D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
August 2009
All Wet
Damp, moldy Oregon is yin to our arid yang.
There prevails in the American spirit a strong sense of adventure that cannot be denied. Going places we've never been and discovering new cultures is all part and parcel of boldly going where no man has gone before. Adventure is like popcorn for the soul, which is why manly men like Meriwether Lewis, William Clark and myself have all exercised manifest destiny and traveled the fabled Northwest Passage.
Having recently returned from my first trip to Portland, Oregon, I am in a unique position to relay my travelogue to my interested readers (all three of them; hi, mom). Of course, a good writer must do some background work to write an intriguing travelogue, which fortunately does not apply to me. Using an unimpeachable source of information is important when doing research, which is why I rely on the Internet. It is a well-known fact that if something's online, it's got to be true, so I boned up a bit on the famous Lewis and Clark expedition that arrived in Portland slightly ahead of me.
As sort of a Jeffersonian economic stimulus package, Meriwether and William were sent packing to the west in search of a convenient water passage that would connect east with west, thereby giving the United States a much more convenient way to schlep beaver pelts and spread smallpox among the Plains Indians. They stumbled upon the Columbia River in late 1805 and finally popped out on a cold, wet beach on the Pacific Ocean, at which point Meriwether Lewis is alleged to have despondently stated, "This territory blows." A storm promptly blew their supplies into the ocean just before rain of biblical proportions drowned half the crew. Then a tree fell over on their canoe, which quickly molded and was eaten by badgers.
Just before having a great day at the beach, the party passed through what would eventually be known as Portland, Oregon. There is no note in the journals of encounters with thundering herds of unwashed hippies or $5 Ethiopian Blend Mocha Lattes, but that is precisely what I discovered on my journey. Luckily for like-minded men of adventure, I keep a far better journal than my predecessors.
Due to moisture patterns coming in off the Pacific, the Portland area averages 370 days of rain a year. There is so much rain that the trees don't require irrigation, and you can actually see airborne water in a phenomenon the locals refer to as "humidity." The arroyos always contain water (they call them "rivers") and instead of front porches, the locals have "mudrooms," which apparently are where you store the mud when there's just too much on the ground, which is all the time.
A rainy, cold climate like this is ideal for writing poetry, listening to Rachmaninoff, or committing suicide. All the people are a milky shade of nocturnal white, even non-Anglos, and seem oddly indifferent to their plight, although many seem to optimize their reality with weed and liquor.
As far as I can tell, Oregon's economy is based on the production of cheese, Christmas trees and hippies. In fact, there is a plethora of hippies mucking about Portland, wearing crocheted beanies and Che T-shirts while gripping paper mugs of industrial-strength coffee. To own a Subaru franchise in Portland is akin to printing your own money, a moneymaking opportunity followed closely by the printing of eco-friendly, pro-Obama bumper stickers. This is because Oregonian hippies have an agenda, my friend, and aren't afraid to share it with anyone, even crusty old desert rats with a strong right-leaning tendency.
In my short time in Oregon, the locals made no bones about the complete lack of savoir-faire demonstrated by my home state and me. No mandatory recycling programs? New Mexicans are ignorant earth-killers. No life-giving rain forests? New Mexicans are backward desert aborigines. No law that forbids citizens from pumping their own gasoline? New Mexicans are job-stealing anarchists.
I knew the jig was up when one particularly ardent young man categorically stated that "all Republicans are racist pigs," which came as somewhat of a surprise to this placid, enlightened GOP party animal. He offered to put a bullet in Bill O'Reilly's head, a plan that seems somewhat contradictory to his bumper sticker that professed an Obama-inspired "hope."
After a couple of days hanging around with Oregonians, I got the chills and had to make a bucket of green chile pork stew. Although the locals appreciated the spicy flavor ("Oh god oh god, it burns it burns"), they thought me a big loony for opting to live in a barren, dry wasteland. I found this particularly ironic in light of the same person having just spent the afternoon scraping mold out of a motor home and setting up fans to dry out the interior. Then I reminded myself: These people blow through about five acres of weed a day.
I have a favorable impression of Portland and the Oregon Coast. Trees and flowers are quite pleasing to my eye, and you can buy decent green chile in their hippie grocery stores. Oregon benefits from the same national anonymity that our state does; the rest of the nation rarely thinks of us unless there's a need for nuclear-waste storage. However, there was a strong sense that I was welcome as a person, but my desert culture wasn't. Even though our motor homes never, ever mold.
Oregon is about peace and giving back to the earth, and making sure that when we are gone no tree goes scarred because we passed this way. The world turns no matter where you stand, however, and people are who they are and are from where they're from. I think Oregonians and New Mexicans can stand side-by-side, quaffing cheap Mexican beer from a can or sipping caffeinated, volcanic joe from a paper cup, and as long as politics and recycling aren't discussed, all will be right with the world.
Henry Lightcap screens his vacation photos at home in Las Cruces.