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Our amazing american vacation!
We, the Pin, seldom leave the nourishing glow of our fire crystals, by which we see the blinking green letters on the black screens of our local area network of computers we use to create and maintain this interesting site. But, on prime numbered years, we like to venture beyond the comforting confines of our fogou. And since our last vacation was so remarkably casualty free (and we got some nifty photos to share) we thought we would write up about it.
We decided that, since none of us had been there in quite a while, we would take a sweeping tour of Lane County, Oregon. First going on a brisk walk around the whole perimeter of the county, finishing our trek in Eugene. From there we would head to the pinochle of our trip, the tiara on Ms. Oregon's head, sesame seeds on our bun—The Lane County Sheriff's Department! So come along as we experience the wonders of Lane County, Oregon together. Don't forget the sunscreen!
We decided that, since none of us had been there in quite a while, we would take a sweeping tour of Lane County, Oregon. First going on a brisk walk around the whole perimeter of the county, finishing our trek in Eugene. From there we would head to the pinochle of our trip, the tiara on Ms. Oregon's head, sesame seeds on our bun—The Lane County Sheriff's Department! So come along as we experience the wonders of Lane County, Oregon together. Don't forget the sunscreen!
We began with a brisk walk around the county perimeter. We set out from the southern border of Eugene, aiming to arrive again at the northern border where we would begin the next leg of our trip. We began our trek in high spirits, but soon decided just to walk. And it's a good thing we did. One of us found a six-legged crab in one of the tidal pools on the beach. We ate well that night. We only lost two of us to flesh eating bacteria. Things were looking up. As we descended the coast and began moving inland, we came across a most interesting local. As we were walking single file across a fallen log spanning a rill, she lept out to greet us.
She demanded we fork over all of our pemmican and powder, but also declared she was unwilling traverse the log as we had just done to get it from us. Fearing retribution from any local deity we promptly complied. Gathering all of our remaining pemmican and baby power we latched it together with nearby jungle vines. Again she demanded that we fork it over and at once grabbed our hastily assembled bundle with a primitive mechanical grabber. Making the most curious pleased grunts, she disappeared back under the log. Just delighted with our first real cultural experience we tried to get the woman's name, but unfortunately she shut herself up tight in her hovel. Fortunately, one of us managed to snap the accompanying photograph before it was too late.
She demanded we fork over all of our pemmican and powder, but also declared she was unwilling traverse the log as we had just done to get it from us. Fearing retribution from any local deity we promptly complied. Gathering all of our remaining pemmican and baby power we latched it together with nearby jungle vines. Again she demanded that we fork it over and at once grabbed our hastily assembled bundle with a primitive mechanical grabber. Making the most curious pleased grunts, she disappeared back under the log. Just delighted with our first real cultural experience we tried to get the woman's name, but unfortunately she shut herself up tight in her hovel. Fortunately, one of us managed to snap the accompanying photograph before it was too late.
Onward! We continued undaunted. The interior of Lane County can be quite rugged at times—if you believe in mountains. This wasn't our first rodeo though, we stuck to level ground. For four months we traipsed the county line, stopping to rest every 17 days. About 2/3s of the way around the perimeter of the county line we reached the northern most point of our vacation. Again, we were in for quite a treat. Bog Maidens! Northern Lane County is known the world over for its 6 million square mile, temporally unconsecutive miasmatic bog. As you can imagine, we were nose-drippingly excited. Oh to see and feel and hear and taste, and to smell one of the earth's greatest treasures.
As we crossed the threshold into the bog a lone, stray yuppie, no doubt from more northerly regions, darted past. His attire was a tattered parka and cargo shorts stuffed full of pine cones, the pockets of which were crammed with leaves. The sock on his left foot looked as if it hadn't left that sandal in months. His other foot had toenails that had grown through each finger of his vibrams. His chin-beard was unkempt. As he scurried past all we heard him say was, "Fennel and brimstone! Beware the vog!" Now, we here at the Pin don't usually take pity on the week, but we left a little quinoa out for the poor creature. . . It was the last of the quinoa.
As we moved through the "atmosphere" of the bog droplets of the renowned miasma began to condense on us. Then we didn't remember anything until we heard the singing. We all agreed we must have been wandering for just two or maybe three weeks, but our hair was a full two meters longer, and the thought that maybe hard butterscotch candies might be alright began to creep into our minds. It was the singing that drew us closer to lucidity.
The singing. Oh the melodious, sweet choral symphony! It was almost imperceptible at first. But it grew louder, and more beautiful, and entrancing. They were lovely, the bog maidens. But there was something more to them. The miasma quit scalding our skin. The bog mites seemed gentler. The crows kept at arms length. Again our wits grew dim, however. One of us though, the one of us who was not so beguiled by the bog maidens, the one of us more interested in the literal bog bunnies who are "soft and fluffy and good for petting" and the one who "wishes to pet the bunnies and comb the moss out of there furs and hug them" and the one who was not discouraged by the deep lacerations caused by the claws and sharp fangs of the vorpal rabbits, this one took the photograph you see above. The next thing we knew most of us were on the far western side of the line. Our shoes and our flint stones were gone and our spanks were loose around our bodies. All of our second right molars were also unaccounted for. We decided not to wait for them but counted them in a better place anyway.
The sun was then rising on the second leg of our vacation. We had allotted so long for the bog but if we were to keep our itinerary we would need to head for Eugene. The next destination on our trip!
As we crossed the threshold into the bog a lone, stray yuppie, no doubt from more northerly regions, darted past. His attire was a tattered parka and cargo shorts stuffed full of pine cones, the pockets of which were crammed with leaves. The sock on his left foot looked as if it hadn't left that sandal in months. His other foot had toenails that had grown through each finger of his vibrams. His chin-beard was unkempt. As he scurried past all we heard him say was, "Fennel and brimstone! Beware the vog!" Now, we here at the Pin don't usually take pity on the week, but we left a little quinoa out for the poor creature. . . It was the last of the quinoa.
As we moved through the "atmosphere" of the bog droplets of the renowned miasma began to condense on us. Then we didn't remember anything until we heard the singing. We all agreed we must have been wandering for just two or maybe three weeks, but our hair was a full two meters longer, and the thought that maybe hard butterscotch candies might be alright began to creep into our minds. It was the singing that drew us closer to lucidity.
The singing. Oh the melodious, sweet choral symphony! It was almost imperceptible at first. But it grew louder, and more beautiful, and entrancing. They were lovely, the bog maidens. But there was something more to them. The miasma quit scalding our skin. The bog mites seemed gentler. The crows kept at arms length. Again our wits grew dim, however. One of us though, the one of us who was not so beguiled by the bog maidens, the one of us more interested in the literal bog bunnies who are "soft and fluffy and good for petting" and the one who "wishes to pet the bunnies and comb the moss out of there furs and hug them" and the one who was not discouraged by the deep lacerations caused by the claws and sharp fangs of the vorpal rabbits, this one took the photograph you see above. The next thing we knew most of us were on the far western side of the line. Our shoes and our flint stones were gone and our spanks were loose around our bodies. All of our second right molars were also unaccounted for. We decided not to wait for them but counted them in a better place anyway.
The sun was then rising on the second leg of our vacation. We had allotted so long for the bog but if we were to keep our itinerary we would need to head for Eugene. The next destination on our trip!