Climb ev’ry mountain

Today’s post brought to you by: Mother Abbess sagely pushing Maria into the arms of that hunk Captain Von Trapp

Grateful for: ability to obey Mother Abscess (convent humour) literally and figuratively

Trying hard to accept: my mind going blank when the Amtrak guy at Portland Union (gawd) station asked where I’d boarded the train. Too many cities in too few days.

I’m in Portland. I think.

It’s a strange place. Charming and uber outdoorsy but strange.

I’d sum it up as shabbily earnest. Where function beats form. The people seem more interested in doing good than looking good.

It’s the only city where I’ve seen passers-by stop and help the homeless.

Its downtown must’ve eloped with Baltimore’s because it ain’t anywhere to be found.

Once again I’m struck by how incredibly different the regions of this vast country are.

Sitting here in the Pacific Northwest I’d never guess I was in the same country as Lafayette or Minneapolis. The architecture, weather, people and cityscapes have zilch in common.

Portland peeps are so laid back they’re almost splattered on the footpath.

Everyone looks like they’re about to (a) climb a mountain (b) brew a batch of craft beer (c) marry their same-sex partner (d) do all 3, simultaneously.

Sums it up

‘Twas a very long 19 hours from Havre to here. I spent my last few hours in Havre yesterday at my favourite joint: Guy and Leo’s IGA supermarket cafe.

Well, second favourite next to Super 8 hotel.

Thoroughly enjoyed every minute there. And I emailed to tell them so. Super comfortable room. Super bath. Super friendly. Super delicious, super free food. Oh yeah, on the second night we got absolutely divine beef stew: big chunks of coyote roadkill and variously coloured veg in a rich and tasty gravy all plonked on a hot biscuit. All free.

Hopefully my nice email to them will get me an upgrade to a Super 9 next time.

This was breakfast day 2. Dragged my screaming sciatic nerve out of bed at 7am, and still in pyjamas, went next door and munched on sausage and egg hash, and tortillas (that’s Mexican sauce, not the result of a fight down the pub last night) while having a yarn with Ray the truck driver from West Virginia. Not surprisingly he hates his job.

I camped out at Guy and Leo’s because there was nothing else to do in Havre. And I mean nothing. Not even on a Workday Monday.

Particularly with a 40lb backpack and a 12lbs overweight body to lug around the slippery dippery footpaths. I fell over 1.75 times.

Spent a couple of happy hours in Guy and Leo’s with my $1 (free refill) coffee and low-calorie homemade lunch. One eye on HGTV show on the iPad and the other on the assortment of passers-by.

When I left they gave me a bill for rent. I forwarded it to my travel insurance co.

To sum up Havre in one word: depressed. Before setting up camp at Guy and Leo’s I hauled all my stuff to the Grateful Bread bakery because Google reviews told me my life wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t go there.

You’re such a liar, Google.

It was in this dark, dingy, decrepit (like a bra size, DDD) underground mall. Like going back to the 60s. In a bad way. Faux wood panelling everywhere you spun, wrought iron stair rails and green linoleum interspersed with brown carpet squares.

93% (don’t argue) of the retail spaces were empty. The shops that were in business had 50% off and closing-down sales. One retailer was so desperate she came out as I walked by to lure me inside. With my backpack? Probably wanted me to break everything so she could do a dodgy insurance claim.

Grateful Bread was a huge letdown. About as far from its Facebook photos as I am from home.

I fled and walked very slowly and carefully to Guy and Leo’s. Was joined by a part Native American woman who came out of the soup kitchen and started walking and talking with me.

Her stuck-ness and lack of hope reminded of the people I saw in south Chicago. Even those with a bit of cash in Havre have that ‘Well where else am I gonna go?’ look about them.

Amazingly there’s a university there but I’m sure it’s about as far from the top of the league as it is from Princeton itself.

Havre might be a struggling backwater but the trip outta town in the setting sun would have to be one of the most beautiful Amtrak can offer.

We headed west into the big red glowing sun.

Out one window were vast, flat, snow-covered farms as far as the eye could see. 20 metres for those of us who refuse to wear glasses.

Out the other window were vast, flat, snow-covered farms as far as the eye could see. 21 metres if I squinted.

I can’t even imagine what it’d be like living out there. There was nothing for miles. Must take Old McDonald 2 days return trip to buy a pint of milk, a six pack and a lottery ticket.

I guess it’d be pretty much like living on an Australian sheep station but with carpets of slushy white stuff rather than dusty red stuff.

I’m so glad the train was (only) 24 minutes late leaving Havre as I got to meet Ken.

Thankfully someone at Havre station had the foresight to nick a few trolleys from the airport. Notice how I cleverly placed the Empire Builder retro poster in the background.

Ken’s a driver for the Rocky Mountain Treatment Centre in Great Falls (2 hours away) and was at the station to pick up a new client.

If you’re going to detox or dry out, rural Montana is probably as good as it gets. Endless sky to shout at when you’ve run out of people to shout at.

Wish I’d had longer to talk with Ken. He’s a retired school teacher. A few years back he turned down a teaching job in northern Alaska (couldn’t convince wife to move there – sensible woman). Teaching Native Americans in a two-shower village only accessible by air. Needless to say the money was good.

I was telling him about this new TV show I saw advertised. Some reality thing following cops around Alaska – whose crime rate is so high it makes Baltimore look like bible camp.

Gee, let me think why you’d turn to crime in Alaska. No job. No prospect of getting one. No money. No prospect of getting any. No sunlight. No prospect of getting any for 8 months.

I was asking him where the never-ending oil transporter trains at the station would be going to and from.

North Dakota apparently – which unbeknown to me has a big oil industry. And a big drug problem. As in the guys working in those risky oil jobs are high half the time. And not on the oil fumes either.

Was telling Ken how Martin was a fly fishing guide for rich helicopter-in-helicopter-out Americans. Turns out Ken’s son does same on Missouri River.

Son and daughter-in-law went tramping in NZ a few years back. I’m gonna try same trick as she did. Broke her leg just before due to fly home and guess what … business class here me and my crutches come.

I sat in train lounge car next to Simon, a PhD student from university in Great Falls, on his way home to spend Christmas with dad near Seattle and then mom somewhere not near Seattle. 30 hour trip each way. Sure hope they stuff his stockings full.

He gave me a new idea. He tutors at university. Which means … dah dah dah … he gets 5 years free tuition.

If Simon can do a dissertation on Gothic English literature at University of Montana I can do one on 569 Places to Get $1 Coffee Plus Free Refills North of the Mason-Dixon Line at Yale.

Once I get that under my ever-expanding belt, a Green Card will be a mere formality.

14 hours and three neck-wringing short sleeps later, we rolled into Bingen, Oregon. But might as well have been in central Otago, NZ.

Out one panoramic window was water, water and not a drop to drink. Massive logging and milling industries seem to keep the place ticking.

Out the other panoramic window were steep grey rocky hills. And in between in one huge train full of sleeping passengers going though tunnel after tunnel.

‘Twas a world of grey outside. The sky merely turned a lighter shade of black.

All the timber money must’ve floated down the river to Vancouver, Washington. Jeepers creepers you should’ve seen the sizes of the homes along the river. You can have any colour house you want. As long as it’s brown.

The bald eagle-eyed of you will have thought, Vancouver? Isn’t that over the border? Jawohl, it is but clearly the city planners lacked the imagination gene because there’s a third one, Vancouver Island.

Vancouver’s not even a nice name. Not like Gail.

Or else? What?