The home of craft beer, stunning scenery, and an overwhelming book store, hooked on the US state.
Ian Anderson
It wasn’t the Saginaw. You know, the one in the song. I was sure I knew that, and it didn’t matter anyway. I’d come to look for America, and I’d found it.
It was the end of summer, and while they weren’t amber waves of grain, we rolled past burnt brown grass under a backdrop of deep green pines.
I was in Oregon, heading from Eugene to Grant’s Pass, and had spotted a road sign for Saginaw. The fabled town in the Simon and Garfunkel song ‘‘America’’ is in Michigan – more than 2000 miles from where I was – but I was on the interstate, watching out the window of our travel van as we drove by gas stations, gigantic truck and trailer rigs, RV parks by the dozen, Indian casinos and, naturally, a large adult store.
Our ever-obliging driver, Kieron Weidner, of First Nature treks and tours, heeded my request for the perfect musical accompaniment by finding some Paul Simon tunes, and I rested my head against the window and saw my reflected grin.
An overly romantic vision? Fuelled by a number of craft beers I’d consumed half an hour earlier? Sure. But Oregon had captivated me with its splendour, and I was happy to fall for it.
Oregon has quite a New Zealand feel to it. The abundance of trees and greenery, the coastline that can be equal parts rugged and sandily alluring, and the openness and humility of the state’s residents, can make a Kiwi feel very much at home.
But there’s always plenty to remind you you’re travelling in the US.
Breakfast in America
For an authentic American experience, it’s hard to go past breakfast at the Otis Cafe on the Salmon River highway. Fortunately, we didn’t go past.
The famed Pacific Northwest rain had come, as we worked our way past a constant vista of small towns, pokey settlements, logging businesses both booming and busted.
There were endless roadside billboards. And where there’s billboards, there’s always somewhere to eat.
Walking into the Otis was like strolling into a Twin Peaks scene.
That’s not overly surprising – David Lynch’s wondrous TV series was set in a fictional town in Washington, the state immediately north.
So the clientele who aren’t tourists wear baseball caps, flannel, and jeans, talk of wood and building and the NFL, as a ’70s radio station plays in the kitchen. Yellowed, framed newspaper clippings from 1989 adorn the wall – including a prized New York Times food critic review – and as I peruse the breakfast menu, I note little has changed in the fare.
And why should it? The Otis is renown for its breakfasts and ‘‘comfort food’’.
I agonised over discovering finally what chicken-fried steak was, ditto biscuits and sausage gravy, but ultimately ordered two eggs (sunnyside up), bacon, and hash browns, with wheatmeal and molasses toast. It came delivered on a plate about the size of my chest and it was incredibly satisfying.
Falling in love
From the Otis Cafe, to the teenage girl busker on the street corner in McMinnville playing an inspired cover version of The Joker on a banjo, to the homeless man with a toddler on the street corner in Portland with a sign inscribed ‘‘Fallen on hard times; please help’’, I was smitten with everything I crossed in Oregon.
To say I had an all-too-brief love affair with the state wouldn’t be overstating matters. My week exploring came during a particularly tough year, and couldn’t have been a greater fillip – friendly people, alluring scenery, and a host of enjoyable activities.
My ardour for Oregon reached peak passion in Bend. The Central Oregon town is a mini-mecca for outdoor activities – mountainbiking, skiing, whitewater rafting, rock climbing among them.
My travel companions and I were initially treated to a trip around town – and its bars – on electric bikes. The name is a little misleading – you don’t have to trail a 10km extension cord behind you – as they’re powered by batteries, equipped with a throttle, a maximum speed of 25mph, a comfortable seat, and pedals if you feel like doing some real work.
It’s the most wonderful way to explore the neighbourhood. We stopped in at a marvellous hole-in-thewall bar – Boneyard Beer – that catered chiefly to those enamoured with tattoos and AC/DC. Being from Hamilton, I was exceedingly comfortable in the environment but ‘‘badly’’ dressed as we stopped for dinner.
I’m ashamed to say that my ‘‘smart casual’’ attire cost the bar some patronage, as the two tattoo enthusiasts who came through the door saw me, announced ‘‘nah, too preppy"’ and turned on their heels.
We ate heartily, joyfully throttled our way from bar to bar and gathered the next morning, a trifle fuzzy-headed on the banks of the Bend river for an hourof kayaking with Tumalo Creek and Kayak.
The autumn sun was soothing and consoling, the water flowed gently and, as I paddled merrily while looking at the townhouses on the banks, I easily envisaged moving continents to settle here.
After walking through the charming town centre before departing, I collated armfuls of real estate brochures that I’m still perusing –