Visions of a Living Canvas: Oregon

Edit: Goodness, I apologize for the lack of updates. Traveling, maintenance, balancing between time to write and explorations; it would be impossible to fully manage all these things in no particular order.

When I left Portland, in late April, it was with the affections and friendship of the local deviants that carried with me from the time I had spent with them. Theirs was a small community, close knit, and in the time I had spent and exchanged stories, there was a sense of unity amongst everyone that identified within that culture. Beyond the parties, their interactions were relaxed and easy going, but most of all sincere to one another, even to a stranger like me.

It proved more difficult to leave that place then. I had since grown very fond of them and even at present, there remains a continuous stream of messages from time to time, imploring my return to that place. Suffice to say, as much as the temptation would be, in the end there was a grudging acceptance on my account to shoulder my belongings and make for the road ahead.

On the day I left, the house was empty and in the early hours of the morning, as I left the after care room and hauled my luggage to the front door, I heard a small voice call out to me from nearby.

“Yellow! Hey Yellow!” I turned and looked for the source of the voice. Sure enough, from within the confines of a cage, the pair of killer pugs looked up at me with pleading eyes – a lethal trick often used prior to painful crotch attacking.

Hello my darlings.

Hello my darlings.

“W-Where are you going?” one of them asked. The other one turned her head away, not wishing to look at me. It was as if though she knew the answer to that question.

I'm sorry. I have to go now.

I’m sorry. I have to go now.

A look of surprise came over the wrinkles of the pug. “B-But…” She whispered. “Don’t go.”

I’m sorry, my darlings, I have to. The road is calling. Behave for me will you?

“Please don’t go.” She pleaded, whimpering slightly. The sound was rather genuine. “I-I won’t jump on you any more. I’ll behave.”

I know, I said quietly, but I can’t.

It was too unbearable.

It was too unbearable.

From within the cage, the pugs began to whimper and whine, their beady eyes welling up with tears. I couldn’t take it at that point and reaching for the nearby leashes, I decided to cheer them up with a quick walk on the lawn. It helped a little but inevitably they accepted my decision.

“O-Okay.” The pug replied. “Be safe. Good luck!”

***

People have often asked, “What is it like out there between the cities?”

Most of the time I give vague answers, which is ofter easier to provide. When people look at pictures, like photographs or paintings, the depth of what is portrayed is only limited to imagination; words can describe in vivid details about these settings, maybe the knowledge of such places depicted could enhance the course of such imagination. In reality there is no method of describing it in full detail and while bigger words ought best capture the full quality of these images, even the most articulate of sorts would merely cover a fraction of the true beauty to these places.

It seems likely that I ought describe the cities, the dungeons and the places where most of the gatherings within the fetish culture have taken place. However, there are places far beyond such things, between them so to speak. These are places that are relatively unseen by man, untouched by the influence of city expansions, and most of all uninhabited and raw in their natural appearance.

The wilderness of Oregon is breath taking, reminiscent of native British Columbia, and aboard the cabin of a moving train towards California, the view that is provided is beyond description. Enclosed are several photographs covering some distance of this part of my journey.

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After about an hour or so, the train leaves the cityscape behind and enters a series of rural farmlands; the weather, being clear, sweeps the open sunlight of Spring over these fields. Hay bales dot the stretches of these grown plains, amidst the occasional lines of orange groves and cattle farms. Far beyond one could spot the mountains in the distance, the glimmer of vehicle rooftops against the glare of the afternoon sun.

The train services offer expensive sandwiches and refreshments. Most people bring their own food but often times it never lasts throughout the entire trip. I sat facing the windows as I watched the fields drift by. When I was younger, I had seen these fields in Canada, but often from the limited position of a moving car; aboard a train, the view was far more visceral in quality.

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From as far as the eye could see, there were nothing but green farm fields that sat beside small forest groves; red grain silos like that from children’s books, small townships that could easily be crossed on foot. Eventually the fields gave way into a mountainous forest and for some time, this was obscured by trees until like the curtain unfolding at some carnival show, revealed an enormous lake.

This lake seemed very similar in size and scale to Kelowna Lake in Vancouver, BC. One could spot cabins along the shore, at times sailboats and canoes spread across the surface; the reflection of the speeding train was visible against the afternoon light, a blurring shadow over the waters.

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There were sky lights above the observation car but the quality of the pictures are terrible at best. Besides they merely show nothing but clouds all over the place, against the background of the blue sky.

There is a peace out there in this vast wilderness. A calm serenity that soothes even the most loathsome of hearts and with it, the light of morning blankets over the shoulders of everyone aboard; it sounds funny, but I believe that I discovered an inner peace along those tracks, watching the world move past like the stills of a movie picture.

We entered a tunnel and for about ten minutes, underneath some mountain, there was nothing but darkness. I waited patiently for us to reemerge and what greeted me as the train did, remains one of the most mesmerizing transitions I’d ever seen.

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It seems almost surreal that the green fields and lakes should give way into an endless tundra of snow, forests towering with pines and spruces, aligned the entire region. There were no signs of life, no roads, no houses – just pure white snow against a harsh blizzard.

Once, just briefly, I spotted what appeared to be some kind of an elk or deer darting into the grove and save for the sight of the occasional hares darting from the tracks, this place was untouched by the influence of mankind. It seemed desolate and lifeless, peaceful to no end.

At one point the train passed beneath a shorter tunnel and the conductor announced of a waterfall nearby. The shot proved too blurry for posting. It was roughly the size of the entire mountain, pouring down a smoothed cliff side; the waters passed beneath a duct under the tracks, then just as quickly it disappeared behind us.

By nightfall, the entire area was pitch black, and though there were some conversations (included within a future entry), I eventually turned to go to sleep. There wasn’t a WiFi at the time, which meant that I was frustrated to no end about describing the course of this journey.

There were several stops from time to time, roughly 5 minutes or so, never long enough to disembark. With the exception of Klamath Falls, a humorous event wherein a train conductor asked if  I was Canadian due to my being the only person wearing a leather jacket as everyone complained about the cold, there were not many significant events. I turned to sleep that evening.

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A brilliant morning touched my face when I woke up and the glare of the sunlight stung my eyes. Making my way back to the observation deck, I stared out again at the horizon and this time, caught a glimpse of rural California. Here there were smaller towns, often aligned with concrete walls and chain fences; a few streams ran alongside the shores of these places, periodically with logs jutting out from the water depths.

The California mountains ran gold from the sunlight and dry grass. I spotted what might have been fields of barley, wheat and rye. The highway was visible nearby and despite that, there was little traffic to be seen. Breakfast was a simple affair of bacon and eggs, toast washed down by coffee. I spent the afternoon watching the transition between the countryside into the city fringes then the city itself.

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Upon arrival into San Francisco, I boarded the transit towards the financial district. From the course of Berkeley, the driver took a scenic route and passed over one of San Francisco’s many bridges. Far away, the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz Island remained visible.

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That was but a mere fraction of this journey so far, but I look forward to following up with the adventures since in San Francisco and beyond; for now, I leave you to your imagination until the next installment of America’s living canvas.

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