It’s Saturday, we don’t load trees for another few days, so Randy decided to treat us to another “road trip” day. It was probably to get his mind off of the Christmas tree business…a stress-free, fun day. He deserves a few.
Anyway, after we watched the end of “Inglourious Basterds” (the crazy Tarantino WWII flick), the whole crew piled into the Ford Expedition and headed up to Portland. The goal was the (according to Randy) “largest flea market in the United States”. It took us about an hour to get there, slogging through a steady rain. No surprise there: the Native Indian word for “rain” is Oregon, I believe.
Have I already told you that Randy lies a lot? Well, not like President Trump tells whoppers, but Mr. Wood has been known to stretch the truth when provoked. To be honest, the Carlsbad Street Fair is five times the size of this Portland wannabe, but, at least, we were able to enjoy it while being rained upon.
I think everyone bought something, although our total $$ purchase was pretty paltry. Kyle bought his girlfriend something, Joe ate some food, Randy and Don bought some apparel for their wives, and I bought Charlie a gift for the RV and also a replacement Kershaw “assist blade” knife (so I can more quickly slice one of my fingers, by accident).
Mr. Wood has spent considerable time up here in Oregon scouting trees and doing business along with his wife, Denise, so he knows a few interesting places. He decided that we were going to trek all the way out to Astoria to see the Maritime Museum and have lunch at the Bowpicker. I’ve been to both, and like them, but it would be the first time for the others. So, off we went, into the rain…for two hours!
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that it RAINS a lot in Oregon, but it sure does…big, green trees everywhere, moss and ferns, wild berry bushes along every roadway, and lot of water running down swollen rivers. It’s a beautiful place…when you can see it. Unfortunately, we were not privileged to do so today, as it was either raining, foggy, or the skies were just plain gray: typical Oregon in the Winter.
We finally got to Astoria at around noon. This city sits at the mouth of the great Columbia River, which drains most of the northwest United States. It is a major shipping port, and very large cargo ships pass through Astoria, headed up-river with imports, or down-river with grain, lumber, ore, and other products produced in the Northwest states.
(Trust me, I didn’t take that photo. Did I mention that it rained today?)
Whether coming into port, or leaving, these large ships must brave the “Columbia Bar”, which is the nasty hunk of ocean where the incoming sea surge meets the outgoing current of the mighty Columbia. It is considered by sailors to be one of the most dangerous stretches of ocean in the world.
Not a great day for fishing.
The Maritime Museum sits near the mouth of the Columbia, and is a testament to the brave fishermen and cargo sailors who have plied these waters for the past 250 years. It also has quite a number of exhibits relating to the U.S. Coast Guard, which trains its “rough water” rescue crews here.
I think Joe, Kyle and Don enjoyed the museum. Randy and I noticed that there were quite a few more exhibits supplemented by video and narration. A real neat exhibit was a large (10’x10′?) monitor which displayed all sorts of data from the scores of NOAA satellites which circle the earth. The display featured sea temps, ocean salinity, surface winds, carbon dioxide, land temps, and such. Very cool, although President Trump would claim that all of that NOAA data coming from our geosynchronous satellites is “fake”.
Of course, he should know, because, as President, he is in charge of NOAA.
We also watched a 3-D movie about hurricanes, focusing on the birth, life, and death of Hurricane Lucy. Horrible things they are, those hurricanes, and there will be more of them in the future, according to the scientists at NOAA (who will shortly be fired by the Prez for claiming such nonsense.)
After absorbing that hurricane propaganda, we adjourned to the Bowpicker, just up the street, for their famous Fish and Chips. Randy and I knew what to expect, but were curious to see how the other three would react…because this “dive” is an ex-fishing boat, parked on a sidewalk, where there is only one thing on the menu, and customers often have to stand in a lengthy line to get served.
The Summer line looks like this:
Today, the scene looked like this, except that the sky was gray.
Yes, believe it or not, it had stopped raining, there was no line, and the guys really liked their lunch. Score one for Wood Mountain!
The fish that is used at the Bowpicker is albacore tuna (not the usual cod), and the breading, which is quite thin, appears to be made with Ritz crackers. At least that’s what Don, our resident chef, believes. Anyway, as usual, the fish was great. I recently had fish and chips at a restaurant just up the road from our farmhouse, and I would estimate that the fish-to-breading ratio was less than 50-50. At the Bowpicker, the ratio is more like 90 percent fish, 10 percent breading. So, there you go: if you like fish and chips, you can’t beat the Bowpicker. If you want breading, go to Long John Silver’s.
It was a long ride home from Astoria to Hubbard, Oregon. It pretty much rained all the way, in fits and stops, with nary a patch of blue sky to be had. We altered our route a bit to provide some variety in the scenery, but one can only tolerate so much green vegetation in a day, obscured by falling water.
At least I feel that way, but…I’m a Southern Californian; we worship brown.
Unfortunately for Randy, the road trip was not as stress-free as he had hoped. Right before we got back to home base, the Boss received news that there had been some major screw-ups down south by several truckers, and his staff down in Temecula was in near-panic mode, tempers rising, tears, etc.
As I’ve mentioned before, those independent truckers seem to derive great pleasure finding ways to torment the Wood Mountain operation. No Ramen noodles this year, but, according to Randy, our last load driver (#10, I believe) did a couple of his drops, and then quit the route, driving his truck (with two drops of Christmas trees still in it) to his home in San Diego.
Hay que la chingada!
“This is our last trip up here”, Randy said, tersely, as we got to the farmhouse.
Amen to that, Brother.