After that day of skiing I slept like a damn baby. I wake up before Randy and go grab a couple coffees. When I return he’s milling about, getting everything ready to hit the road back to Vegas. I pack up my stuff & after a quick shower we say our goodbyes to the Pepper Tree and set our bearings to Reno-Tahoe International Airport. This time we take the non-scenic route down Interstate-80, which to be fair is still pretty scenic. Randy tells me about a mixup during his initial Greyhound trip out here - he arrived in Tahoe, his bike arrived elsewhere. He had to hitchhike to fetch his steed then ended up riding down the shoulder of I-80 to get back to town. Definitely not legal but he was a 22 year old kid with no job, no place to stay, and \$69 to his name. What were they gonna do.
It’s a short drive to the airport and Randy drops me off at Alaska Airlines. We exchange our goodbyes and discuss plans for our next trip. Hopefully it's soon. He hops back in the Focus and we go our separate ways. He on a 7 hour drive to Vegas, me on to Portland.
Our bird to PDX is a two-by-two seater prop plane that we board from the tarmac. It’s nice because we can board from the front and the back, which helps speed up the most annoying part of air travel. I have a 5th row window seat next to a woman who asks me how I am doing in a manner that suggests she’s going to be a chatterbox then doesn’t say another word for the rest of the trip. That works for me.
The flight is short and uneventful except for the scenery out the window. We’re flying right down the Pacific Mountain System and I have the perfect seat to take it all in. The views are spectacular even from 30,000'.
And then amid all the beauty I see it.
I can’t believe my eyes.
Are we flying directly over Crater Lake!!?
Sure as shit we are flying directly over Crater Lake! Fuckin A. As a kid growing up in Tulsa this is something you learn about on volcano day in elementary school but you never actually expect to see it in person. What a sight.
Oh look what we have here
Not long after we pass over the coolest thing I’ve ever seen from a plane we get back to the pressing issues, i.e. putting up our tray tables, returning seats to their full upright and locked position, throwing all the garbage you’ve accumulated into the poor plastic bag the flight attendant walks down the aisle. Stowing shit.
And just like that I’m in Portland.
Let’s Get Weird.
I hop off onto the tarmac and walk through a big tent with scaffolded stairs that you’d see in the stands at a PGA tournament. Portland, you are already living up to your reputation, this is weird as hell. At the top of the makeshift stairs, right where you’d expect a retired schoolteacher volunteering a golf tourney to be reaching into a tub of ice for Michelob Ultras, we enter the terminal. The veeeery end of the terminal. I follow the signs for baggage claim. And follow. And follow. It’s a damn hike.
I finally arrive at baggage claim and settle in, there’s no way our bags are getting here anytime soon after the length of that walk. But a few minutes later the buzzer buzzes and the conveyor conveys. I snag my boot bag and head to the Hertz counter. The Russian sounding woman hands me my paperwork and directs me to space 350. On my way out I couldn’t help but notice a metallic grey Camaro convertible. I pause in the garage for an unreasonable amount of time pondering whether I should go back and ask how much more the Camaro would be. I eventually make the prudent decision to stick with my original reservation of an SUV. “How the hell am I going to fit skis in a convertible?” was the real deciding factor. It’s pretty dumb that it was as close as it was before that. Who takes a convertible on a ski trip?
My reservation was for an SUV but they put me in an suv (lowercase, get it). It’s not much bigger than Randy’s Focus. It looks like slim pickins on the lot & the main reason I got the SUV was for ski storage and in case of snow. This dumb rig will be big enough for my skis and there ain’t no snow on the ground. Fuck it, let’s hit the road.
On the way to the hotel, Google Maps gives me one of those ambiguous exit descriptions and I get a little discombobulated on which lane I should be in. By the time I realize it the exit is coming up fast but I have some room to merge over and I swoop in, blinker activated all the way. Well apparently the old fella in the Ford Ranger behind me did not appreciate that. He laid on his horn and gave me the most exaggerated Dikembe Mutumbo “no sir” finger I’ve ever seen in a rearview mirror. Now I did move over a bit late and there wasn’t a huge amount of room but it wasn’t anything worth getting your knickers in a wad over. Futhermore, he was driving a Ford - who the hell does he think he is berating another driver while behind the wheel of that shitbox.
Anyways, I pull into Portland and really dig the bridges. I like bridges for whatever reason and Portland has the weirdest variety of them. On brand. It’s also a lot more industrial than I would have expected. If you told me I was in a city on the Great Lakes I’d believe you. I guess my expectations were based off the cultural Portland stereotypes but when I think about it, it’s in a natural resource rich area of the country on a big ass river. Makes sense.
Bridges of Portland
I park outside the Hotel Lucia and get checked in. According to their website, it is “a creatively inspired Portland hotel that’s renowned for its expansive photography collection, eclectic art, and unforgettable style.” Yeah I think they hit the nail on the head there. Taylor behind the counter gets me checked in and hands me my room key card, which has a black and white photo of a young Hugh Hefner and a gaggle of presumably much younger women. She then asks if I’d like to take one of their bikes they offer to guests for cruisin around town. My friend’s girlfriend (now fiancée, congrats Brady & Shelby!) told me the best strategy to explore Portland is on bike so I’m all over that.
A collection of photos from my hallway: Hef & his harem, Seinfeld at work, and some Commanders in Chief
I drop off my bags and head back down to take a bike out for a spin. I sign some paperwork and they hand me a single speed rickety steed and a helmet to go with it. I appreciate the helmet and wore it, but was a bit amused at the seemingly conflicting positions of handing a hotel guest a helmet that has been worn by god knows who, while making him sign for it with a pen from a “sanitized” cup and putting it into a “dirty” cup. Whatever, let’s explore.
Riding around downtown, the best word I can think of to describe it is “grungy.” Everything seems to have a patina of grime on it. I can’t decide if I like it or hate it.
My first stop is Powell’s books and holy hell what a place. I spend about 30 minutes perusing their extensive collection and my rumbling stomach is the only thing that keeps me from spending hours in there. I end up with *The Essays of Francis Bacon* and *The Jefferson Bible*, the latter of which I’ve been wanting to get my hands on for a while. I shove the books into my backpack and do a quick search for nearby breweries. I need some vittles & suds. As luck would have it Deschutes has a tap room just a couple blocks away. I find my way there to an outdoor table where I order a Neon Daydream Hazy IPA and a charcuterie plate. Both are excellent and are just what the doctor ordered. Now that I’m feeling recharged, let’s take a trip over to the other side of the river. Looks like there are a few breweries over there and the Eastbank Esplanade bike trail. Beautiful.
The few blocks getting to the river were a piece of cake, but as I get closer to the bridge, the road starts to rise and my legs start to burn. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. I grit my teeth and keep pumping my gams. Up Gunta up! I make it to the crest of the bridge and snap a few photos and catch my breath. It’s at this point that I notice that my phone battery is disconcertingly low. I had been tracking my path on the bike & the battery did not seem to like that. So I’m on the middle of a bridge over the Willamette River with a dwindling battery and only a general idea of where I want to go.
Bridge from a bridge, so meta
The responsible thing to do would be to turn around and head back from whence I came, at least I know where the hotel is and I’ll be on the same side of the river. Well I wasn’t feeling responsible. I am here for one night and I’m going to explore Portland dammit. I pull up Rogue Brewing on my GPS and memorize the directions. Straight for a bit, right on 16th, which will wind around and go over the railroad tracks and turn into 12th, take 12th down to Belmont, take a right and it will be on the corner of 9th. Got it.
I start heading towards 16th, which looked very close on the map and after going a 5-6 blocks of named streets I hit 2nd. What the hell? 16th looked so close, maybe it’s one of those weird numbering things where streets cross in a weird way and 16th is the next one. Nooope. 3rd. Dammit, this is way farther than I thought. I keep pedaling to 16th & take a right. Down under the railroad track and it should turn into 12th. Well who knows because I come to a mess of an intersection. I go straight because why not and I see 11th pass by. Damn I should be on 12th, what the hell happened. Oh well Rogue is on 9th, I’ll just take that., perfect.
I take a right on 9th and the street isn’t very busy and turns into a residential neighborhood pretty quickly. I’m cruising through a quaint little neighborhood and enjoying the weather. I expect Rogue to appear soon but nothin doin. Maybe over this next hill. Nope. Well looks like a pretty busy cross street up ahead. No sir. On the other side of this park? Nuh-uh.
At this point I get a feeling that I’m not in the right place. Hmmm.. I look up and the sun is to my left. Fuck. I should be going south & I’m definitely going north. I check to see if my phone has any juice left and I have 1%. I pop open Google Maps and confirm my suspicion. I’m 5 miles north of where I should be. Dammit. I search for breweries nearby so I can at least sit down and charge my phone. Luckily Old Town Brewing is just a couple blocks away.
A biiiiiiit of a detour
I stop in and grab a Glow Torch IPA and a seat on the patio. I plug in my phone and breathe a sigh of relief. Highly recommend getting a charge back onto your GPS device in a city you don’t know in a part of town you didn’t expect to be in. With what is seeming to turn into a sequence of phone mishaps behind me, I kick back and enjoy the weather and the ale. I tell myself that I should get another beer to let my phone charge more but if we’re being honest I just wanted another beer on that patio. I go for a Haze Anatomy IPA and it’s just as tasty as the first. Good on ya Old Town Brewery, you saved my bacon.
Alright, now that my phone's got some juice I map out the directions to Rogue. I’m going to get there hell or high water. I find a route that takes me along the Eastbank Esplanade, which hugs the river and should make for a nice ride. I make it a few miles before hitting the esplanade, which indeed does make for a nice ride. I stop off a few times to take some photos (mostly of bridges) and after a few more miles of easy pedaling I reach Taylor street & turn off the path. Just a few more blocks to 9th and Rogue at last. As I’m crossing 7th street, a relatively busy thoroughfare, I mash down on the pedals and the chain gives way. Thankfully there is a clearing of cars at the moment but it doesn’t feel like a street that you want to be broken down in the middle of. I’m able to limp to the other side of the street to assess the damage.
The chain has fallen off so I start spinning the pedals trying to reseat it. As I’m doing this and getting grease all over my hands I notice that the crankset is moving all wonky. I discover to my chagrin that all but one bolt holding the chainring in place has broken off. This bike has ridden its last ride. Or at least its last ride until someone replaces those bolts. I make the 2 block walk to Rogue and lock up the maimed steed.
Now I realize I’m in a bit of a pickle. I need a mask to enter the brewery and my hands are absolutely covered in bike grease. If I try to retrieve my face covering now I’m going to get grease all over my jeans, mask, and likely my face. No bueno.
Take her to the glue factory
I manage to wipe enough grease off my hands onto the bike’s handlebars (sorry not sorry, shouldn’t have given me a shit bike) to delicately remove and don my mask. I dart into the bathroom and get all that nasty shit off my paws. Ok, we’re back in business.
After perusing the menu I snag a Raspberry Tartlandia sour and find a nice spot outside. Portland, for being in the much maligned cold and rainy PNW, has a pretty good number of outdoor drinking and dining options. I enjoy the sour and head back to order a Rufio Hazy IPA. While I enjoy my brewski I look up directions back to the hotel. I had planned to take an Uber but it’s only a mile and a half. The weather is nice, let’s walk it. I leave the bike locked up at the brewery – they can figure out how to get it back – and I start off on foot, due West.
The area I’m in is pretty industrial, a lot of old warehouses and a big trainyard. I like the vibe. I traverse a few strange stairwell-under-the-road crossings covered with graffiti and littered with the flotsam of many a homeless night. I make my way across the Morrison Bridge and it’s just a few more blocks to the Lucia.
Portland stuff
I tell Matt behind the desk where to find their shitass bike and hand him the key to the lock. It’s a bit late by this point & I ask him where I can get a bite to eat. He directs me to Luc Lac, a great little Vietnamese joint that’s open late. I order a Bo Tai Chanh salad and wash it down with a Southern Dialect, their take on an Old Fashioned.
I make my way back to the hotel and ask Matt where I can get a coffee in the morning. I plan to head out around 6 AM for the 3 hour drive to Mt Bachelor & he says the only place that will be open at that time is Starbucks. Come on, I didn’t travel to the PNW for a damn Starbucks. The night manager, Jim, who is just about to clock in for Matt tells me he’ll brew me up a nice cup of coffee in the morning and I take him up on it. Everything set for tomorrow, I head to bed. Mt Bachelor awaits.
Traveler
Musings of a panhandlin, manhandlin, postholin, highrollin, dustbowlin daddy
