Portland, OR

The Cooper Spur is a good option for those who want a nice grueling ascension but lack the skills/ambition to actually summit Mount Hood. Apparently a bunch of unemployed, yet industrious lads constructed a veritable village (complete with ampitheater!) in the now-fire scorched forest on the Northeast side of the mountain. For some reason that I'm too lazy to research they christened it Tilly Jane. One could imagine the bruised and sore CCC laborers who had to go to their families and tell them that they just busted their asses to build some shacks named Tilly Jane. Regardless, it's another testament to the possibility of public programs to give jobless and eager people skills/meaningful work while giving future generations of future hikers a place to eat their Clif Bars in the shade. Bring back the CCC/WPA!

Or, we can always sit on our asses and wait for Green Technology to Change Everything. According to some powerless, redundant bureaucratic oversight committee who exists soley to make themselves feel relevant, climate change is real! And what should we, the humble lazy guilt-ridden citizens to do to realize the new utopia? Buy this overpriced consumer item as opposed to that not quite as overpriced consumer item. A group of privileged corporate and academic heroes bravely (and expensively) burn several tons of fossil fuels to hang out in Antarctica for a few weeks, take some trophy pictures, and burn several more tons of fossil fuels to come back home to lecture us that we should drive less. Such is the Green Revolution.

Looking for something more practical and less self-righteous, I attended the annual Adult Soap Box Derby, which offers guys with garages equipped with ample beer fridges and too much time on their hands a chance to show off. Amusing and often impressive, it demonstrates what can be achieved when we are left to our own devices. If nothing else, it's a damn fine way to kill a six pack of PBR in the park on a Sunday afternoon.

Portland, OR

100 yards into the Tilamook Forest and I'm already drenched...by the end of the nine mile slog I may as well have jumped into a pond. Of course it was an unusually misty/overcast day, so my efforts were rewarded by a view of an endless, impenetrable sea of white. Supposedly this region is classified as a mild rain forest, and I would be hard-pressed not to agree.

Dried off with the soothing sounds of Honey Moon Tree, an up-and-coming folk and roll squad currently in the midst of a West Coast tour. Sterling vocals, a wide variety of instruments, and fabulous songwriting. Check them out and buy them a few frothy beverages in thanks for their services.

However, every once and awhile you may need something a wee more...energetic. In that case, do what I did and head out to see local legends Subarachnoid Space, who'll blow your mind and eardrums with a set of pummeling psych rock...and, if you're lucky, they'll even use two drummers at once! No need for vocals; the music says it all. Opening for them was a superb metal trio called Rabbits, the least likely name they could've chosen.

All this music is well and good as long as the wall sockets work, but what are we going to do for righteous fist-pumping grooves during the post-apocalyptic peak oil meltdown? Ride our bikes, of course! Leading the charge are the Ginger Ninjas, who bike around the world hauling all their gear on their tricked-out bikes. Some of these bikes are equipped with gear to power the PA as the are pedaled in stationary mode, thereby providing the opportunity for all sorts of rable-rousing guerrilla shenanigans, like a concert in the middle of Laurelhurst Park as was the case Sunday. They even enlist the aid of a severely chiseled yoga master to pedal a mobile stage around for those Critical Mass moments. In fact, these guys are so hardcore they are going to bike North (the wrong way) up the coast to BC ...give them your support as well as your leftover vegan lasagna.

Portland, OR

In the Greatest City in America to be an underemployed vagabond, circa Summer 2009. Sometimes a whole lotta nothin' is a real cool thing. Cheap quality beer, cheap taco trucks, easy biking, a well-stocked library, and a 1:2 rock band to inhabitant ratio: what more do you want?

Scene 1: Tropical Smoothie Cafe, downtown. Bright cheerful scenes of a Southeast Asian paradise that doesn't really exist. Bored teenagers behind the counter, bored businessmen in front of it. In front of me: a Paul Theroux essay on his visit to the real Phnom Penh and the killing fields/torture chambers right outside of town. Doubtful the prison guards enjoyed Berry Blast smoothies and Sesame Chicken Wraps on their lunch breaks, but I could be wrong.

Scene 2: Some guy's basement. A DJ spins wax whilst we attempt to play foosball with a couple of dozen nursing school graduates. Unemployed IT professionals 0, highly employable health care providers 7.

Scene 3: Crotch deep in the Columbia Gorge. A scenic place to take the kids to cool off. Local Search and Rescue out recruiting. Not very comforting that the only prerequisite for joining is attaining 14 years of age.

Scene 4: Midas waiting room. Listened patiently while someone's grandmother gave a dissertation on the rewards and challenges of owning a luxury vehicle (in this case a 1992 DeVille with stuffed animals in the back window). As a bonus, I was informed the tavern across the street has above average fish and chips, even though her doctor doesn't endorse such extravagances. For my head nodding I was given a free voucher courtesy of the clerk who didn't have to listen to her spiel yet again.

Scene 5: On the porch, Simple Times Lager in hand. Watching the traffic blow through the inconvenient stop signs while someone inside strums a few folk tunes on an acoustic. Sitting around waiting for tomorrow.

Oregon Coast

A few days to kill on the legendary and highly-praised rugged Oregon coast. Took the standard Route 101 going north from Crescent City, CA. As expected, tons of bike tourists gliding their way south because, as we learned the hard way, going north is for idiots too lazy to do proper research.

Everything was pleasant, beautiful, and delightfully backwards from the border up to the dunes, which are ruled by legions of 4-wheeling warriors. To each his own, but it's challenging to contemplate the mysterious secrets of the tides amidst 2 cycle engines wheezing and sputtering. I took solace in sleepy Gold Beach, where the Rogue flows into the Pacific, the rock formations are mesmerizing, and the abundant good roadside camping areas are chock full of blackberries.

Foresaking this Eden for promises of action and adventure, I continued to press north. Before long the meandering roads were choked with Winnebago convoys, every campground notice was appened with a "Campground Full" sign, and every town was either a West-Coast strip-mall tragedy (how many GameStops, Hollywood Videos, Radio Shacks, and Subways do we really need?), or sickly-sweet resort tourist traps chock full of socks paired with sandals, disenchanted sunburnt kids, and plenty of confused husbands. Disappointment was a bitter drink chased with some dissillusionment, so I had no recourse but to head to Portland with extreme haste and prejudice. Yes, it may be 107 degrees inland, but at least my evenings won't be wasted driving around forest roads looking for places to set up a cot.