The straining engines whined as the freight struggled up a grade. The chill of mountain air nipped at my sleeping bag as I pulled my hat lower. A shiver coursed through my being. This morning’s temperature was the coolest of my journey, and a reason why I kicked off this swing on July 4th. I would hate to traverse the passes in Washington, Idaho and Montana in November. The eastern sky hinted at morning as the freight worked through the Trinity Mountains. Soon, nearby Mt. Shasta would be aglow in morning light. Hunkering down, I waited for Mt. Shasta City, and a fresh cup of coffee.
The weekend’s campaigning went well. I ran into little skepticism let alone opposition. I’m sure if I campaigned at Country clubs, county seats, and state capitol buildings I would have a different story. With the weekend’s success, I was positive of attaining my campaign’s goal in California. I visited the local coffee shop as a citizen and didn’t mention my campaign. The feeling was surreal, so accustomed I have become to gaining another’s ear.
With warm food in my belly, a hot coffee in hand, and the sun rising in the sky, I marched northward on the tracks, ready for a long ride into the heart of Oregon. I whispered to myself, “Forty-five states down, three to go.”
Oregon: On long solitary rides, one has to entertain oneself; the ride to Eugene presented the opportunity. Catching rush hour in Medford provided the opportunity to create a spectacle from the top of my flatcar. Waving my sign, I jumped up and down at every crossing and where the tracks paralleled roads. The endless expressions of the observant were priceless, some laughed, others pointed, yet others telegraphed disgust. With one, who for whatever reason struck me as particularly elitist, I shot the presidential moon.
The scenery of Oregon always appealed to me, and if it wasn’t for my little slice of Montana, I could make my home someplace west of the Cascades. A few miles north of Roseburg, I had my second bear sighting of the campaign. A hundred and fifty feet west of the tracks a sow and two cubs frolicked in a small meadow. I craned my neck as the train rumbled past and the family fell from view.
As we approached Eugene, I need the company of a tall blonde. I ditched my ride and found my way to another favorite watering hole. I didn’t know it as New Max’s in its day, but, it still maintains its old charm despite the upgrades. I’ve heard on occasion that this is supposed to be the model for Moe’s Tavern from the Simpsons; I rarely watch the show so I don’t have a clue. The other thing I love about this place, at least in the old days, was the propensity for the crowd to break out in a spontaneous rendition of Sweet Caroline. This afternoon’s crowd I wouldn’t want to hear sing, but, it did offer great stumping fodder. For the first time, I extended invites for this weekend’s convention.
Being near Sacred Heart Medical Center, I took the opportunity to stump for health care reform. On a bench outside the hospital, I wrote various catch phrases calling for universal health care on half my remaining Robert “100”s before walking inside and taping them upon vacant wheelchairs. In the elevator, I broke the silence, introduced myself, and extended my hand to befuddled riders. Enjoying the experience, I visited other elevators and rode them up and down, stumping in the confined quarters until escorted from the hospital by security. Outside, I shook the security guard’s hand, wished him good day and asked him for his vote. I cursed myself for not employing a similar tactic in the Sear’s Tower and Empire State Building. Satisfied that I left an impression in Eugene, I sauntered towards the tracks, caught the next northbound and rode the freight into the night. The full moon rose over the Cascades as my ride approached Salem. Leaping from the freight, I found a secluded corner Salem Golf Club and hunkered down for the night.
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