Who Called the Police

Where has the time gone?  I feel like we haven’t had the chance to catch up in a while, what with the hail storms, spotty service, and inevitable distracting indulgences.  So, let me fill you in…

After hugging the widest trees on Earth at Sequoia National Park, I saw it only fit that I track down

Redwood Sisters

the tallest.  Redwood National Park was calling my name – either that, or the elk were just particularly loud that night.  Anyway, after speaking to my parents in a layover campsite, I told them I was hoping I would be on my way to the Redwoods before any major snow hit.  With a quick text in the morning to let my mom know I was headed north to the National Park, I slowly made my way up the remainder of California’s Route 101, finally landing in the heart of Earth’s gentle giants.  Despite the red and green landscape that filled my lungs with the freshest air known to man, I knew I had a problem when I saw that I was in a no-service campground.  Yet even the hail storm that littered my windshield with frosty Dippin’ Dots did not preclude my efforts of tracking down the nearest payphone.  Once I arrived, however, my three quarters were not enough.  Just another thing I couldn’t afford in spendy Cali.  I could only hope that my mom would give me the 24 hours we discussed before having a parental melt down. 

The next morning, I was running around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to pack up camp and check the ranger station for any road closures.  As I was speed walking back to Honey, mentally checking off the final engine fluids and propane to-do’s, I heard a truck slowdown behind me.  The driver hollered, asking if my name was Megan.  With a knowing nod, I answered the ranger.  She curtly replied, “Call your mother.”

With 18 hours under her belt, my wonderfully insane mother called not only the National Park, but the local police department as well.  How she managed to have someone find my exact campground in the most disperse of the national parks is beyond me.  When I finally drove into an LTE location, I called the lady that tracked me down from over 3000 miles away.  After asserting that I was not lying in a snow-covered ditch awaiting Eyore to locate help via message-in-a-bottle attached to his collar, my mom hung up to enjoy her lunch.  The lesson here?  Never try to hide from Deb.

Post police debacle, I drove along the coast of Oregon, soaking in the massive bluffs that popped up

Climbing some polka dots

like enormous pointy polka dots along the beach.  As I climbed to the top of one, appearing out of a foliage tunnel, I couldn’t contain the smile that broke across my face.  The crashing waves and the smooth drift wood made for the perfect morning yoga. 

Finally, I made my way to Portland.  After crashing with my friend, Ryan, for a few nights I can safely claim the following as fact: Pacific sushi is the best sushi; I’m talking melt in your mouth, order a second roll, wish you were the very rice that held that fish in place, sushi.  Second, it rains in Portland.  A lot.  Yet despite the clouds, two-minute hail storms, and subsequent sun showers that make you feel as if you’re flipping through the channels of a television set, you can always find some donuts.  In the span of eight hours, Ryan and I tried eight different donuts.  And by tried, I mean whole-heartedly devoured.  I eventually left Oregon’s central hub with a few extra pounds – both in gut and clean laundry.

Now, my sights are set on Seattle, and boy do I hope it’s sleepless.

Multnomah Falls - Tallest falls in Oregon

Sunset at Harris Beach State Park - Brookings, OR

Blueberry Bourban Basil in Portland