Note: This should have been split into multiple posts, but that's not what I did. Whoops. I'd recommend all you readers grab a hot cup of coffee or tea and a comfortable chair...

A week ago my good buddy Grant and I decided it was time for a field trip. Spring 2010 kicked both of us in the tookus a fair amount, so some fresh air sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

First we thought we might hike Dog Mountain. That's hard on a good day, though, and on a rainy, miserable day like every day in Portland this spring, it seemed like a really bad idea. Perhaps an easier hike? Nah, still wet. Then I found this article in the Mercury. I printed every word of it and vowed to go check Estacada out for myself. Thankfully, Grant enjoys a strange adventure too and agreed to join me.

A tiny town SE of Portland and way beyond the urban growth boundary, Estacada was previously known to me as "that place Tonya Harding is from." I don't know if she's actually spent a day of her life there, but that's what I heard and I choose to believe it. I also know this town as "Incestacada."

Hello, Estacada!


The drive began with a lovely cruise through lush foliage made even more lush by the recent deluge. We were in Christmas tree country, and since it's my dream to someday retire to the sticks outside Portland and have a Christmas tree and lavender farm, the scenery made me very happy. I could feel the field trip working its magic already.

When we arrived, the town's welcome sign greeted us, and YES, we were already checking an item off the Mercury's list: BEST REPRESENTATION OF TEDDY ROOSEVELT HOLDING A CHAINSAW. Of course, the locals claim it's not Teddy R., but I think we all know better. We took turns posing by the welcome sign, with Grant unable to contain his enthusiasm while I decided to intimidate any swarthy locals who might spy our touristy photo-taking by making my muscles evident. I'm certain they were terrified for all the right reasons.



As soon as we parked I realized the first great tragedy of the day: I forgot my driver's license! Grant drove, so it was fine, but that meant no beer, which eliminated some of our to-do list. LAME. Instead we headed to a cute coffee shop halfway down the main block. I think it was called Barbara's? Whatever, it's the only coffee shop on the street.


The place was cute, and we each had coffees and Grant got a doughnut. I'd already smoothied up at home, but I almost caved and bought some of the Moonstruck Chocolates they had there. I'm very proud of my restraint, as it's not something I'm known for. I'm instead known for being overly honest, rocking at karaoke, and coming up with strange plans like trips to divy towns.


We knew we weren't in Kansas anymore-- or perhaps we knew where we'd gone was now more like Kansas than where we'd been-- when Grant noticed a Mustang that loved America (below). Also interesting was the table full of older locals. The only words we caught of their conversation were an old man's exclamation of "Don't ask, don't tell!" One of the old women he sat with had a long, scraggly ponytail right on top of her head. I wanted to post a photo, but I also don't want to openly mock harmless strangers who are probably very well-intentioned people, so you'll have to use your imaginations.


Now caffeinated, we headed ever onward until this sign's redundancy made Grant angry in a way only idiocy can. "ATM means Automated Teller Machine!" he exclaimed. "They have an Automated Teller Machine Machine, do they? DO THEY?"



We passed by another super divy bar we couldn't go to because I was an ID-less loser and still get carded despite my ever-increasing gray hairs. This was the second bar on the list that we'd had to skip. Lame! I hate an unfinished project. This one had very interesting clientele hovering about in the afternoon, as well.


Next we walked by DH Enterprises, which I'm abbreviating because I'm scared. It was voted the place to buy the BEST CD/DVD GIFT SET FOR THE BURGEONING RIGHT-WING MILITANT. Below is the front window display... a WW1 foot locker and a happy froggy in a top hat.



Murals!

The buildings in town frequently have murals on exposed walls. Good job encouraging artwork, Estacada! Here's a smattering of them on everything from Thriftway to lots of other buildings I forgot to pay attention to!






Finally we were ready for the three most important places in Estacada: the second hand shop, the place with the dead bodies, and the Safari Club. Our excitement was palpable, and the truck sitting outside the second hand store did not disappoint. The owner, whose control issues would soon become evident, stared down at us ready to snipe at me for disrupting the merchandise. It was a sign of things to come.


Second Hand Store: Where You Must Put Things Back Where You Found Them


A bigfoot carving also stood guard at the door, and had a face strikingly similar to that of the owner, who did-I-mention-was-scary?


We walked in to hear... Beyonce. What the heck was Beyonce doing playing in here? The vibe didn't match the music as we started our exploration.

This store had won the award for BEST ANXIETY-PRODUCING SIGNS and boy, they weren't kidding. These gems were all over the place, telling us to leave things as we found them. Other signs warned of potential bathroom atrocities that could occur in the low-flush toilets. At first I thought they were just funny, but he really meant it-- he did not want people moving stuff.


One would think that in a store so committed to tidiness the organization would be intense. As we turned onto a long aisle crammed floor to ceiling with pots and pans, I appreciated the owner's handle on such a huge quantity of stuff.

Then halfway down the aisle, Grant paused.


I walked over to see what he was looking at and found him staring into a pile of Barbies, wide-eyed and naked amongst the kitchenware.


I have nothing adequate to add to that.

The owner then poked his head down the aisle. "You doing alright? Don't be moving stuff around."

I should take a moment to interject that our time at the store may read as having been unpleasant just because of my own discomfort around imposing authority figures, but I think the owner is probably pretty cool and just likes things his way. I'd probably get annoyed if people made a mess of my shop too. Also, this store is awesome and really does have everything you could ever want and a million other things you would never want in a million years.

Back to the action-- we decided we couldn't leave such a place without buying *something*. Early contenders came from a huge wall of mugs and this awesome easy-bake oven. What a steal at $8!


Then I discovered the records. I only had one Frank Sinatra record and was obviously looking to expand my collection to things other than Frank Sinatra records, so the diverse selection intrigued me. I got down on my knees and went through every record in the row, pulling out the ultimate record, Christmas Sing-Along with Mitch. This album has the most disturbing cover that I've ever seen. I don't know who Mitch is, but unless that's another name for Beelzebub perhaps a different cover design would have been better. Oh kid on the left, I fear for you.


I chose a couple of records and we headed downstairs to the furniture room, with the owner calling after us to remind us not to mess anything up. In the basement we were immediately greeted by... more signs! They were all like this one, scrawled in handwriting more suited to a ransom note.


The downstairs room held lots of treasures, though, including this horse-drawn carriage (senza equine friends) and a harmonium, which I believe Grant would have bought had we arrived in a large truck.


We moseyed back upstairs so I could buy a Don Ho record and a compilation record including such hits as "My Funny Valentine" and "Stormy Weather." That was when things got uncomfortable, and by that I mean more uncomfortable than they were with the serial killer signs and the naked kitchenware dolls. The owner approached me.

"You messed up my records over there," he accused.
"Oh. Oh sorry, I tried to keep them like I found them."
"You messed them up, and I had to fix them. Don't be moving stuff around."
"Sorry, I guess I got a little excited about records..."

I'm bad at getting in trouble. I get so panicked just driving by a cop while going the correct speed limit that I've actually had to stomp my left foot on the floor to get the adrenaline out and keep from blacking out. (I know this is completely bizarre and unhealthy. I have daddy issues, it's a thing I'm working on.) Anyway, it was time to go. I paid my $2 and we headed back to the car, where I gallantly displayed my new tribute to Hawaii!


Then I looked at the receipt. He sure doesn't want people messing up his stuff...




Hillockburn Road: Vortex of Death

Next it was time to go check out Hillockburn Road, the BEST PLACE TO DUMP A DEAD BODY. There were no bodies there, but I could see why the killers have liked it in the past: it's very accessible but not anyplace most people would look at too carefully as they drove past. In fact, I'll bet you could just give the corpse a shove and not stop the car. I would have laid down for photographic effect, but... mud.

Last but certainly not least, we headed to Estacada's premium hot spot, the Safari Club, whose owner was voted BEST TIGER MURDERER. Luckily half of the restaurant is a Chinese restaurant, because by then we were starving. Unluckily for wildlife, it's called the Safari Club because the owner killed lots of big game, stuffed it, and then set it up in display cases throughout the lounge. Wow!


Greeting us by the front door were some bears. We couldn't eliminate the glare, but you get the idea: they're angry that we're there. And that they're dead. And they don't want us to eat the Chinese food. (We should have listened to them on that last one.)


Inside the restaurant was no one. (Another warning goes unheeded!) The only sound was of the server clipping her nails at the counter.


The menu looked normal enough. I got the Kung Pao Chicken lunch special and Grant ordered Vegetable Fried Rice. I asked our server and her short nails if I could have vegetable fried rice instead of pork fried rice with my lunch special. "No substitutions," she replied. "Oh, sorry, I just thought since he was having some anyway maybe you could make extra. I don't eat pork, so just no fried rice for me then." "You want white rice instead?" she asked. "Oh... ok..." Huh. That's a substitution. I decided not to nitpick.

It's sort of sad now to look at my innocent face, not knowing what was to come. I was excited to eat; if ignorance is bliss, I guess knowledge is indigestion.


When the food arrived one look at Grant's face said it all. He was smarter than me, though. He drowned his in pepper sauce, exclaiming enthusiastically that "When it's hot like this, you can't tell that it tastes like dog food!" I ate mine despite what it began doing to my body almost instantly. Later we would make jokes about what I might potentially do to the car's upholstery all the way back to Portland.


The reader should also note that I usually like greasy Chinese food, but this was not alright anyway, and then it was WAY NOT OK when I realized it was full of stupid, gross canned peas. Oh God, I hate canned peas. Elementary school lunches were one huge, extended nightmare of wiener wraps (yum) being ruined by canned peas (ew).

A bright spot appeared when the fortune cookies came out. I opened mine first: "Remember three months from this date! Your lucky star is shining." Apparently September 4th will be great, which was good. As the grease ate away at me I needed something to luck forward to.

Then Grant opened his cookie to find THREE fortunes. He is thrice lucky, which was further evidenced by the fact that he didn't have to swill ginger tea for the remainder of the day in a pathetic attempt at healing his stomach lining.


His fortunes were peppy and sounded a bit like they came from a horoscope. I laughed extra long about the middle fortune-- this place telling him to treat himself to something of quality made me very happy. I enjoy irony, although thanks to Alanis Morissette I can no longer distinguish irony from an unfortunate coincidence.


After our meal we ducked into the lounge to briefly photograph the disturbingly dead things. Here are some dead things:



And with that, we bid this fair town adieu. As if the experience hadn't already been spiritual enough, this sign pointed the way to the future for us, just in case we were wondering:



I guess at the Unitarian Church we haven't gotten to talking about the deities renting out billboards yet. How very 21st century of God! Thanks to Grant and the town of Estacada for a fun day, and thanks to the makers of ginger tea for a reasonably uneventful night!

Labels: friends, trips