Down at the Station
Between travel to the Iceland Noir book festival and a strong flu, I was not able to think about this web site. I have not finished most of the logs from geocaching on that trip but a number of things came to mind:
George R. R. Martin is extremely engaging but he was the only one at the festival who brought their own security. Perhaps he should finish the Winds of Winter.
Walking to an ice cave is very cold. Our guide pushed for an early start, but if he hadn’t we would have been stuck waiting in a large line. It would have been like the pictures of Everest climbers standing around while waiting to continue their climb under hostile conditions. I’m not sure whether I could have done that.
We were fortunate to be walking by a plaza when they turned on the lights for a Christmas Cat. A holiday cat may sound cute and cuddly, but has its dark side. In some places if you are naughty you might get on Santa’s bad side and end up with a lump of coal. In Iceland, the Christmas Cat will eat you. If you survive you will probably get a book as a gift. Books are a traditional gift that will get you through the winter darkness. Iceland Noir indeed.
Reykjavík still has a beautiful monument to civil disobedience: a spike is breaking rock. If there was such a monument in every country we would be far better off. As Joe Hill said, ‘Resist.”
Siri Hustvedt is one of the smartest people I have heard speak. I was not familiar with her but in many ways she stole the show with both her intelligence and compassion.
Since I had limited time to write, with a number of unlogged caches still remaining, the story here focuses on Union Station, the start of our trip. We had time to spend an afternoon in Portland. I enjoyed the city, from the faded signs on brick buildings to a very small park that is home to leprechauns. Powell’s Books was a perfect spot (with a cache across the street) to keep within the theme of writing and books.
Beginning with SideTracked – Portland Union Station we followed twists along the streets we walked. I expected to write something much different, but then I realized there were so many people there who had gotten sidetracked over the years. Once that happens it’s hard to find your way back.
The title of the geocache here might have been better for a country song written by Kristofferson, but I got a cache log from it. When did Kris ever do that?
My Log
Sidetracked in Portland. I got sidetracked years ago. In another lifetime I might have ended up like the people across the street, writing mad poetry in a crumpled notebook and hoping for a bit of warmth.
On my track I ended finding a different route.
Sidetracked in Portland. I might have ended up here. Occupying. Resisting. It can be a calling. But it’s become harder to live off of nothing. I used to know someone who tried it but he lost his leg trying to hop a train. I could tell when he was in the area. One shoe would be missing from where I lived.
On my track I tried to stay true.
Sidetracked in Portland. The station was quiet, but ghosts of passengers walk these halls. They have left their collective memory behind. An old woman who might have seen better times was one of the few here, sitting, and waiting — for something or perhaps nothing. Time in a station has no memory unless it’s the station master’s clock.
On my track, we only had to go to the next cache.
Side Tracked in Portland. I thought about the time when I explored an abandoned station. It almost looked like the one here, except dustier.
11/09/2025
