Pacific Northwest - Day 2

This place is strange. Like, horror movie strange. I'm in an old abandoned school. Well, I suppose not abandoned. More like repurposed. Now it's a hostel. A creepy, creepy hostel. The one in Boise was homey and quaint. This place is not quaint by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe it has to do with the location – Bingen, Washington, just over the Columbia river, a toll bridge separating it from the Oregon border. Bingen is a village of hics. I don't mean to be judgmental, but let's be honest: we're in hicsville. Stained wife-beaters, missing teeth, mullets, the works. There isn't much to the town but gas stations and dusty shops selling brick-a-brack. And the hostel.

The hostel. Old lockers line the dark hallways, interspersed by creeky doors. I'm convinced that it is only a matter of time before I see long dead school children roaming the halls, singing playground songs in a minor key. When I see them, and I most certainly will, I must convince them not to take their vengeance out on me. I am but a weary traveler, and am in no way responsible for whatever gruesome death befell them. "Listen kids," I will say. "I know your tortured spirits want peace. But.. quick! Look over there!" And then I will run.

The other guests in the men's dorm are part of some kind of bicycle thing. They keep asking me if I'm here for the race. No I am not, I tell them. Unless it involves running from ghosts. The dorm room is divided into separate alcoves with bunk beds. The light doesn't work. The bathroom, down the hall, looks ready to collapse. "You're going to have to let the water run for about five minutes before it gets hot," the guy at the office says. He is bearded and friendly. I don't think he owns a chainsaw.

It's late now and I'm sitting in the lounge, which has an outside entrance, around the corner from the dorms. There are tables set up like a diner, some kind of bar surrounding a couple refrigerators, and an antique kitchen. Sure, it isn't the relaxing end to a long day of driving like I had hoped, but it will do. Today I drove. I drove and drove and drove, stretched my legs, and drove some more. Eastern Oregon is like the worst parts of Idaho and Utah--just miles and miles of scrubland. But things get better as soon as I-84 hits the southern edge of the Columbia river. Then it's all water, and trees, and canyon walls that make for a great show out the windows. I stopped by a museum with all kinds of interesting (and not so interesting) information on the river. Apparently a lot of Indians got screwed over when they built the dams. Surprise!

Below are a couple scenic shots. Tomorrow I hit the waterfalls. My camera will be busier.