Battling with an almost unbearable load strapped to my back, I made a very unelegant journey towards the Greyhound. I could have very easily taken a taxi, but parting with a guaranteed $20 at so early in the morning wasn't attractive. If you've ever watched Planes Trains and Automobiles, you would recall the taxi ride Steve Martin's character makes; smothered to the excessive with cut out seventies rockstars, multicoloured neon lights and pornographic material. I'm almost certain if any such taxi was still on duty today, it would be circling Eugene, and I wasn't in the mood for it.
I relieved my back of several kilograms when I finally arrived at the Greyhound bus station; an almost entirely mirror image to the one in Portland (and indeed Seattle). Though this one here in Eugene was smaller and didn't offer a cafe or shop like Portland's did, simply the warmth and a metal seat had attracted the unwary, the worse for wears and the dazed and confused. Strangely enough, sitting amongst this company, I felt almost 'one of them' with my extensively worn hiking boots, a pancake battered jumper, and a face of fatigue which had certainly manifested from thirty minutes of back-breaking walking.
It was close to an hour after clambering in, and making myself as comfortable as I possibly could on what were hardly seats that would be offered to the President if he ever decided to visit, that I was asked by way of a loud shout from the coach driver to form an orderly line and have ready the vital ticket. I wasn't issued a ticket, as I assured that my 'Discovery 30 day pass' would be enough to authorise my boarding. Almost knowingly, when it came to my turn to present this pass to the driver, he stared, gave a bewildered look at my document as if it was a difficult quadratic equation to mentally solve, and responded "This isn't a ticket!" I couldn't argue because what he has said was 100% factual. I replied sternly, saying that this had been approved, but he didn't give in, and withheld my pass, dealt with the remaining passengers and then took another look at it. After consultation with the Greyhound reception desk, it was agreed that I was allowed to board, but by the way he so carelessly flung my luggage into the coach, I could tell he was displeased.
We were on our way, exiting Eugene almost immediately, passing on our way the 'Original Pancake Restaurant' which I had unfortunately failed to spot during my time here. Soon we left the religiously straight and narrow city streets, and were cruising along the sinuous three-lane highway of Interstate 5. Open countryside greeted us, and typical Oregonian hillside encased us inside this valley. Pastoral farming was highly evident here, with cattle on both sides, grazing on what were generously sized areas of farmland.
As our journey continued, so did the elevation of these hills; soon low lying clouds were rubbing noses with these dumpling shaped structures. It felt almost like travelling through southern England, although where that feeling collapsed was the six lane highway, long over sized lorries and the colour of the landscape. I've always loved the bright green flourishing grass of the south English countryside; here, the hillsides seemed duller and less electrifying, no doubt helped by the continuous lingering presence of heavy low lying clouds.
We entered into Roseburg to pick up a few passengers, to stretch our legs and have a breath of fresh air, although it should have been advertised as a breath of fresh smoke. That's one thing I noticed about Eugene too; the copious number of smokers, most likely upholding yet another seventies custom. I took in a 360 degree view of Roseburg; by no means an extraordinarily interesting town though I reckon- as is always the case- that by allowing me an hour, I might churn out some of the most fascinating things that it has to offer. The smokers took in one last lung of smoke, deliciously sprinkled with a helping of tar, and I took in one last look at Roseburg; a town that perhaps I will never visit again in my life.
The following passage of our long journey south was through an inescapable presence of chlorophyll. Hillsides were caked with a rich thriving forest, positively oozing with life, and it seemed to me such a shame that the transportation department far away in a distant city had chosen to scour a four lane highway right through it. I sat, surveying the canopy, half hoping there would be an eagle sighting to behold but alas no such luck.
Before long, Interstate 5 led us out this fruitful mass of leaf and wood, to Grants Pass where we stopped for lunch. I ordered at Burger King and with my Chicken Strips and fries came a complimentary performance of 'Who Can Shout the Loudest'; a well rehearsed drama that all Burger King staff love to act in. I took my seat back on the coach and as quickly as it takes to unseal the lid off a container of BBQ sauce, we were off again.
A momentary lapse of strong fog passed as we departed the state of Oregon and entered into the eagerly awaited land of California. We reappeared out of the fog to greet sunshine, rolling hills and what seemed to be a more equatorial classified vegetation. Gone was the green thriving grass I'm so familiar with, and onto the scene were species very much associated with arid landscapes, hardly surprising when you think we were on the same latitude as the Colorado.
We paused on our route through this very diverse landscape at the State of California Food and Agricultural Department where a lady stepped aboard to pose the tantalising question of whether we had brought with us any fruit or vegetables. (The only thing I had was hot chocolate mix, and the crumbs from what were five very appetising chicken wings.) Her search was perhaps if I may say so, lazy. I could have half a suitcase of cucumbers in my baggage, and she wouldn't have known. She departed almost as abruptly as her search, and we were on our way again.
The vista offered lots of photo opportunities. It's not exactly a featureless landscape- believe me, I've trekked over the outskirts of the Sahara. But it's not thriving with diversity; there's much more specialism here. Trees that look almost cindering, perched on steep mountain flanks, where only the fittest survive. It's truly a geologists heaven too, with rocky outcrops around every corner. We weaved our way through the mountains, reminding me of similar drives in the Greek isles. Instantaneously, around one bend, was a truly memorable sight. Amongst such sun- saturated ground, was a view reminiscent of my time in Alaska: a snow capped mountain, I'm reliably told to be Mt Shasta. Try as I might I couldn't grab a good photo of this on transit, but to my advantage, we paused for another restbite at a settlement called Weed, and I acquired a slightly more sharp image of what I'm sure are sharp edged mountain flanks. A mature looking lady, but well dressed, looked round at me, and smiled; I smiled back, as we shared what was a spellbinding arrangement of snow floured rocks, courtesy of California's diverse geological history.
My afternoon was very much in the same theme; sitting relaxed on what was a next to empty coach, allowing myself to be transported into the unknown. I pleasured myself with sights of deer upon roadsides, and birds floating high up in the sky, before the Sun quickly began to settle behind the pinnacle heights of California's mountain range. Dusk beheld the skies, and soon the only point of visible interest became the roadsigns that the coach would inevitably illuminate as we zoomed past: Bear Creek, TurnTable Road, Wonderland Bvld, Paradise, Quincy, Yuba.
We arrived at Sacramento, on schedule, at 9:35pm. My first Californian city. Ahead of me was just over a mile of walking to reach the hostel, and so once again, packaged and strapped up with a monumental mass digging into my shoulder-blades, I proceeded out of the station, into a zone of unfamiliarity that always accompanies such walks on my first few minutes in a new destination. Once again like Eugene, there was this depressing lack of urban activity along Richardson Bvld, and even less of such late night city commotion down the next street I had to take: 7th Avenue. I have to admit feeling suddenly very vulnerable; street lighting was very poor down said avenue, and lingering masses of urban bush and overgrown streetside vegetation cast dark and heavy shadows in my direction. Not one single car passed me, but I felt that I was being watched from all angles, as if my presence upon such a lonesome street had set off alarms in the nearby vagabond communities. Suddenly a silhouette caught my sight; the figure was approaching me, and I began to perspire intensely. As the figure drew nearer, I cleared enough for him to pass without delay, and when he did, I noticed some of his features: a menacing look on what was a poorly shaven face. I quickened my pace now, but by doing so, secreted a syrup of sweat that left me feeling very dispirited. With a rapid stride, I eventually made it into downtown, into encouragingly more illumination, and my fear lessened. A coloured youth outstretched himself over the balcony of a multistory car park, calling out to some guy called Andrew, but my concentration was now pinned to the crunched up google map. To my relief, I found the HI Hostel and entered, providing the lobby with a foul stench of bodily odour. My first priority was to shower and re freshen, and I now sit in what could possibly be the most architecturally grand hostel I have had the pleasure in being in so far. I will tell you all about it tomorrow.
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