular tensions in the culinary world, something that came up later in discussion with our hosts in Sequim, Dan & Liann. Namely, a contingent of folks who think that anything other than the worst refined junk food that they grew up with is somehow "elitist." 

I can certainly understand the point of view that simple is best, but as someone who's not from a particular place, I grew up eating a great deal of food that is simple, but isn't junk food. Hand-made tortillas in El Paso. Milk delivered to our doorstep in glass bottles every morning, with the cream risen to the top in Beaconsfield, England. Berries picked from the woods nearby in England and Northern California. Fish that I caught myself from a lake in the Sierras of California, gutted, scaled, then cooked simply on a pan with some oil. Freshly baked bread made from scratch in every place I've lived, with the notable exception of the six different places where I lived in the sprawling Metroplex of DFW ('course there's great Asian food there, now that I'm long gone).

I completely get the idea that notions of what is "good to eat" is subjective and mutable. My own tastes are pretty far-ranging: there's high-end gourmand dishes I love, such as Foie Gras with Truffles, but I'm not above eating dishes I consider Junk Food (nachos, hamburgers, pizza). But every bit as important for many contemporary Epicureans such as myself is nutrition & ecological and economic sustainability.

There's a lot of bullshit attending mass-marketed concepts of nutrition, and while there's hard science behind some of it, there's also often a lot of hype around ideas around super foods and gluten-free. The one guide I like that's gotten it consistently right is Sally Fallon's Nourishing Traditions. The reason hamburgers and pizza is junk food isn't about the fat (though the quality of the meat & cheese can be an issue), or whether it is gluten-free or not, but the fact that these are based on refined carbohydrates, which quickly convert into sugars, and is without a doubt a major contributors to diabetes and obesity. 

Fallon points out that certain afflictions were rare in a time prior to Factory Farming and Mass Production. Why would one need pasteurization of milk if one is getting that milk from a cow, sheep, or goat milked that morning in one's village if not in one's backyard? There are micronutrients we are missing out on if one does not eat soups and stews made using bones, and enzymes we are missing from yogurt, miso and similar traditional food products. The science behind this is solid, like the benefits of moderate drinking.

In some sense, I find it kind of pointless to argue with folks who would question matters of ecological and economic sustainability. Many folks can't shake the way they were raised, and there's something pretty primal about foods one grew up on. But if one subscribes to a DIY point of view, how does that square with giving one's money that ultimately leads to environmental devastation and economic exploitation? 

After our People's Food Co-op sojourn, we headed to Downtown Portland's Pearl District. We parked in the underground garage below Whole Foods where I bought some smoked salmon to get validated parking, and we all had a little snack. I fed Frances smoked Salmon on the street which she greedily supped upon. Robin gave me the salmon skin (my favorite part) from her pieces, while we walked around to get oriented, arriving at last at Powell’s Bookstore.

Finally setting foot in Powell's was like completing one of the Stations Of The Cross, visiting the British Museum and Library in London, the Louvre in Paris, the Doge's Palace in Venice, the Alhambra in Granada. OK, that's pushing it. They let us bring Frances inside, then we split up. 

Robin and I agreed that I would meet her by the cash registers in 15 minutes which sounds like hardly any time at all, but I generally know what I want, but where to find it is another, so I quickly oriented myself, walking through the series of colored rooms (Pink Room, Blue Room, Purple Room, etc). Let’s pick something esoteric. Frances Yates. OK, they had one copy of Art Of Memory. Nothing showing up under Giordano Bruno. No section for Alchemy or Hermeticism. This is all stuff I can find easily at Book People in Austin, probably at Moe’s, probably not at City Lights.  Green Apple? Probably. Course this is a bookstore, not a library. 

So then, knowing I had only a couple minutes left, went down to Literature. Impressive selections of Martin Amis and Anthony Burgess. Poetry. One volume of Geoffrey Hill, which I should have bought, but The Triumph Of Love is a recent imprint I can easily score in the greater Bay Area, but The Gulf by Derek Walcott? I had never seen a copy of it. $5.95. No sales tax. What a deal.

Then we walked around the neighborhood, appreciating the architecture of the older parts of Portland, which is almost Madrid-like in terms of having discernible waves of styles. Seattle’s old downtown has its own style, same thing with Portland. We’d see dilapidated buildings totally falling apart, wood based, the sort of thing that reminds one of some parts of Vallejo, even Austin and New Orleans, but with the intervention of newer architectures, or old ones refurbished with new businesses.

I had this massive list of recommendations on restaurants in Portland, but nearby was the food truck plaza, which was convenient, and we were running short on time. After scoping out the throng of offerings, we got Thai, which was great, but there was all sorts of tempting, toothsome options: falafels, Chinese, Ethiopian, Greek, Georgian, banh mhi, pizza, tacos, “BBQ” spam masubi, pastries, calzones, empanadas, pho. Many of these individual trucks were thronged with customers. I had no reason to be skeptical about the Thai truck, either. It was super cheap ($7 each!) for basic Thai curry dishes with enormous fresh shrimp and delicious local produce. 

Our final destination in Portland was Olympia Provisions. Heading out of the Pearl District, we encountered serious congestion. We were slowly traversing through skid row area blasting Tom Waits' Mule Variations while observing gentleman in seriously wrinkled & soiled clothes lazing about in the park and sidewalks. Olympia Provisions turned out to have two locations (one, their office, the other a restaurant) in a warehouse district on the other side of the Williamette in what was formerly a derelict area full of seedy "old man bars."

Then we were back on Interstate 5 headed north across the Columbia River, into Washington and onto Seattle where there’s much less evidence of drought, and the deciduous and evergreens and low bushes on the side of the highway and low on the waterways to the west or up on the hillsides to the east it was a kaleidoscope of color—thousands of shades of green—and deciduous trees turning golden orange fire red crimson scarlet hot pink dark purple hanging bursting sliding waving gesturing leaves and branches glistening in the fog mist gentle rain steadily falling heavy rain in the morning coolness.

As we edged close to Seattle, just shy of Olympia, we turned on the radio to check out the news and it sounded like President Obama was stalking us—he’d just been in Roseburg, and was causing massive traffic delays in downtown Seattle ahead of us, because of the fundraiser at the Westin Hotel for Patty Murray, so maybe there’s another way (the GPS helped with that too) to Bellevue and Kirkland, the former is where I am now furiously typing next to Robin who’s setting up her booth for the vendor portion of the Puget Sound Mycological Society mushroom fair on the campus of Bellevue College, which is unspeakably beautiful, & also there’s an Uwajimaya in this suburb just a little east of Seattle proper, where of course we stopped on the way in to shop for decadent things like sashimi grade scallops (the centerpiece of last night’s fabulous dinner), greek yogurt with marionberry, cucumber kim chee, cassis Lambic, Petite Syrah.

Day Three

Woke to the sound of heavy rain. No hot water at Motel 6: shivered. Puget Sound Mycological Society meeting on the beautiful campus of Bellevue College. Intense gold, pink, red, and green leaves in the light rain made me think of an Ancient Emperor's Garden in the Orient, or else Tolkien's Lothlorien. Robin was all business setting up her booth for the first day of the mushroom fair while I stayed out of her way until she needed my help to lift, move, help unfold, or straighten (works the best). Started writing at high speed and didn't look back, kept a brisk pace, I was in the zone. People kept trying to break me out of the trance but they couldn't. The energy of this place combined with the warming golden circle of love is so strong. 

All day, the weather was changeable, from heavy rain, to mist, to light rain with no wind, to high winds and steady rain bordering on Tropical Storm, to here comes the sun, breaking through from the West. The intensity can't last, and soon enough it was all about selling Robin's beautiful mushroom shirts and tea towels and chatting with all the mushroom society people I'm getting to know, and they wanted us to come hang out afterwards, but no, we're weary, we wanted to recharge, with a feast of raw fish and smoked fish and seaweed salad and wine and finally a hot shower.

Cannabis shops are now almost as common as coffee shops in Portland & Seattle and elsewhere in these states, as is the occasional wafting in the air of high-grade sinsemilla, indica, and/or sativa. Not being a consumer myself after many years, I tend to get these terms mixed up, as apparently do the purveyors. People buying medical marijuana here in California have told me in the past that they find it impossible to get a pure batch of indica (for the body high) or sativa (more psychoactive). I can see why one would feel ripped off if one just wanted to relax, only to have the psychoactive portion of their cannabis high keep them awake all night. If that happened to me, I’d be confronting the people who sold me the wrong batch. But apparently, the problem has been with the growers. I’m sure though, with legal status, all this stuff will work out.

It is a tired cliché that the only people who partake in cannabis are drop-outs and ne’er-do-wells. Hippies. Freaks. Same problem with Mycologists: there’s this idiotic assumption among people who evidently live sheltered lives that the only people interested in mushrooms are Deadheads wearing tie-dyes they bought at Target, taking magic mushrooms and spending all day riding the roller coasters at Six Flags.

I’m sure there’s gotta be some Latter-Day Hippies in the state of Washington, or in Seattle itself, but I’ve never seen them. There was a bronze statue of Jimi Hendrix I saw in front of an art store, kneeling as he did during the Monterey Pop Concert in 1967. I’ve seen homeless folks clad in sad hoodies, I’ve encountered spare changers downtown, & even been to a couple of Food Co—ops in the Greater Seattle area.

The impression one gets driving around the Seattle area is damn! They sure had some skilled engineers building this place. Talk about intelligent design. Completely unlike highways I’ve been on in Texas & California—could there be a connection between traffic engineers who know what they’re doing and the presence of Boeing and Microsoft? Plus, all this brain food readily available in grocery stores: fresh fish, fresh greens, locally made yogurt. I think there must be a connection.

And yet, I smelled the unmistakable aroma of sinsemilla in virtually every part of Seattle. I’m not talking every single minute, but as commonly as you smell it in Portland and all over the Greater San Francisco Bay Area. But there’s virtually no hippies in Seattle and the overall level of intelligence there is very, ahem, high.

Day Four

No rain in the morning, and winds had calmed. A diet consisting largely of fresh fish and greens means we’re sleeping well. Had a mad search before leaving the motel for Robin’s phone. Good thing we’ve been getting cold brew so we have some caffeine to start our day. Seattle streets were all but deserted at 7:30; church-goers were probably still strapping on their clip-on ties.

Drove around downtown Seattle and the Capitol Hill area, wending our way without the GPS. Technically “lost” but I wasn’t complaining as much as Frances was. We finally arrived at our destination: Central Food Co-op (on Madison) which we discovered last year. Fresh ground Elk, Bison, Venison; extensive cuts of Goat and Lamb too. Got coffee, bulk arugula, and, best of all, their in-house cold-smoked Salmon, which is the best-tasting smoked Salmon I’ve ever had. A less salty smoked Salmon means the natural flavor of the fish is more prominent. Frances certainly wasn’t complaining when we let her lick up the scraps on the tray. I saw some lemon, honey, cayenne drink in the Co-op, and thought why that's what I used to drink if I ever got sick with a cold to cleanse, and it's been so long since I've been sick.

So far, Sunday is clear and bright. Heard some Mushroom enthusiasts get into an exacting discussion on mushroom taxonomy—this is serious Science for most of these folks, as nerdy as it gets. Paul Stamets showed up Sunday, the reps from his company set up a booth at the meetings on Saturday. Stamets maps out DNA sequences of mushrooms for cancer research—I’m curious how much Stamets and other Mycology folks have built upon Chinese medicine.

Frances and I went on a long walk to the dog park near Bellevue College. Robin and I held hands, loaded the car like clockwork, I knew where she ached in her shoulder around the blades, we are tuned in. Fresh greens, raw fish, local yogurt. Tomorrow the vacation begins in earnest in the Olympic Peninsula.

Day Five 

Mushroom hunt in thick rainforest. What I thought were white chanterelles turned out to be bones. Robin, Dan Long & Liann Finnerty foraged huge bags of yellow chanterelles, dwarfing my little bag. While on the mushroom search, gunfire started ringing out, turned out to be the rifle club nearby using flintlock muskets. For dinner at Dan & Liann's, we ate various kinds of raw local oysters; Willapas were the best. The best part of the dinner, and arguably the entire journey, was Dungeness crab harvested from the Dungeness River, caught by one of their neighbors, within walking distance. Overnight, rain left moisture all over the raspberries, squashes, beans, apples, chickens, sheep and goats. 

The best crab I've ever eaten. Awesome crab butter.

Day Six

Tuesday, I came the closest I’ve ever come to participating in a rodeo event, when some of Dan & Liann’s goats somehow got loose, and we all had to round them up. I’m certainly not a complete stranger to things rural. When you’re around more than just a few livestock, it is inevitable there will be moments resembling Spinal Tap’s “Sex Farm.” Seems natural in the setting to me, and an erect horse schlong, for example, is nothing for a city boy to be staring at.

On our final night in Sequim, mere miles from Canada (you can see Victoria across the bay), we were treated to a fabulous dinner made by our hosts Liann Finnerty & Dan Long--chicken (which they raised, butchered & brined) risotto, which was tender, flavorful, & exquisite; the mirepoix contained ingredients they grew and yellow chanterelles we picked. Robin MacLean made one of the best things I've ever tasted, Turkish Meatballs, using ground lamb (again raised by Dan & Liann), onion, yogurt, spices, ginger, tomato. 

Day Seven

This morning we left Sequim, passed Discovery Bay and 7 Cedars Casino (the most impressive Indian casino I've ever seen), and once we reached the Quilcene area, we were on a portion of Hwy 101 I'd never been to before. 

We wound our way up and up into heavily forested stretches of the Olympic National Park, the lofty peaks shrouded by fog, the woods themselves a patchwork quilt of evergreen, crimson, and goldenrod. By the time we entered Dosewallips State Park, we had descended from the relatively low heights, and could see the Hood Canal, which followed us to the left, while the Olympic forests ascended above us on the right. Lilliwaup, Hoodsport, Skokomish, Shelton, McCleary, Satsop passed us by. 

Montesano with low water swamps reminded us of Vallejo, then a sharp turn south through timber company lands rising, then down to Raymond, and around the corner to South Bend, Washington, which borders the Willapa River, a major source of oysters. We had oyster tacos there once again (though the preparation was very different), then fed the sour cream to our grateful dog companion Frances, aka "Sour Cream Beard."

We returned to 101, traversed the bridge across the wide mouth of the Columbia River touching down in Astoria, Oregon, which we explored a bit, then over the other bridge to Seaside, Oregon where we checked out the beautiful beach from the boardwalk.

We headed south on 101 until we hit the junction heading east on Hwy 26 towards Portland. Trailers, trailer parks, double wides, mossy roof houses: this is Cabela's Country. Talk about cottage cheese. Dude! Why are you wearing shorts with the temps in the 60s?! We ascended up and up into the heavily forested hills, before reaching the outskirts of Portland where we got a good cheap dinner at Uwajimaya, checked into the Motel 6 where I took a hot bath and Robin's been snoring for almost an hour.

Day Eight

We left Portland against the tide, during the rush hour in the dark. Once there was enough light we could see the land, and we could see fog rising throughout the Williamette Valley, obscuring the kindling. Oregon's "Witchi-Tai-To" inevitably comes to mind in these moments--there's an essence to this place beyond hipster Portlandia, reactionary bible-thumping billboards, and big box store naked consumerism squeezing the life out of any settlement larger than 5000, as is roughly the case everywhere in America. 

Flocks alight on a pond aside a grove of hazelnuts. Pines atop distant hills. Blueberries planted in a field. Columbia, Williamette, Tualatin, Umpqua, Rogue sing to the stars. We ate lunch with my old high school buddy Erik Palmer in Ashland, where he teaches. We certainly aren't the same: calmed down, more serious, hopefully a little wiser. I look forward to our next meeting. 

We returned once again to I-5 South for the climb up Mt. Ashland, then up and around and down the drought-stricken mountains of Southern Oregon and Northern California for a few hours, passing semis struggling. And, as we neared to within an hour of home, we could see the rain falling lightly on the windshield.