Commuting through a National Scenic Area

As I’ve mentioned many times previously, I see a lot of interesting things on my 20 mile commute through the Gorge. From the beautiful and awe-inspiring (bald eagles and osprey swooping overhead with fish in their talons, the sun settling just so on the curves of the hills and basalt cliffs) to the gross and awe-inspiring (bottles of trucker pee, freight trains covered in graffiti, tons of roadkill).

This time of year random produce seems to grow out of the concrete barriers. Stray ears of corn, onions, watermelons and cherries all get blown out of open truck trailers and washed ashore on the sides of the road. I swear, if I was a vagrant hobo (are there any other kinds?), I would love this time of year. Free fresh food with only a little bit of tar and glass!

Aw shit, I forgot my penknife.

Roadside trash worthy of the happiest hobo that I’ve also seen lately: 2 pillows, a complete pair of flip flops (although they’re not conducive for wanderin’), a nice looking water bottle (not filled with pee), a towel, and several structure worthy cardboard boxes.

Horrible things along the road I’ve seen lately: a giant, horrid stream of liquid feces (!!!!!) on a road in The Dalles, clearly leaked by an RV or porta-potty, a squirrel feasting on roadkill, and a dead black kitty. 😦

Note: I still live in fear that every box I see on the side of the highway has an abandoned litter of kittens inside of it.

Morning I-84 Commute Report

Weather conditions? Sunny, warm, and the river is like a sheet of glass.

Tunes? Arcade Fire’s album Funeral.

Where were the cats when you left? Fabrizio was licking dew off of the vinca vines in the front yard, Buffy was hiding in the bamboo, Merlot was MIA.

Roadkill? One red-tailed hawk, one tabby cat, one blackish/brownish animal that was too smeared to be recognizable, being pecked at by crows.

Wildlife? Vultures sunning themselves on the beach at Mosier.

Bottles of trucker urine? None.

Abnormal fear of  boxes alongside the highway containing abandoned kittens? Yep, still there.

Waxing poetic on a lengthy commute

Oh, I fucking knew the internet karma/jinx gods would get me when, in my last post, I stated I’m trying to post every three to four days. Nine days later, here I am. What can I say, I only post when I feel like I have something to say, and lately I’ve been pretty pleased to keep my big mouth shut.

The temp job is going well. Granted it’s an entire alternate universe in comparison to my recent couple years fueled on creativity and innovation… Instead I spend my days filing stacks of black and white papers, filling out forms, and almost entirely detaching myself from the outside world in a remotely located office.

How remote? It’s a 45 minute drive from my house, up in the hills of southern Washington where I receive no cell phone signal, am surrounded by orchards and farmland, the internet connection is via satellite, and everyone there is much more comfortable working by hand rather than by computer. I have to use one of those electric calculators with the paper roll and I still cannot figure out if the button I use for subtraction is really the right button. I had no idea people actually used those things anymore.

Of course unplugging from the rapid current of digital life is refreshing in many ways. I look outside and see the two neighborhood dogs running around in the mud, looking for mischief. I get out an ounce of creativity here and there by drawing fonts on file folders and quietly relish reconnecting my pen to paper. My Italian and broken Spanish come back to me in a befuddled torrent of words when I try to speak Spanish with the company’s farm workers. The constant organization of files and papers is slightly satisfying.

My drive is buffeted by a tall travel mug of coffee and a comforting flow of public radio in my ears. In the morning I drive over on the Oregon side of the Columbia, confident in my sleepy state with my familiarity of the road. I pay a 75 cent toll to cross the dollar bill green Hood River Bridge, and start up a narrow winding road that romantically follows the White Salmon River into the hills and cuts through farm fields. One of the fields has spotted ponies that chase each other.

I drive home on the Washington side, which at this time of year has a golden cast of low-setting sun across its angular basalt cliffs. The trickles of waterfalls glint gold in the evening light. Across the river from my town there’s a domesticated herd of buffalo, which along with the nearby cattle are boasting dozens of wobbly offspring that I get giddy over every single day.

So the drive is nice. This is true. And the people I work with are very nice and I enjoy being able to help organize the place with a fresh pair of eyes. But I’m also so very glad this has no semblance of permanence as I think I’d go mad.

The job search wages on…