As I write this I’m looking out into a snowstorm which, even for a mountain town has unusual vigor. I’ve heard several comparatives used to describe it thus far: the biggest single snow dump since 1987, the worst single storm in two centuries and perhaps less impressively the third largest snowfall since a couple of years ago when it was also particularly bad. Over a metre has fallen now. The schools are closed, businesses have halted and getting out of ones own yard is now a business which involves digging. An avalanche last night blocked the pass to Eugene and all the way to Portland people are being advised to stay at home. It’s fitting that its only 3 days until we depart Bend, and in that time we have to empty our house, clean it, pack and make the 5 hour drive north to Seattle to catch a plane on the day my visa expires to return home to England to an airport 300 miles south of the place that I live. That should be relatively simple in these conditions.
Charles Joughin: 1878-1956. Chief Baker and piss artist on the RMS Titanic.
Perhaps it’s true to the nature of this trip that I’m constantly reminded of my favourite survival story ever: that of Charles Joughin - the last survivor to disembark the Titanic. His Wikipedia page underplays his ordeal, but the journalists account I read portrayed his survival as a triumph for the man who doesn’t worry, a masterclass in why planning is irrelevant and he seemed to bring into focus all that is perhaps wrong in my approach to this trip.
He was a baker on the Titanic, and when it struck the iceberg it was his night off and he was getting pissed. What else would there be to do on a ship in 1912? He was getting pissed, on his own in the way that perhaps a hard drinker would. He seemed to nonchalantly acknowledge the impending disaster – helping people onto life boats and throwing deck chairs overboard so people could use them as floatation devices. At least that what the journalist assumed he was doing – he could equally have been doing it in some kind of angry drunken rampage. Anyway, in between doing his bit for the rescue effort he returned to his quarters for another snifter, and when he ventured on deck again it was curtains time, and the ship was snapping in half. According to eye witness accounts, even when all around him were being flung into tangled piles as the deck angle increased, he escaped harm and collision until he was standing at the top, holding on to the railings as the ship plummeted down, presumably directly next to Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet. He then inexplicably was not sucked down in whatever you call the twisty current that got Leo, claiming to have barely broken the waters surface, and I quote, ‘his head "may have been wetted, but no more".
He then spent just shy of 2 hours bobbing around in the water before being dragged for a while by one boat, and was then finally dragged aboard another, long after everyone else had perished. He furthermore claimed to have barely felt the cold, having been liberally sozzled prior to the whole debacle kicking off. It is of course medically claimed that alcohol consumption actually diminishes the bodies ability to stay warm, but of course medically it is equally claimed that alcohol diminishes ones ability to drive, and we all know that to be nonsense. Charles was arseholed and invincible. We’ve all been there.
I’d have been worrying about all of this shit way before it happened. I’d be thinking about icebergs, listening suspiciously to the ebb and flow of the current, and working out in my head the best way to save my family when disaster inevitably struck. But I’d end up like Leo all the same, dead in the water, sinking to an icy grave, my last thoughts pondering whether a trimmer girl could have made room. I’d have died, all the same.
It’s probably best to mention at this point that I’ve actually had a pretty good time in Bend, so if you want the glamorous highlights see my facebook timeline, but here is where we sift through the dirt, because the dirt is more interesting.
Not only did the restaurant ‘Chicken Bonez’ sell phenomenal fried chicken, but it also served Ten Barrels session beer for $1 a pint. If this were in England it would be full of drunks. Instead of only one.
So why do I even bother? I plan everything and what, God laughs, is that the saying? We met immigration attorney’s, which cost money, and Simone travelled to Portland to have an interview with a customs official which was both colossally inconvenient and colossally unhelpful. We researched, we form filled the answer was the same and eventually we accepted the fact that beyond March our visas would not be extended and we were to vacate the country. 6 months was all they were prepared to offer; so we could stay illegally and compromise our chances of future re-entry, or fuck off.
I was now burning through money, whilst ironically living like a monk and I was a little ambivalent to the prospect of leaving. I liked it here, but man it was stressful, and not working was weird. There were further issues in as much as none of us had health care, Stan was missing out on a proper school and Simone’s businesses back home were constantly stuttering with problems difficult to solve from across the pond. Perhaps these were all the things I’ve told myself to adjust to the prospect, either way my feelings seemed genuinely mixed.
The prospect of upping sticks again however was very daunting. Admittedly this whole process would have had to take place at some point regardless, but an early return meant regaling on several agreements we had perhaps naively made but were equally necessary at the time. This would be costly, and the thought of moving out so soon after moving in was weighing heavy on my brain.
So what had to be done? Change the flights (again), break contract on our housing lease, break contract with the tenants occupying our UK house, sell what I’ve bought (including the car), empty the house, get all of us and the kit to Seattle without a car, fly back to the UK and make our way North to Keswick. Relax? I wished I could Joughin my way through it but I feared ignoring it all and drinking hard liquor would be met with mixed reviews from my family, so the awkward and inevitably expensive conversations began. Meanwhile I decided I’d best focus my attentions to enjoying what time we had left.
The view from the top of the mountain. Mount Bachelor looking toward the Three Sisters.
Like the trip as whole, the last few weeks were a mixture of highs and lows. There was plenty of snow and I was on the mountain all the time. The girls were becoming competent skiers and I managed to get summit runs in and fresh lines and we began to go out a bit more and mix, forming more, what seemed like genuine friendships along the way. All the while we were wrestling with the logistics, having stressful arguments with those we were regaling on (and each other), and for every good day we had an equally bad one.
My mugging at the swimming pool was a good analogy for it, although mugging is a term I’m using only in the absence of a better description of what happened. We’d had a fantastic day skiing on the mountain, everyone was there and we’d had a beer après before heading down to the local swimming pool for a free family swim (free swim: there like swimwear). The lockers required padlocks, which were meant to be provided by the user. Naturally the user had no such padlock so I elected to shove mine and Stan’s clothes in regardless, safe in the assumption this was a city devoid of something as vulgar as street crime. A Ne’er do well, one which in retrospect I should have spotted, obviously got wise to this and went through my belongings whilst I was gleefully throwing myself off the free diving board and emptied my wallet of all it’s cash.
I was blissfully unaware of this happening of course, until I pulled out my wallet to pay for the family’s Macdonalds later that evening. I’m not sure how much was in there, but it was more than a ton, and the Happy meals suddenly became deeply ironic. Luckily, in another turn the manager of Macdonalds: the MacManager, decided to give us our meal for free, sympathising with my apparently visible distress. Swings and roundabouts?
My daughter Libby, enjoying the accumulating snow.
So lots of things have been happening: some of them good and some of them bad. My anxiety levels seemed to have dropped – a difficult decision is a decision nonetheless and there is a comfort knowing what is happening, when so long things have been up in the air. Unfortunately what is now a certainty is another trans-global journey riddled with hurdles, which will surely be even worse than the first one, and will even more surely alleviate me of the little money I have left.
That trip is now 3 days away. And it is snowing. Really snowing.