Friday, May 24. Grass Lake near Klamath Falls. Entering Oregon onboard Amtrak's Coast Starlight.

We have entered a region of towering pines and spectacular snow-capped mountains. Now, we are traveling across a flat area, the highest point on the trip named Grass Lake, pretty much what its name implies: A long flat expanse of grassland semi-submerged in water.

We are running (crawling) about an hour behind schedule but that’s not bad for a train that traverses such rough terrain over tracks of questionable integrity. The views are fantastic, for the most part. And the deserted country that we are crossing in the air-conditioned coach satisfies a personal need to mingle with nature without being bitten by mosquitos or covered with grime.

Last night I sat next to a nice lady named Suzi in the observation car, and we watched Ocean 11 side by side. She is an American living in Dublin and was married to the cousin of Charleston Heston. Although she did not appear to have much money and was extremely frugal, we managed to get the last seating in the dining car where we were "comped" a free salad and a roll. Then I ordered a vegetarian pasta and two plates. Suzi was glad for my company, which became even more engaging once I decided to buy and share an entire bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Before long we were both quite talkative. I heard all sorts of stories about the Hestons, her privileged life growing up next to Lake Michigan in Chicago, and the way she ran away with the circus at 18. She also told a tale about an extraordinarily reserved man from Dublin who would rather suffer in silence than confess his love to her.

I found Suzi to be delightful company and after we finished our dinner (she just nibbled at the salad but eagerly put down three glasses of wine), we headed back to the observation care where we “made out.” I played with her hands, and she played with mine. We nestled into each other’s arms.

Then we went back to coach where we covered ourselves with my blanket and cuddled a bit more. But nothing “happened” because no sooner had we started to get all sexed up than it was time for her to collect her stuff and detrain in Sacramento at midnight.

She said she didn’t like goodbyes and she was true to her word. Fifteen minutes before her departure, she announced that she had to get back to her seat and collect her things — no final hug and no kiss. But we had had lots and lots of snuggles and our hands made endless love. And she addressed me as “Lovey.” It was “Lovey this” and “Lovey that.” I found it quite endearing.

2 p.m. Somewhere in Oregon. The sky is partly cloudy, and the hills are a verdant green. We’re moving at a rapid clip flying by many lovely large lakes. Lots of beautiful gold wildflowers dot the landscape. We appear to be climbing quickly, and my ears are getting all plugged up. I took an antihistamine to help relieve the pressure, and hopefully, that will provide some relief.

I ate a stack of pancakes for breakfast and a chicken salad for lunch with a side of excellent clam chowder. I’m switching to water now because the coffee is getting too acidic and what’s the point in paying good money for lousy coffee?

It's thirty minutes to Eugene, Oregon and the sky is starting to clear. I don’t know what to wear when I get to Seattle. Everybody says it will be cool and wet when we cross the border, but I have my doubts. I brought a down coat along with me just in case it’s really cold.

About an hour and a half ago, a passenger was removed from the train, handcuffed and put in a police car. It may have something to do with a theft that had taken place earlier when a little girl discovered her CD player and all her CDs were gone.

I’m enjoying this train ride quite a bit. There’s always something interesting going on outside the window. My health is good, but I'm stiff from sleeping in an awkward position last night. But I did sleep soundly: a good six hours. A half bottle of red wine that I smuggled on the train helped to knock me out, along with the Ambien I took before I hit the sack.

I would have slept better if I had bought a sleeper, but there is no way I could have justified the cost. Besides, the people who do have sleepers have been complaining about lack of service so what’s the point? For the kind of money they’re paying, they should be treated like royalty.

5:30 p.m. I just returned from watching a John Travolta thriller in the lounge car instead of eating dinner.

Hungry passengers packed the dining car, and the waiters looked exhausted and impatient for people to eat and get out.

Of course, I was disappointed that I could not be seated, but to be honest, I'm wasn't starving, and I like to take my time eating. Considering how packed the train is and how small the dining car is, I think I’ve done well: I’ve eaten plenty of nourishing food in the company of some charming people.

My favorite was 50-year-old Gus who said that when his mother and father divorced at age 13, rather than choose between living with one or the other, he decided to run away and make it on his own.

He hooked up with 20-year-old Melody who agreed to look after him if he would return to school and help her out around the house. It turns out that he had an aptitude for computers and eventually did quite well by them.

As our dinner conversation turned to education, Gus said he could never get the knack of writing an essay until he learned a trick from a relative: By following this formula he was able to excel as in further examinations.

I found the formula to be a bit absurd: Come up with a topic and break it down into a “tree,” as someone at the table put it.

Ah! The blind leading the blind. No wonder people are unable to write today. Good writing transcends formulae, and formulaic writing is invariably dead and lifeless.

If only people were told to write with their hearts and to write with an ear for the music of words and the way they come together. Perhaps we should write in the same way that we speak.

Each of us has a unique voice, but schools come up with absurd methods that confuse the young mind and break the spirit.

Nothing destroys creativity like an arrogant critic. A young writer doesn't need judgment: He needs praise and encouragement.

Then the conversation moved on to a discussion of kids these days.

"The trouble with children these days is that parents give the kids everything and anything they want," said one.

I said that my failure as a teacher convinced me that I was in no position to criticize the system. However, I said if I had a child, I would give him the moon, the stars, and most importantly my time.

7:15 p.m. Outside Portland, Oregon. The packed train is jumping all over old tracks that go clickety-clack.

I drank the half bottle of wine that I smuggled on the train: “Cabernet Sauvignon 2000” from Castoro Cellars --- “Damn Fine Wine.” This wine, at $6/half liter, is a local batch out of San Miguel, California.

It did the trick but I just realized that I have a transfer to make in a few hours and I have got to get it right.

The stress of the crowded train is getting to me. Howling children and a new barefoot seat mate, wearing shorts, singing along to God knows what, eating something out of a bag, and reading my journal on the sly are testing my patience.

Time for another bottle!

9:30 p.m. I'm sitting in the vestibule of the train awaiting the next stop in Seattle, Washington. I just enjoyed a pleasant dinner in the dining car with a lovely Jewish couple from New Zealand.

I ordered pork chops, baked potatoes, and salad, an excellent complement to two bottles of wine I had just consumed. Now I nervously await my next connection in Seattle where I must catch a bus to Vancouver, BC.

11 p.m. Drinking those two half liters of wine was probably not the best idea. When I got to Seattle and tried to board the bus to Vancouver, BC, the driver looked me over, smelled my reeking breath and said, “It’s usually not my practice to accept intoxicated passengers on board and judging by your breath, you are very intoxicated.”

The driver mistook me for one of the thousands of people who had just gotten out of the local Seattle Mariners baseball game, and I guess he didn't like transporting drunken sports fans.

“I’ve seen fights break out because nobody would give an inch . . . Everybody is liquored up after the ball games. Makes you want to call in sick. Sign of the times: Everybody is in a hurry to get nowhere.”

I reassured him that I had very little interest in sports and that my mother would kill me if I didn’t meet up with her on the cruise ship the next morning.

He finally let me on and drove me to the border where we had to get out.

“Don’t volunteer information to the border police,” said the bus driver who had finally warmed up to me. “Just answer their questions.”

A female Canadian border guard asked the usual questions, and I stumbled over the answers but responded truthfully: I had no criminal record, I wasn't carrying any guns or drugs, and I hardly had any money: Going on a cruise with my Mother who is flying up from Los Angeles.

“So your mother’s Canadian?”

“How did you know?” I responded, totally derailed by the guard's questions which seemed to be coming out of left field. Now I was getting flustered, and border guards love it when that happens.

What I meant to say was that Mom was born in Canada and was now an American citizen living in the US. It got confusing, so I finally asked her if she wanted to see my cruise ticket.

She said yes, and then she let me pass without making me open my bags. I got through in record time.

The bus driver and I had bonded. After a bad start, we had become as thick as thieves. We were fast friends, and he told me about the thriving Canadian drug traffic in Vancouver.

“Our Redbud is the finest in the world," he bragged.

Of course, being a bus driver, he had never tried weed in his life. “Just a pack of cigarettes every week, down from three,” he volunteered.

Although he did not condone drug use, he spoke about the legendary “Redbud” with what sounded like civic pride and he raved about the local “Marijuana Party” (don’t you love the name) and its platform in favour of legalization.

I arrived at the Vancouver B.C. bus station at about 2 a.m., and I was quite sober by then.

I took a taxi to the packed hostel and checked in at 3 a.m.

Some freeloader was sleeping in my bed. Maybe the front desk guy figured I wasn't going to arrive and gave my bed away to somebody. I insisted that they throw the guy out and change the sheets. I finally got to lie down and rest.

The room contained six bunk beds and smelled foul. I was concerned about the security of my things, so I slept with them at the foot of my bed.

The big lock I brought with me did not fit inside the locker hole, much to my chagrin, but I think I worried needlessly.

I managed to get a good 4½ hours sleep and awoke refreshed at about 7:30 a.m. I collected my bags and had the management store them in a secure back room. Then I took a long, long hike to Stanley Park and walked along its beautiful sea wall at low tide.

I came upon a gigantic heated pool that fills with seawater and is drained once a week. The pool, when it is up and running, can accommodate over 2,000 bathers, and I think it’s free.

Stanley Park was antediluvian and prehistoric like a jungle. Rich green vegetation of every description was bursting out of the ground, making even the lushest portions of the Huntington gardens look like a desert in comparison. The trees, with their robust trunks, reached toward the heavens. The air was slightly chilly, and there was a light drizzle. But I had a robust little umbrella, a windbreaker, sturdy hiking boots and a pair of clean lungs, fully acclimatized to hiking at 7,000 feet.

I could have hiked that seawall all day and spent weeks exploring the various trails that snake throughout the pristine forest. My god, it was like heaven and within a stone’s throw of towering condominiums. Lucky indeed are the citizens who have Stanley Park in their backyard.

Saturday, May 25. 1 p.m. At 10:30 a.m. I headed back to the hostel, collected my stuff and checked out. My bill was a measly $19 Canadian.

I jumped into a taxi for a $12 ride to the Ballantyne terminal of the Vancouver Port and The Sea Princess. The taxi driver was East Indian, and we had a good time talking about the city, cost of living and his beloved homeland.

I arrived at the dock at about noon and began desperately scanning the growing crowd for my Mother. The chaos of the humanity that surrounded me reminded me of pictures that I had seen of Elis Island in its glory days, but a lot classier.

And then all of a sudden there she was, My Mother, being wheeled up to me, yelling my name, trying to get my attention. She looked as surprisingly fresh as a daisy after a three-hour flight from Los Angeles International Airport. Had I been a dog, my tail would have been wagging excitedly. Our long-anticipated Alaskan cruise was about to begin!

Now things became much easier because the ticket to the front of any line on a cruise ship is a white old lady in a wheelchair.

We glided effortlessly through American customs, onto the ship and into our room. We met Cesar, the friendly Polish steward. I asked him if he could separate the double beds into twins when he had a chance. Then I jumped into the shower.

I must have reeked like a homeless person. Disgusting after being on a train for days and days without changing my underwear, sox, shirt, and pants.

The fresh water on board the ship was evaporated from the sea water and is very, very soft. The shower was absolutely heavenly.

I put on clean clothes and unpacked. This tiny cabin would be our home for the next week, and we were not going to live out of suitcases.

The air is getting chilly, and the sun is setting in on the mountains, creating delicate silhouettes in the distance, like one of those Japanese prints. The water is very calm, and the ship's motors are quiet.

7:30 pm. I'm lying on a deck chair watching the Canadian coastline drift by. Mother is puttering around our beautiful spacious inside cabin, preparing for bed. It’s been a long day for Mom, and her feet are starting to swell.

This marks the end of the THIRTY-THIRD installment of "The Last Hoorah." If you'd like to start from the beginning, then please click this page.

Thank you for visiting Chucksville.
Please sign my guestbook.

Return to Top of Page

Google search is simple: just type whatever comes to mind in the search box below and hit ENTER or click on the Google Search button. Google will then search the entire chucksville.com website for pages or documents that are relevant to your query!