I've just crossed into Oregon. Last night I camped on the outskirts of a little town just below the border, with the intention of going down to the local tavern to get a drink before going to bed. I went to the closest bar (there are two in town), and got the usual you-ain't-from-around-here look before sitting at a barstool. I asked the bartender if the bar picks up at all on a thursday night, to which she responded no, but advised me to go to the bar down the street, called the Bank (it used to be one), which "attracts a younger crowd.". Well, the bar contained only a couple of people under 50 at its peek (I guess that IS a younger crowd around there), so I settled down to talk with a bar patron, figuring I might as well get a decent conversation in before going to bed. Well, it turns out that this fella is a retired cocaine smuggler, and I got to hear about the two times he was shot, the three times he was stabbed, and the drug trade in general as he bought me drinks. Now he confines himself to growing pot and living the humble life in small town california. He offered me a place to stay for the night and to get me "completely fucked up", but I'd already pitched camp so I turned him down. He provided me with loads of information about the surrounding areas, where to go and where to avoid, which I was quite grateful for. Early this morning I got up to a somewhat rainy and miserable day, and crossed the oregon california border at a leisurely pace.