Smith Rock

 I stayed at Smith Rock State Park for my second night of camping. A woman named Tammy recommended the site; she was smoking a cigarette at a truck stop just north of Klamath Falls, and by virtue of the fact that she talked to me and had a recommendation she became my guide. 

   Tammy was right on the money; Smith Rock is a climber's haven, replete with young people and young spirits running around in puffy down jackets and playing on slack lines. I met a financial advisor from North Dakota who was touring on a BMW, and we talked for a bit about our prospective routes. He was fired up about his blog (www.murphygoeswest.blogspot.com) and the enjoyment of his trip was visible in his eyes. He said that this was his two weeks off for the year, and that he had been planning this trip since he had his last two weeks, this time last year. 

   A recent divorcé with two kids who he loves very much, Murphy readily admitted that his slick BMW was his post-divorce, midlife crisis purchase.  I always like it when people are bluntly honest about things like that: it seems healthy and cathartic to be able to accept the goofiest possible explanation for something in our lives. A guy like that realizes that we're all just dicking around here on Earth, and whether you're doing it on a motorcycle or selling mutual funds is largely irrelevant. We were both doing what made us happy, and it increased our happiness to talk about it with someone who understood. Smith Rock was a place of excellent energy. Apparently Allan Watts wrote some guidebook for the area, but I didn't go into the shop to find out if it was THE Allan Watts or not. I wouldn't be surprised if it were.