To do justice to our experience of the Sand Station Recreation Area of eastern Oregon would be impossible. I will put in a good effort and hope it captures a bit of the surreal evening spent in a small commune of drifters along what amounted to an expanded rest stop. To offer a bit of background, Sand Station was put together by the US Army Corps of Engineers with a small area for camping along a beach on the Columbia River.
The rugged high plains desert was in full effect with tracks to our immediate left and on our right the tracks hugged the opposite side of the Columbia. It felt very much like we were on the down and out industrial outskirts of the Tri-Cities area of Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick. There's a strange beauty to this kind of American wasteland. Every urban area has the dark underbelly that most try to forget. Lewis and Clark didn't see the trains carrying coal to fuel our consumption. They didn't see the barges carrying supplies for the industry which provide the region its sustenance. Nor could they have predicted this far future outcome as they scouted the land for its potential for the American government.
Greg announced that the Sand Station Recreation Area should be coming up on our right and around a bend it soon appeared. I pulled in and we perused the sign.
“No camping for more than 14 days in a month.” OK, that's routine I thought to myself.
“No drug use.” Hm, isn't that implied I thought?
We then navigated the confusing web of gravel roads until we found a small area where he suggested we park. Next to our steady keelboat, the SS Tiny Adventure, was a run down and dirty mid-90s Lincoln Town Car with windows open, debris littering the seats and dashboard. Across the parking lot was an old pick-up truck that was attached to a beat up large motorboat. In its prime it would have been a great boat. There was definitely a small kitchen and living space below decks which always seemed cool to me. It was clearly used more as a home now than a vessel on the open water. There's always a sadness to something not being used as it was intended.
As we looked out to the camping area, we only saw two tents set up, one down on the beach near the swimming area and one under a tree close to the Lincoln. We were excited for space, options, and relative quiet. We set out the tent to dry. This happened quickly in the cool, occasionally violent, breeze that would remain a constant until the sun went down. We soon had it set up. Sitting and chilling, we discussed our next moves in our trip and grabbed the gear we'd need for our evening. Whispers and rumblings occasionally came from the tent near the Lincoln. Who was inside? I can't help but be curious about these things. Eventually, an old man with a cane and knee braces came out to begin cooking a fine smelling dinner. Soon, a grizzled and crooked man with a mesh ball cap shading his face joined him at the picnic table. I was curious about a small trail that headed off up the beach near the boat parked in the lot and I quickly discovered a barbed wire fence protecting a small power station basically neighboring our evening camp. Scenic. Upon my return, a woman in her late 40s came crashing out of the tent near the beach and joined the men cooking at the other site. I sat reading my compiled Leonard Cohen interviews savoring the stereo effect of trains passing close on the other side of the highway and farther in the distance on the other side of the Columbia. As Greg walked by the woman, she caught his attention and asked him something. He gestured to me and she quickly ambled over.
“That one said you have a phone,” pointing to Greg. “Can you look up the number to the Umatilla County jail, I need to see if my boyfriend has been locked up. He hasn't been back in awhile and I'm worried he may have been arrested.”
I made my best effort but couldn't find a clear number and she impatiently grabbed the phone from me to look for herself.
“Do you mind if I call my sister to see if she knows anything?” I happily offered by phone for her needs and after an abrupt conversation where I felt enough evidence had accrued to be confident she was a bit soused she left my number for her sister to call back.
To be clear, we had immediately sensed vague, what I called 'drifter vibes,' upon our arrival. We joked that this would be a good place to hide out if one were on the lam following a crime. By now, with the characters we had encountered, it became clear it was more than that. Young children between 3 and 5 erupted from the area of the boat sitting on its trailer and ran around the shore wildly with the mother chasing behind. I looked to Greg and suggested that this seemed to be the kind of place that Sarah Connor might have dragged her son following her vision of the future from her experiences depicted in the first “Terminator” movie. Somewhere that would be safe. Somewhere that would toughen her son for the future conflict she knew was inevitable.
The first phone call for Debbie soon came and I quickly put down my book and hurried to the beach-side tent. She unzipped her tent and seemed a bit irritable. Perhaps I woke her from an evening nap. Unable to stop myself, as she talked, I peered as best I could, as discretely as possible, into the tent. It was in fine shape and assorted sheets and blankets created a soft and diverse bedding of varied colored, patterns, and textures. Unable to get clear answers from her sister, Debbie mumbled something about “probably enjoying a motel while she was stuck at the campsite” and hung up. She thanked me, handed me the phone back, and I scurried back to our table. By now, Greg and I were enjoying the mystery and slight hint of danger that seemed to be building over the course of the evening. At this point a large SUV had pulled up along the Lincoln Town Car up on the hill that overlooked the beach. It was just far enough to not clearly see the dude that ended up setting up at the picnic table next to his parking spot. He had a dark sweatshirt, facial hair, ball cap, and shorts that showed one leg covered in a sleeve of tattoos. My imagination began to go wild as I speculated it was a bounty hunter waiting for Debbie's boyfriend to return.
Greg announced in a very firm and convincing manner, “This is the kind of place, if you sit here for a few days, you'd see some stuff. You'd get a real American experience.”
What crime had Debbie's boyfriend perpetrated? What would land him in jail without any warning for Debbie? Did she know he was a criminal? Did she know his crime? Was she only waiting for the inevitable moment when he would be snatched from her arms? I could only hope that the answers would unfold this evening as I tried to get back to reading.
The wind had picked up by now and the old man's picnic table, littered with debris, was soon caught in the maelstrom. A bottle or two was blown in our direction and as the old man limped over with a cane, I jumped up to help. Despite my efforts at friendly banter, I could never make out his garbled responses. There was definitely a friendly vibe between us. Greg was particularly excited when he lit up a tobacco pipe in his lawn chair after dinner. We debated lighting up our own and attempting to create some spiritual understanding with one another over a metaphorical 'peace pipe'.
Before we could spend too much time debating that decision, Dwayne had returned with a few of his friends. My back was to another hill that overlooked the beach where they had parked and Greg had announced their return.
Confused, I asked Greg, “Who is Dwayne?”
“I dunno, didn't you say that was his name?”
I never knew his name, I never told Greg anything about a possible name for Debbie's boyfriend. From that moment on though, he was Dwayne to us.
I didn't have a clear sense for why Dwayne's friends were there. There was some mention we caught through the wind or visual implication of Dwayne and Debbie's vehicle being out of gas, or perhaps him vanishing to help them with their gas. The only visible friend lurked above, one hand on a cigarette, the other clutching a can of beer. Dwayne awkwardly climbed into the tent with Debbie, some heated rumblings came from the tent, but silence soon fell over the campsite and Dwayne's friends eventually left.
Things had only just quieted down when Debbie's sister called again. I hurried down to her tent, excited to get a closer look at Dwayne. This was getting better and better as it got more and more mysterious and dangerous. Dwayne looked half-asleep through the netting as I approach and I called out to Debbie. She sprang up, unzipped the net door, and grabbed the phone. The connection was weak again, and she had an annoyed tone as she finally seemed to get in the rhythm of talking to her sister.
“What!?! No. He's back. OK. OK!” With that she hung up, thanked me, and laid back down.
Not a lot to operate on for my imagination, but as I walked up to the car not ten minutes later, I was strangely excited and happy to see an Umatilla County Sheriff jeep pull into the lot. I scrambled down the hill laughing and pointing in the direction of the jeep so Greg was sure to notice. I was sure things were about to get interesting. Gun play? Should we scramble into the tent? Into the foul fly-ridden 'bathrooms' for more secure cover? My hands would stay close to my tomahawk for a good length.
After only a brief entrance, talking to both 'the bounty hunter' and the crooked man who stood next his friend sitting in the Lincoln, the Sheriff pulled away. Were they friends of Dwayne? Were they covering? I was honestly a bit disappointed there was no climax after the anticipation had built over the previous two hours at Sand Station.
Things calmed down from that point, but I continued to wonder about this 'bounty hunter' character who had camping gear, but just seemed to sit there unwilling to commit to setting up his tent. What was his story?
After dinner, and after the sunset, we navigated a four foot snake that startled Greg on the beach. I warned Debbie who had come from the bathroom. She laughed roughly and loudly responded that Dwayne was scared of snakes. She asked that we pick it up and throw it elsewhere, which wasn't at the top of our list. As she scampered to the tent telling Dwayne of the snake even before she arrived, you could hear a slightly bellicose “to hell with you, I don't want to see no snake!” uttered at least twice in response. We laughed at her dark sense of humor as she had a bit of fun at his expense. After all, Dwayne had taken off days ago possibly, leaving Debbie high and dry in a sketchy campsite. Soon, she hopped in their jeep and cruised out. She wouldn't return while we were there, and we wouldn't hear from Dwayne again either as he probably slept off a rough couple of days hanging with his buddies. The mystery of Dwayne and Debbie would remain unanswered.
Meanwhile, the story is best wrapped up by telling of our brief exchange with 'the bounty hunter'. While still navigating the snake's unpredictable path, he appeared suddenly. We got to talking and he quickly announced that the Sand Station Recreation Area was “meth central”. He also recounted the pregnant woman he observed near the boat in the parking lot who came crashing out apparently drinking and smoking. Not good. Only now did Greg acknowledge that he left out those reviews when describing the campsite to me.
Greg, rather meekly offered, “Yeah, there were some negative reviews suggesting it was a haven for meth-heads and the homeless...but it's free!” Ultimately, his cheapness overrode his rationality.
We could only laugh as the bounty hunter revealed more of himself as he pounded several cans of Rolling Rock. Apparently, he was visiting his mother, who only lived 20 minutes further into the Tri-Cities area. His tales became more confusing and elaborate as he had worked a wide range of careers from state park Ranger, to photographer, to working with at-risk youth. He also said he came from at least three or four places including the Tri-Cities area, Utah, and Spokane. Despite Matt not being 'the bounty hunter' of my imagination, he offered a certain mystery and contradiction that satisfied my hope of ramping up the bizarre nature of the evening even more.
Before laying down, Greg wondered aloud, “if that guy's mother lives only twenty minutes away, why didn't he just drive there for the night?” I could only laugh.
Suffice it to say, we slept with our blades close, ready for anything that evening. We woke to a quiet camp. Matt 'the bounty hunter' slept in the back of his jeep, legs extended beyond the back hatch. The generic hippie couple on the far side and the motorcycle duo that arrived late were already in the process of packing up as we departed.
The rugged high plains desert was in full effect with tracks to our immediate left and on our right the tracks hugged the opposite side of the Columbia. It felt very much like we were on the down and out industrial outskirts of the Tri-Cities area of Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick. There's a strange beauty to this kind of American wasteland. Every urban area has the dark underbelly that most try to forget. Lewis and Clark didn't see the trains carrying coal to fuel our consumption. They didn't see the barges carrying supplies for the industry which provide the region its sustenance. Nor could they have predicted this far future outcome as they scouted the land for its potential for the American government.
Greg announced that the Sand Station Recreation Area should be coming up on our right and around a bend it soon appeared. I pulled in and we perused the sign.
“No camping for more than 14 days in a month.” OK, that's routine I thought to myself.
“No drug use.” Hm, isn't that implied I thought?
We then navigated the confusing web of gravel roads until we found a small area where he suggested we park. Next to our steady keelboat, the SS Tiny Adventure, was a run down and dirty mid-90s Lincoln Town Car with windows open, debris littering the seats and dashboard. Across the parking lot was an old pick-up truck that was attached to a beat up large motorboat. In its prime it would have been a great boat. There was definitely a small kitchen and living space below decks which always seemed cool to me. It was clearly used more as a home now than a vessel on the open water. There's always a sadness to something not being used as it was intended.
As we looked out to the camping area, we only saw two tents set up, one down on the beach near the swimming area and one under a tree close to the Lincoln. We were excited for space, options, and relative quiet. We set out the tent to dry. This happened quickly in the cool, occasionally violent, breeze that would remain a constant until the sun went down. We soon had it set up. Sitting and chilling, we discussed our next moves in our trip and grabbed the gear we'd need for our evening. Whispers and rumblings occasionally came from the tent near the Lincoln. Who was inside? I can't help but be curious about these things. Eventually, an old man with a cane and knee braces came out to begin cooking a fine smelling dinner. Soon, a grizzled and crooked man with a mesh ball cap shading his face joined him at the picnic table. I was curious about a small trail that headed off up the beach near the boat parked in the lot and I quickly discovered a barbed wire fence protecting a small power station basically neighboring our evening camp. Scenic. Upon my return, a woman in her late 40s came crashing out of the tent near the beach and joined the men cooking at the other site. I sat reading my compiled Leonard Cohen interviews savoring the stereo effect of trains passing close on the other side of the highway and farther in the distance on the other side of the Columbia. As Greg walked by the woman, she caught his attention and asked him something. He gestured to me and she quickly ambled over.
“That one said you have a phone,” pointing to Greg. “Can you look up the number to the Umatilla County jail, I need to see if my boyfriend has been locked up. He hasn't been back in awhile and I'm worried he may have been arrested.”
I made my best effort but couldn't find a clear number and she impatiently grabbed the phone from me to look for herself.
“Do you mind if I call my sister to see if she knows anything?” I happily offered by phone for her needs and after an abrupt conversation where I felt enough evidence had accrued to be confident she was a bit soused she left my number for her sister to call back.
To be clear, we had immediately sensed vague, what I called 'drifter vibes,' upon our arrival. We joked that this would be a good place to hide out if one were on the lam following a crime. By now, with the characters we had encountered, it became clear it was more than that. Young children between 3 and 5 erupted from the area of the boat sitting on its trailer and ran around the shore wildly with the mother chasing behind. I looked to Greg and suggested that this seemed to be the kind of place that Sarah Connor might have dragged her son following her vision of the future from her experiences depicted in the first “Terminator” movie. Somewhere that would be safe. Somewhere that would toughen her son for the future conflict she knew was inevitable.
The first phone call for Debbie soon came and I quickly put down my book and hurried to the beach-side tent. She unzipped her tent and seemed a bit irritable. Perhaps I woke her from an evening nap. Unable to stop myself, as she talked, I peered as best I could, as discretely as possible, into the tent. It was in fine shape and assorted sheets and blankets created a soft and diverse bedding of varied colored, patterns, and textures. Unable to get clear answers from her sister, Debbie mumbled something about “probably enjoying a motel while she was stuck at the campsite” and hung up. She thanked me, handed me the phone back, and I scurried back to our table. By now, Greg and I were enjoying the mystery and slight hint of danger that seemed to be building over the course of the evening. At this point a large SUV had pulled up along the Lincoln Town Car up on the hill that overlooked the beach. It was just far enough to not clearly see the dude that ended up setting up at the picnic table next to his parking spot. He had a dark sweatshirt, facial hair, ball cap, and shorts that showed one leg covered in a sleeve of tattoos. My imagination began to go wild as I speculated it was a bounty hunter waiting for Debbie's boyfriend to return.
Greg announced in a very firm and convincing manner, “This is the kind of place, if you sit here for a few days, you'd see some stuff. You'd get a real American experience.”
What crime had Debbie's boyfriend perpetrated? What would land him in jail without any warning for Debbie? Did she know he was a criminal? Did she know his crime? Was she only waiting for the inevitable moment when he would be snatched from her arms? I could only hope that the answers would unfold this evening as I tried to get back to reading.
The wind had picked up by now and the old man's picnic table, littered with debris, was soon caught in the maelstrom. A bottle or two was blown in our direction and as the old man limped over with a cane, I jumped up to help. Despite my efforts at friendly banter, I could never make out his garbled responses. There was definitely a friendly vibe between us. Greg was particularly excited when he lit up a tobacco pipe in his lawn chair after dinner. We debated lighting up our own and attempting to create some spiritual understanding with one another over a metaphorical 'peace pipe'.
Before we could spend too much time debating that decision, Dwayne had returned with a few of his friends. My back was to another hill that overlooked the beach where they had parked and Greg had announced their return.
Confused, I asked Greg, “Who is Dwayne?”
“I dunno, didn't you say that was his name?”
I never knew his name, I never told Greg anything about a possible name for Debbie's boyfriend. From that moment on though, he was Dwayne to us.
I didn't have a clear sense for why Dwayne's friends were there. There was some mention we caught through the wind or visual implication of Dwayne and Debbie's vehicle being out of gas, or perhaps him vanishing to help them with their gas. The only visible friend lurked above, one hand on a cigarette, the other clutching a can of beer. Dwayne awkwardly climbed into the tent with Debbie, some heated rumblings came from the tent, but silence soon fell over the campsite and Dwayne's friends eventually left.
Things had only just quieted down when Debbie's sister called again. I hurried down to her tent, excited to get a closer look at Dwayne. This was getting better and better as it got more and more mysterious and dangerous. Dwayne looked half-asleep through the netting as I approach and I called out to Debbie. She sprang up, unzipped the net door, and grabbed the phone. The connection was weak again, and she had an annoyed tone as she finally seemed to get in the rhythm of talking to her sister.
“What!?! No. He's back. OK. OK!” With that she hung up, thanked me, and laid back down.
Not a lot to operate on for my imagination, but as I walked up to the car not ten minutes later, I was strangely excited and happy to see an Umatilla County Sheriff jeep pull into the lot. I scrambled down the hill laughing and pointing in the direction of the jeep so Greg was sure to notice. I was sure things were about to get interesting. Gun play? Should we scramble into the tent? Into the foul fly-ridden 'bathrooms' for more secure cover? My hands would stay close to my tomahawk for a good length.
After only a brief entrance, talking to both 'the bounty hunter' and the crooked man who stood next his friend sitting in the Lincoln, the Sheriff pulled away. Were they friends of Dwayne? Were they covering? I was honestly a bit disappointed there was no climax after the anticipation had built over the previous two hours at Sand Station.
Things calmed down from that point, but I continued to wonder about this 'bounty hunter' character who had camping gear, but just seemed to sit there unwilling to commit to setting up his tent. What was his story?
After dinner, and after the sunset, we navigated a four foot snake that startled Greg on the beach. I warned Debbie who had come from the bathroom. She laughed roughly and loudly responded that Dwayne was scared of snakes. She asked that we pick it up and throw it elsewhere, which wasn't at the top of our list. As she scampered to the tent telling Dwayne of the snake even before she arrived, you could hear a slightly bellicose “to hell with you, I don't want to see no snake!” uttered at least twice in response. We laughed at her dark sense of humor as she had a bit of fun at his expense. After all, Dwayne had taken off days ago possibly, leaving Debbie high and dry in a sketchy campsite. Soon, she hopped in their jeep and cruised out. She wouldn't return while we were there, and we wouldn't hear from Dwayne again either as he probably slept off a rough couple of days hanging with his buddies. The mystery of Dwayne and Debbie would remain unanswered.
Meanwhile, the story is best wrapped up by telling of our brief exchange with 'the bounty hunter'. While still navigating the snake's unpredictable path, he appeared suddenly. We got to talking and he quickly announced that the Sand Station Recreation Area was “meth central”. He also recounted the pregnant woman he observed near the boat in the parking lot who came crashing out apparently drinking and smoking. Not good. Only now did Greg acknowledge that he left out those reviews when describing the campsite to me.
Greg, rather meekly offered, “Yeah, there were some negative reviews suggesting it was a haven for meth-heads and the homeless...but it's free!” Ultimately, his cheapness overrode his rationality.
We could only laugh as the bounty hunter revealed more of himself as he pounded several cans of Rolling Rock. Apparently, he was visiting his mother, who only lived 20 minutes further into the Tri-Cities area. His tales became more confusing and elaborate as he had worked a wide range of careers from state park Ranger, to photographer, to working with at-risk youth. He also said he came from at least three or four places including the Tri-Cities area, Utah, and Spokane. Despite Matt not being 'the bounty hunter' of my imagination, he offered a certain mystery and contradiction that satisfied my hope of ramping up the bizarre nature of the evening even more.
Before laying down, Greg wondered aloud, “if that guy's mother lives only twenty minutes away, why didn't he just drive there for the night?” I could only laugh.
Suffice it to say, we slept with our blades close, ready for anything that evening. We woke to a quiet camp. Matt 'the bounty hunter' slept in the back of his jeep, legs extended beyond the back hatch. The generic hippie couple on the far side and the motorcycle duo that arrived late were already in the process of packing up as we departed.