Day 123: Usul no longer needs the weirding module
Training exercises last weekend with in the Sand Lake Deadzone involved a full schedule, so during a spare moment I jotted down some notes in my hardcopy journal for posting on here later, so that I wouldn't forget a single action-packed detail. Well, let me tell you, that shit was a good idea, because after some spice-induced fever-dreams last night, my memories were all discombobulated. On the plus side, I apparently have developed the ability to verbally shatter solid objects via carefully directed utterance of the word "DAH!" This will no doubt come in handy at some point. Anyway, here's the blurry version of my trip.
On the way down, we stopped in Vancouver for lunch at a hacienda with paulscat, which was fun. Except that in the course of explaining her attempts to bend her recalcitrant stepsons to her will, I think she accidentally put a spell on the Old Man, because shortly after leaving, he got us totally lost in Portland after almost driving us off a bridge. One more reason not to let that dopey primate operate heavy machinery. My fault for not doing a mystical pre-flight check, however, since it was well established the evil priestess under whom Brenda is serving is a destabilizing influence, which is kinda dangerous since the poor cutie is already pretty hair-trigger with her wand. Also, note to self: Fire my navigator.
The Deadzone itself lies just inland from the northern Oregon coast, southwest of Tillamook. In the middle of an otherwise verdant locale is an area of maybe a couple square miles inexplicably devoid of anything except barren dunes and the occasional forlorn bit of scrub brush. A local recounted there was once an oasis in the middle, but even that has since been consumed by the choking sands. Adjacent is a seemingly lifeless grove known as the Monkey Forest, because the gnarled branches have a nasty tendency to grab at interlopers, especially when their pants are down. Theories abound as to the origins of these anomalies -- deposition by local wind patterns, military defoliant testing, cursed Indian burial ground. But it's pretty clear to me that the desert portion is an aerial marker for alien travelers, "Hey y0, yummy cows are thatta way!" Yes, with its plentiful population of dairy cattle, neighboring Tillamook is the perfect location for a xeno-bubba truck stop. As for the forest, some sediment testing would be necessary to confirm, but I'll wager that's where the intergalactic RVs are dumping out their excrement tanks when they pass through. In other words, don't drink the water.
Though our barracks were just a bit up the road, most of our time was spent on reconnaissance expeditions up and down the coast. Motorist must be cautious, according to the waitress at the Whiskey Creek Cafe, because bicycle-riding elk are a big problem in the area. Cautious perhaps, but she didn't say anything about sober, so I ordered a double-shot of whiskey, figuring it was the house specialty. Unfortunately, revenuers apparently shut down their still, so the best they can offer is an assortment of homemade pies and insanely large coffee cups. On our way south the next morning, some dumbass bumpkin cow was standing in the middle of the road trying to flag down a ride to the "big city". I didn't want to be the one to break it to him, but Pacific City, the only outpost in that direction, is anything but big. Luckily, a friendly leather-daddy pig on a chopper pulled ahead and intimidated the cow into moving his big butt long enough for us to proceed. En route through town, we noticed the elk were setting up a drag strip.
We debarked at the air strip and I split off from the group in my mobile suit to head back north along the beach to where the festivities were taking place. I tried to make conversation with a surfer chick we passed, but her obnoxious boyfriend kicked sand in my face and dragged her into the water, where I couldn't follow because I forgot to pack my mobile suit's waders. Where is Charles Atlas when you need him? Continuing on, eventually reached Cape Kiwanda and neighboring Haystack Rock. Clambering around on the former was awesome, with spray occasionally bursting into the air a few feet away as waves broke on the rocks. Found an abandoned al-Qaeda cave, but its weapon cache had already been emptied, though it must have been recently, because patrol boats were pulling ashore as we headed back. After rejoining the rest of the group, we noticed the Old Man smelled all flowery, which for a soldier on R&R can mean only one thing, so I gave him a good tongue-lashing, because that's just not okay behavior in front of the lady troops.
Ran out of time on the trip for the two things I was really hoping for: Munson Falls and the nearby supposedly mothballed Air Museum. Who puts a giant hangar in the middle of a cow field and gathers this much equipment there, I kept asking myself? Then I discovered a mention in the coastal hikes guidebook that billionaire Paul Allen had invested a sizable sum toward "improving" the park area around Munson Falls. A little greasing of the locals' palms quickly revealed that hidden behind the falls is the entrance to another of Allen's secret bases, this one winding its way under the adjacent hills to the back door of the aforementioned Air Museum. Suddenly it all falls into place: That wily rich boy is using the prospect of bovine mutilations as bait for alien vessels, and while they're parked waiting for their side orders of cheese fries and soft-serve ice cream, he's pinching parts to build up his own spacecraft. Pretty sneaky!
On the way down, we stopped in Vancouver for lunch at a hacienda with paulscat, which was fun. Except that in the course of explaining her attempts to bend her recalcitrant stepsons to her will, I think she accidentally put a spell on the Old Man, because shortly after leaving, he got us totally lost in Portland after almost driving us off a bridge. One more reason not to let that dopey primate operate heavy machinery. My fault for not doing a mystical pre-flight check, however, since it was well established the evil priestess under whom Brenda is serving is a destabilizing influence, which is kinda dangerous since the poor cutie is already pretty hair-trigger with her wand. Also, note to self: Fire my navigator.
The Deadzone itself lies just inland from the northern Oregon coast, southwest of Tillamook. In the middle of an otherwise verdant locale is an area of maybe a couple square miles inexplicably devoid of anything except barren dunes and the occasional forlorn bit of scrub brush. A local recounted there was once an oasis in the middle, but even that has since been consumed by the choking sands. Adjacent is a seemingly lifeless grove known as the Monkey Forest, because the gnarled branches have a nasty tendency to grab at interlopers, especially when their pants are down. Theories abound as to the origins of these anomalies -- deposition by local wind patterns, military defoliant testing, cursed Indian burial ground. But it's pretty clear to me that the desert portion is an aerial marker for alien travelers, "Hey y0, yummy cows are thatta way!" Yes, with its plentiful population of dairy cattle, neighboring Tillamook is the perfect location for a xeno-bubba truck stop. As for the forest, some sediment testing would be necessary to confirm, but I'll wager that's where the intergalactic RVs are dumping out their excrement tanks when they pass through. In other words, don't drink the water.
Though our barracks were just a bit up the road, most of our time was spent on reconnaissance expeditions up and down the coast. Motorist must be cautious, according to the waitress at the Whiskey Creek Cafe, because bicycle-riding elk are a big problem in the area. Cautious perhaps, but she didn't say anything about sober, so I ordered a double-shot of whiskey, figuring it was the house specialty. Unfortunately, revenuers apparently shut down their still, so the best they can offer is an assortment of homemade pies and insanely large coffee cups. On our way south the next morning, some dumbass bumpkin cow was standing in the middle of the road trying to flag down a ride to the "big city". I didn't want to be the one to break it to him, but Pacific City, the only outpost in that direction, is anything but big. Luckily, a friendly leather-daddy pig on a chopper pulled ahead and intimidated the cow into moving his big butt long enough for us to proceed. En route through town, we noticed the elk were setting up a drag strip.
We debarked at the air strip and I split off from the group in my mobile suit to head back north along the beach to where the festivities were taking place. I tried to make conversation with a surfer chick we passed, but her obnoxious boyfriend kicked sand in my face and dragged her into the water, where I couldn't follow because I forgot to pack my mobile suit's waders. Where is Charles Atlas when you need him? Continuing on, eventually reached Cape Kiwanda and neighboring Haystack Rock. Clambering around on the former was awesome, with spray occasionally bursting into the air a few feet away as waves broke on the rocks. Found an abandoned al-Qaeda cave, but its weapon cache had already been emptied, though it must have been recently, because patrol boats were pulling ashore as we headed back. After rejoining the rest of the group, we noticed the Old Man smelled all flowery, which for a soldier on R&R can mean only one thing, so I gave him a good tongue-lashing, because that's just not okay behavior in front of the lady troops.
Ran out of time on the trip for the two things I was really hoping for: Munson Falls and the nearby supposedly mothballed Air Museum. Who puts a giant hangar in the middle of a cow field and gathers this much equipment there, I kept asking myself? Then I discovered a mention in the coastal hikes guidebook that billionaire Paul Allen had invested a sizable sum toward "improving" the park area around Munson Falls. A little greasing of the locals' palms quickly revealed that hidden behind the falls is the entrance to another of Allen's secret bases, this one winding its way under the adjacent hills to the back door of the aforementioned Air Museum. Suddenly it all falls into place: That wily rich boy is using the prospect of bovine mutilations as bait for alien vessels, and while they're parked waiting for their side orders of cheese fries and soft-serve ice cream, he's pinching parts to build up his own spacecraft. Pretty sneaky!