Worst trip ever.

Camping in Oregon is a very remote experience. If a person isn’t afraid of what’s in the woods, there are 7.1 million acres of National Forest in which to camp. Once you choose your spot, you may not see another human until you choose to return to civilization.

This isn’t a Bigfoot story, it is all too human, and told to me by a friend - a native Oregonian who is at ease in nature. Names and places have been changed. His words:

My buddy Rich and I decided to camp out for spring break. Rich knew a great spot off a logging road near the town of Waldport, on the coast. And, he had just scored some mushrooms - so we thought what a great way to spend the break. Shrooming, hiking to great beach views.

We were packing my car, a little 2 door Nissan, when our friend Billy showed up in a baby blue Cadillac he’d just inherited. We were blown away! We told Billy our plan, and he said he wanted to come too. He was dating a girl who lived in Waldport, so she could meet us there, and bring us food while we were tripping. On-site food delivery? Hell yeah!

We loaded our gear into Billy’s Cadillac and headed to Waldport. Once there, we drove 2 miles into the national forest on a paved road, then another 2 miles down a logging road to a perfect clearing, with good access to a favorite trail. We set up our tent quickly, and excitedly ate a massive amount of shrooms before making a fire.

It was only after the shrooms took effect that we realized we hadn’t stopped at the 7-11 in town for food and water. We had a 6-pack of Diet Pepsi and a box of lemon hydrox cookies. We were young and dumb and shrugged it off. When Billy’s girlfriend came, she’d bring food and water.

Except when she arrived, she didn’t know she was supposed to bring supplies. She and Billy slipped away over the hill for a while, then stopped by our fire to say they were leaving.

By that time, we were all tripping hard, and Rich and I were in no state to drive. “Could you guys at least bring us food?” we begged them, and they grudgingly agreed.

They left for an hour, then returned with a quart of orange juice and a bag of Funyuns. Billy left us the keys to his car, so we could drive into town when we sobered up. While hiking, Rich and I bitched about Billy ditching us, and the shitty food they brought us.

Then it started to rain. We sat in Billy’s Cadillac, drinking warm Diet Pepsi and eating stale lemon hydrox, listening to the one tape left in the car: Billy Joel’s “The Stranger.” We figured once we came down, we’d drive into town.

Except we weren’t coming down. 18 hours later, and we were both still flying.

And we were both hungry.

“Fuck it, let’s walk into town,” said Rich, and I agreed.

We had flashlights, but after the rain the sky cleared, and we didn’t really need them. We figured it was about 6 miles to the 7-11, and with any luck, we could hitchhike once we got to the main road.

“Maybe it’ll be a couple of hot chicks,” I laughed.

“Yeah, a couple a sweet coastal babes,” agreed Rich.

Still tripping, it seemed to take forever to reach the paved road through the National Forest, but once we reached it, we saw the headlights of a car heading towards town.

We stuck out our thumbs enthusiastically, with big, shrooming smiles on our faces, and a little red Fiero zoomed past us, then stopped, brakes squealing. They back up, and in the reflected light a slender, long-haired figure opened the passenger door and pushed forward the seat.

Rich and I ran to the car laughing, bouncing into the back seat without even introducing ourselves to the person holding the door - who quickly pushed the seat back, climbed in and we zoomed away.

The front passenger lit a cigarette, and in that light, we could see our long-haired savior was in fact an insectoid, pock-marked man with bad teeth and worse breath. His face so hollow, his eyes bulging, he looked like a giant insect with gangly limbs and a long dirty wig.

Our driver was his opposite. Big, burly, dressed in camouflage, he never said a word, but gripped the steering wheel with intensity, taking the curves 20 mph over the speed limit.

No one spoke. The only sound came from the wind rushing in the open window, and the sound of tires squealing on pavement.

Rich and I exchanged glances. We had fucked up.

The skinny guy said, “What are you two doing?”

“Huh?” Chris and I were totally tripping and freaked out.

“What are you guys doing out in the middle of the forest?”

We explained we were camping and realized we didn’t have enough food. Could they take us to the 7-11 in Bandon?

“We could do that,” said the skinny guy.

We thanked them profusely and offered to give them gas money.

Neither of the men replied.

“Hey, you like music?” the skinny guy asked.

Yes! Yes, we liked music!

“Check this out,” he said, and popped in a tape of Bruce fucking Hornsby, “That’s Just the Way It Is.” As the beginning notes strung out, I thought man this is a bad trip.

“Wow,” I said sarcastically, without thinking. Rich elbowed me.

The skinny guy adjusted the rear-view mirror, so he could look at me. “Bruce Fucking Hornsby is a fucking amazing musician, and if you knew shit, you’d know it.” He cranked the music up and glared at me in the mirror.

I shook my head, feeling like a douche. “Sorry, man. You’re right, I don’t know shit.”

Rich shook his head at me. We were fucked. I tried again.

“What are you guys doin? We didn’t think we’d get a ride until we hit the 101.”

“We’re just driving around, looking for people to pick up,” the skinny guy said.

“Looking for people to pick up?” asked Rich. “For what?”

“For fightin and stuff,” the skinny guy turned around in his seat. “We got in a fucking brawl earlier in Newport. Pretty sure Jake here broke this Portland yuppy’s jaw. Been hidin in the woods for an hour to get away from the pigs.” He looked at me. “You two look like you’re from Portland.”

“Eugene,” said Rich.

“Born and raised,” I added.

“Farmers?” he asked.

“I work at the lumber mill,” I said, and Rich nodded.

“Huh,” he said, and turned back around.

We pulled up to the intersection with 101, so we were close to town, now.

“You just turn right here, and the 7-11 is about half a mile that way,” I said.

The driver turned left.

“Right! Right! Turn right, here!” said Rich, eyes bulging. He looked so freaked, I thought he might puke.

The driver slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel sharply. I hit my head on the window, and Rich hit his head on me. When we began moving again, the car was facing in the direction of Waldport.

The skinny guy laughed creepily and nodded.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the 7-11, and the skinny guy slowly climbed out and stretched before pushing his seat forward, so we could get out of the back seat. We scrambled out as quick as we could, thanking them for the ride, offering them gas money.

The skinny guy shook his head wordlessly.

Rich beat it into the 7-11.

“Ok, then. Well, see you around,” I said from the sidewalk, as he got back into the car.

He looked at me, and blew out smoke, nodding.

“Yeah,” he said, “you probably will.”

We stayed in Waldport until morning, then hitched a ride back to camp. We never saw them again, but we never slept well the rest of the trip.

Worst trip ever.

Indeed.