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Port Orford, Oregon
Dang it. I must have kicked the wall again the other night. Must have. Gout is possible, I suppose, though I'm holding out hope that is one of the few things I am still too young for. I started limping yesterday as I got out at the Cape Blanco lighthouse, and last night it got worse. Point pain, top of the foot, outside, as from a blow. No bruise, though.
My next RV is definitely going to have a longer bedroom. If I have to take a chainsaw to it.
The foot is better this morning, though still swollen. I gimped on down to the bluff anyway, out of sheer stubbornness, and caught sight of a whale spouting, out by the seastacks. I don't know what kind of whale it was. First one I've seen in the lower 48, though there were lots in Alaska.
Of course I had neither camera nor field glasses with me. Only my coffee, clutched fiercely in a my fingers like the precious stuff it is.
I remember an old movie with Matt Dillon. "Drugstore Cowboy", I believe. His character raided drug stores for a variety of designer pharmaceuticals, and his defense of drug abuse was as charming as any I ever heard:
"Most people don't know how they are going to feel in the morning. With the right pills, I know exactly how I'm going to feel."
And that, my friends, is my attitude toward coffee. My drug of choice. I may fall over a root and die back here, but I probably won't spill the coffee. Grrrr.
Cape Blanco is a bargain, as these things go. $16 a night for water and electric. 50 amp service for motorhomes. Open year round. And a sign warning us not to sign up past October 1st, as the price will then drop to $12. The campground is in a grove of spruce, backed up to the ocean. The trees are really a blessing, up here on the cliff , as they rip the constant roaring wind off the so-called Pacific into intermittent vagrant teasing breezes.
It was a little cold last night to sit out alone, without stars or a fire. These trees get a little spooky without conversation, or something to keep the shadows at bay. Instead I watched the rest of Scorsese's Bob Dylan special on PBS.
It's a tough life, out here in the wilderness. But fear not. I come from pioneer stock.
This morning was magical. Parked deep in a gloomy forest shot with brilliant angled beams and scattered speckles of sunlight. A wisp of mist among the ferns. I looked to see if entrapping tendrils had grown round the tires, but not yet. It did seem like there might be an Ent asleep back in there somewhere. All those high dim green trunks with multiple ragged moldy upraised arms.
But no, not even a hobbit. Only one hobbler, and that was me. Well, if I do fall down, there's a thick bed of needles to fall into. Maybe I'll fall asleep for twenty years, like old Rip, and wake to the sound of bulldozers.
As I came out of the park on the way to town, a small doe crossed the road like a lean shadow in front of me. Then clumpf... it plunged and disappeared into the thick foliage, and was swallowed up.
Not even a quivering leaf to prove it happened. But I'm pretty sure it was real. Or was, anyway. While it lasted.
Speaking of swallowing, it's time for lunch. An panfried oyster sandwich and a cup of chowder awaits in Orford, 5 miles away. Maybe even a piece of pie.
Not to mention an Internet connection. More than one kind of magic along this coast.
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