Fish Creek (Part 2)

It was the late 80s, a summer, and we were living dirt cheap in Portland, fueled on our hatred of Ronald Reagan and hero worship of Hunter S. Thompson. Our sole source of entertainment consisted of getting drunk in dive downtown bars and seeing a style of rock and roll that mainstream media was soon to label Grunge. We were of the city and had no knowledge or interest in what happened in the country. We knew nothing of Oregon. We all had college degrees and almost no association with people who didn’t.

Why and how we decided to go camping for a weekend is long lost to me now. I think we borrowed the necessary gear or bought it for a song at garage sales. Why we chose Fish Creek Campground in the Mt Hood National Forest is also long lost to me. We somehow procured a map of the area’s campgrounds and it revealed Fish Creek as primitive campground with about a dozen sites, first come, first serve, vault toilets, hand pump water, no power. Perhaps we chose it because it was a mere hour drive from Portland and cost two bucks a night! What is certain: none of us had ever seen it before and knew nothing of its typical campers.

We drove to the campground in my 1975 sky blue Plymouth Valiant with an “Impeach Bush” bumper sticker. A mix tape was playing on a cassette player. I still have the tape. It’s titled “Get Into the Valiant and Raise Hell.”

The idea was to shop for supplies in Estacada, drive 20 miles up the Clackamas River into the woods, find the campground, choose a site, make camp and then drink a lot of alcohol in nature, hang out by the creek, skip rocks, perhaps jump in, start a camp fire, roast hot dogs, heat up a can chili on the grill, and talk about whatever came up, probably something political or profane.

It was the four of us. Another camper and his girlfriend would join us a day later.

We left Portland around ten in the morning. The forecast called for sunshine and temperatures in the high 80s.

Traffic was non existent because there was no traffic anywhere in Portland then. We found a podunk grocery store in Estacada and bought supplies, including firewood, and multiple cases of Hamm’s and Rainier. We wanted to hit the liquor store but it didn’t open until noon. Thus, we had time to burn so why not have a beer in the Fir Grove Tavern across the street? It had been open since seven!

This was the first time any of us had ever entered a rural Oregon tavern. It was roughly triple the size of Thoreau’s cabin. It was built like a log cabin. A pool table dominated the room. There was a small wooden bar with several stools. A few chairs with their backs up against walls surrounded the pool table on three sides. The floor was sawdust. There was a jukebox in a corner. The tavern served no liquor, only draft beer. There were two beers on tap: Hamm’s and Budweiser. The tavern served no real food: only chips and large jars of pickled grotesqueries. A 12-ounce draft of Hamm’s cost 85 cents. Budweiser, $1.25. We weren’t carded.

No one paid any attention to us as we entered and walked up to the bar. We ordered three drafts of Hamm’s. I paid with a sawbuck and told the elderly bartender to keep the change. He didn’t say a word.

Two bearded men were playing pool and playing it loudly. They were anywhere from 40 to 70 years old in appearance. One had his right arm missing and was playing with his left. They were drinking two beers at a time. Another man, younger, clean shaven, sat at the bar. The bartender stood behind the bar and talked to him.

We founds chairs and took seats. The pool table was three feet away. There was no way not to watch the game because anyone sitting in a chair had to move on virtually every other shot so a player could execute a shot. It was also impossible not to engage in conversation with the pool players because of close proximity.

In short order, we learned: the two older men had been released from the county jail that very morning. We didn’t learn the reason for their incarceration. They were violating the terms of their release by drinking beer and visiting a tavern. The younger man had picked the duo up at the jail and driven them to Estacada. They, too, were waiting for the liquor store to open. They, too, were heading to the Fish Creek Campground. Their “bitch” and her kid were waiting in the car and would be camping with them as well.

One of the man frequently used the N-word, which I had never heard used in private or public before. The one-armed man said he’d “learnt” how to play one-armed, left-handed pool in jail. He once had been a decent two-handed pool player and well, he lost his right arm and had to start all over. We didn’t learn how he’d lost the arm. At one point, the man with two arms and no teeth introduced himself: “Hi, my name’s Todd, I was born in Todd Lake, Oregon, I love banging beaver and I live in Oregon City. It don’t get no more Oregon than that!” We agreed.

We sipped our drafts and watched the men play. We commented on their good shots and listened to their banter. The only thing I recall of it was how they both learned to play chess in jail.

The liquor store opened. We said goodbye and Todd remarked how we might see each other at the campground. In the liquor store we bought two pints of cheap blackberry brandy and I have no idea why we chose that brand.