O'Brien, Oregon

Since camping by the tiny two store town of O'Brien (about 8 miles north of the CA border), I've spent a little time with two radically different groups of folks:  In the evenings it's McGrews - a rowdy biker bar facing HWY 199.  Local bands rock the house, covering classic Thorogood, Skinner and Fogerty.  The lead singer is hairy and sweaty and pouring his soul into each song.  Everyone's laughing, chain smoking, shouting, drinking and dancing - the dancing's dirty and the drinking's hard.  Clothing appears to have been purchased sometime between 1970-1985 and worn ever since.  Eye contact is met with big toothy smiles and beer raises.  Almost everyone looks to be over 50 - some, in their 80's.  Everyone knows each others names - like a grimy version of Cheers with four-wheelers and methamphetamine.  


My campsite is located by a botanical treasure trove of rare plants that thrive in the Siskiyou Mountains.  Each day, dozens of botanical tourists visit the campground for lunch and a refreshing dip in the creek.  These folks average the same age as McGrew's crowd and they're all very kind...but that's about all the two have in common.  They arrive in minivans.  Water is sipped politely through BPA-free Nalgene bottles.  Everyone's quiet and observant of nature.  Clothing is brand new - straight from this summer's catalogs for REI, LL Bean and Eddie Bauer. Binoculars and cameras are carried in fanny packs.  Faces are protected by various types of sunhats and layers of sunscreen.  I, too, lay in the shade for lunch, reading my book quietly.  All is peaceful, until thunder comes rolling down the mountain - four shirtless dirt-bikers cutting each other off and raising hell in preparation for tonight's ho-down at ol' McGrews.