* * *
"The kazoo is a very versatile instrument...with practice, you can play a symphony!" Wednesday after Election Day 2010; proposition 74 was dead in the water much to the chagrin of snowboarders statewide. I came to Plan B to quench my metalthirst, but quenching a thirst for anything else would be a tall order as there was exactly one employee cooking, cleaning, busing, serving, and bartending, leaving hordes of ill-dressed scruffy young men leaning anxiously over the filthy bar clutching tattered dollar bills with eyes full of hope and yearning. I was one of those gents when the chap with a porkpie hat and Ghostbusters shirt wanted to subject me to his chosen instrument. "Actually, it sounds more like a marching band."
But none of us, even Capt Kazoo (who later said "I saw Billy Joel back in Jersey before he had great hair") came here for plastic cups of beer and plastic instruments: we wanted to be pummeled into submission with 5 megaton blasts of blistering metal. First up was the female-fronted Cull, who lured us into a false sense of security with their 5 minute compositions of brutal beauty.
Nothing could prepare us for the Trees and their seemingly random, rhythmless blasts of terror. Gigantic amplifiers hurled bowel-churning drop-tuned masses of sludge at us while the drummer, who probably supports himself by winning Charles Manson impersonation contests, pounded on the skins with a violent ferocity. Most distressing, however, was the haggard vocalists, whose reverb-drenched caterwauls were the very essence of hell, like he was channeling Satan in the way that generations of death metal vocalists have attempted to do. This fellow, who probably mops the floor at Starbucks during the day, annihilates those poseurs convincingly.
Their set was 25 minutes of continual destruction. The audience was silent, save for a woman who was intensely involved in a game of Family Guy pinball. Evidently she was quite successful as the constant noise emanating from her machine accentuated the silences between the carpet bombing of noise, rendering the whole spectacle slightly ridiculous. Nobody knew quite what to make of it, and at the end of the set we all threw on our jackets and went outside for a smoke in a stunned silence. The most-spoken word for the next 10 minutes was "interesting".
Next up: Monarch!, who came all the way from France to make us their loyal subjects. Louis XIV could not have been more abusive. Their music matched the Trees in intensity, but with the added benefit of rhythm and ethereal female vocals, whose sweet wailing nothings floated above and around the concrete explosions of power and fury. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer (incidentally the same drummer as the Trees) communicated via hand and head signals, leading us to believe their act was at least partially improvised. Their 30 minute set really ignited the crowd, all of us jerking violently in time to the carnage, cold cans of Olympia in hand. The "music" entranced us, while the rumbling distortions tickled your organs if you stood in the right place. Even the doorman peeked his skull-tattooed face through the fogged-up door to catch a glimpse of the harbingers of the onslaught.
Once the noise was over, I realized I was starving, body completely drained of everything but cheap beer. I rushed out the door and biked to the Cart Pods on 12th and Hawthorne, celebrating Portland's culture of mobile cuisine with a deep fried chicken pot pie. The picnic tables were uncharacteristically empty tonight, save for a few punks and a guy walking around with a rubber chicken on his head. This being Stumptown, this was not seen as odd.
* * *
Brutal metal gave way to Hank III and classic rock anthems as my Jetta sputtered along Highway 26, onwards and upwards towards the high and mighty highlands of Bend and beyond. My accomplices (besides my constant companions Procrastination and Doubt) on this journey were J and P, one an actual German and one who is aspiring to be one. Like the great George Dibbern before us, we were on a Quest to fulfill our basest and noblest aspirations through a long dialogue with Nature. Unlike that particular German refugee, we were going to hang out at Smith Rock State Park, a rock climber's wet dream and high desert refuge for those of Portlanders who don't find the moldiest city in North America's eternal dampness to be "soothing". This was advertised as a "Man Trip", where carriers of the Y-chromosome are given free reign to express our authentic masculinity without kowtowing to the demands and expectations of the fairer sex.
* * *
Burgerville Sweet Potato fries were still sitting heavy in our guts when we careened past Mount Hood at sunset, where the damp dark forests of the Willamette Valley turned into the crystal clear skies and wide open expanse of the Cascades. The clarity of the atmosphere (and increasing altitude) infected us with high hopes and expectations, a near-ecstatic state of mind where anything is possible and the glass is always full, if not running over. The setting sun lit the sky on fire as the Desert spread out before us...with Dire Straits on the radio and our hearts full of the unmistakable and near-perfect joy of a soon-to-be realized fantasy, nothing could bring us down, for we were Men on a Mission, goddamn it.
* * *
Nothing deflates ecstasy like a cold slap of reality, especially when that slap comes from a headlamp introducing himself as Cliff. "I just want to make it clear to you fellas that I'm a light sleeper and will be in bed by 10 and expect you guys to be quiet...REAL quiet. Even whispering wakes me up. I just want to have this conversation now instead of later tonight...I've been here since May and I've had to have that unpleasant conversation many times. You know, the Bivouac area is a great place to socialize and play scrabble...just don't do it in your tents, OK?"
"Whatever buddy". It was pitch black and we were blindly setting up our tents somewhere in the woods. It was clear that finding this spot later tonight will be a bitch. And we had the luck of pitching camp next to the biggest blowhard within 100 miles. "What sort of guy lives in a tent in a state park for 6 months? No wonder he has no social skills. Anyway, let's have a beverage before the other guys come in".
Veterans of the Bum Around the World scene, the three of us knew the importance of being well-stocked and prepared for all possibilities. We had a small arsenal of Bourbons of varying degrees of drinkability and the legendary Simpler Times Lager, the premier cheap beer in North America (anyone who disagrees can contact me and will be proven wrong). P was just giving us an account of how his German driving instructor took them to Oktoberfest for a couple of liters so he can have a free ride home when a gangly man sat at our table and helped himself to some fags and hooch. Claiming to be from a climber from Prague but crashing in Portland for the time being (thereby making him the coolest living man), PP exploited our hospitality and returned the favor with some advice of his own. This was a Man Trip, and we had to discuss Manly things...spreading the gospel of masculinity as it were.
Through drink and ecstatic conversations we were almost on the point of delirium when Prague asked, apropos of nothing at all, "What do you feel about abortion?" Shocked into sobriety, I exclaimed "Hey wait a minute, you aren't one of those Tea Party dudes, are you?" It was clearly time to put the festivities to an abrupt halt. Realizing that Prague was going out his mind ("and about to Wallace and Gromit", as P would say), J and P leaped into action to guide him back to his tent. Two snags to this plan: 1) He had no idea where his tent was, and 2) He quickly developed a habit of running into trees and falling down. Solution: 1) go to every tent and see if anyone was in there...his would be the empty one and 2) drag him. Being the thoughtful and industrious person I am I went straight to bed, but I was able to chart their progress through the startled gasps of "Hey buddy, this ain't your tent" echoing throughout the campground. Something told me he wasn't going to meet his climbing partner on the wall at 7 sharp as he had planned.
* * *
The next morning was achingly gorgeous: blue skies, a crisp breeze, dry air, and the sight of massive walls of welded tuff, beckoning hardy men and women to scale them. The daylight also revealed that we had camped on the edge of a cliff, and it was a minor miracle that nobody had a plunge whilst wandering around aimlessly the night prior. By early morning our companions (who arrived just in time to see Pragues' sudden collapse) were practically jogging out to try their hand and the vertical game. The rest of us, by lack of courage, equipment, and/or properly functioning joints, were relegated to pleasant day of wandering and wishing. The park is small enough to see in a day, but complex enough to give a serious climber a lifetime of challenges (the route guide is as thick as most small city phone books). Out plan was to see the park on bike, but that idea was abandoned after we embarrassingly failed to find the bike path. To ask for directions on a Man Trip was obviously out of the question, so we contented ourselves with walking around, taking pictures of climbers with particularly graceful figures, and discussing the merits of starting a brawl with the dude who was wearing a shirt that said "Fight Me I'm Irish".
The highlight of the afternoon was watching three of the ballsiest human beings imaginable make their descent from the free-standing pillar known (for good reason) as Monkey Face. Our knees were buckling watching those young men smoke and joke while one false move would've guaranteed a dirt nap. More than likely they have bum jobs (perhaps even sharing a shift with the Trees frontman grinding espresso), but for a few minutes they have transcended themselves and the world below to become Heroes for the world to admire. Every man, whether they'll admit it or not, yearns for powerful ascension, channeling their impotent fury into that one moment when they have the power of a God. It is a rite of passage that few will ever know...
Our pale and pasty Portland complexions deeply reddened, we went back to the picnic area for a quick snack before heading to Bend for a feed. Regrettably for everyone, Cliff was also having a bite, talking to every passerby unlucky to have avoided his gaze. A girl at the table next to us confided that her party had heard "the speech" the night prior as well and that the poor schmuck currently accosted was too much of a nice guy to tell the wannabe Ranger to go blow smoke up his own ass for once. "He made the mistake of wearing his UO sweatshirt...it's been nothing but college football for the last 20 minutes...and poor Jake doesn't even care about sports! Say, did you guys hear those drunk guys wandering around into other people's tents last night? That was pretty creepy". "Uh, that would be us".
Right about then a dude with a patched-up puffy jacket and a massive beard (actually, that could describe 75% of the camp patrons) jumped up on the permanently-affixed slackline and proceeded with a skillful slack-juggling routine. I recognized him as C, a fellow attendee of last year's Cape Diem housewarming party, who identified himself first and foremost as a climber. His juggling act reminded me of the Spirtualized song "Straight and Narrow", where Jason Spaceman sings of the difficulty of staying on the wagon. It's like the essential challenge of modern masculinity, juggling your own desires and dreams while playing your other socially assigned roles and trying to maintain personal integrity and dignity. Selling out is unavoidable (except maybe for a complete outcast like Cliff, but who wants a life like his?), but the trick is to do so gracefully. Unfortunately, most of our slacklines are much more than two feet off the ground, and before you know it you are juggling chainsaws without any practice.
Without realizing it we had consumed a horrifying amount of cheese-and-peanut butter tortillas, Trader Joes Indian MREs, enough crackers to choke a burro, and dried fruit. Since eating again for the next several days was out of the question, we decided to soak in the hot pools in Bend. It was a dimly lit regal affair, with large murals (and voyeuristic security cameras) on the walls and several fountains that suggested some sort of ancient nobility. In short, an excellent venue for some Council, where Men can assemble to discuss their challenges and receive non-judgmental feedback from compassionate open-minded fellows. It's the sort of constructive healing process that eases burdens and cleanses souls, and no amount of booze and sex can compete (although it may be worth trying...). We had evolved from solipsistic beings imprisoned in our mind forged manacles to a fellowship of compassion and commiseration where there were no problems, merely challenges and growth etc. It was all getting a bit, er, Greek, so we brought the conversation down to terrestrial levels with a discussion on the hazards of foregoing underwear as a lifestyle choice (conclusion: don't knock it 'till you've tried it).
* * *
Leaving our comrades to battle the rock for a second day, the 1.5 Germans and I headed to Sisters, where a mountain bike ride awaited us. Grease, metal, speed, dirt: it was high time to get some sort of action in before a return to reality. The ride starts and ends in the town square, home to the the most vile public restroom west of the Mississippi (wait 'till you get to the woods, trust me). Few activities, save watching pro wrestling, can make grown men feel like carefree children like riding a bike through the woods...it has the in-the-moment bliss of rock climbing without all that brink of death business (brink of concussion isn't nearly as intimidating).
The cross-country excursion finally burned off the last of the tortillas and we hit up a brewery for some well-deserved beer and burgers. In fact, we were so ravenous we considered helping ourselves to a lovely leftover rueben from the adjacent table. J: "Why don't you just snag it? It's just going to waste, and you know how much you can't stand seeing good food thrown away". He knew how to push my buttons. "But...someone will see me". "So? you'll never see these people again. Who cares?" Apparently I did because in the midst of the debate the table was cleared. J, with a look of severe disappointment in his face, said "I think we all learned a nice lesson here". Carpe Diem indeed.
* * *
By the time we hit I5 the skies were gray and the ever-present Willamette Valley rain was falling. Despite the less than uplifting environment, our sensibilities were still riding high. We vowed to make Man Trips a quarterly requirement for us, no matter how convenient the excuses may be. While it may not have been the most hardcore adventure we have done, it demonstrated the importance of Getting Away From It All, not to escape but to get a fresher, healthier perspective. Stone Temple Pilots brilliant Core was playing (critics be damned!), Rockstar was being consumed, and Rambo was quoted more than once. By now we had accumulated a preposterous amount of testosterone. While it isn't necessary to make moccasins or climb rocks to become a Man, it is necessary to challenge yourself and give/seek mentoring from those who give a damn. When your hungry you gotta eat that rueben.
