What can you do with a bong and two zip-ties? Repair a broken-down car in the middle of nowhere, that’s what.

Forget calling Nathan “The Resident Carpenter.” After the zip-tie episode I’m now calling him “The Resident Genius.”

More about that later.

Life is totally nuts right now. We’ve been getting ready for Nathan’s Big Show–he’s a headliner at Portland Open Studios, possibly the first blacksmith/ bladesmith they’ve ever admitted to the tour. Getting ready for a studio tour show is a lot of fun…but even more hard work. I did the show a few years ago and it was exhausting…but nothing compared to what we’ve set up this year.

Once he got his own forge, Nathan’s blacksmithing skills grew leaps and bounds, from basic make-a-simple-coathook to highly functional art. We’ve established a business around it–Nathan Cline Knives–and Portland Open Studios was delighted to bring him on board for his first public showing. He built up an inventory of kitchen knives, cooking tools, gorgeous little coathooks and cabinet handles, and (of course) his first love: Designing and making all sorts of wilderness tools, such as camp knives, throwing axes (!), fishing lures, and more.

Me, I did what I do best: The marketing. I built a business website to showcase his work, set up displays and t-shirts and posters and all that. We pulled it all together almost at the last minute, but last week’s debut was both glorious and successful.

Nice thing about inviting total strangers into your home: This house has never been so clean and neat (at least the public spaces–do NOT ask about the garage). The former backyard shed is now a real blacksmith’s forge, the flower beds no longer look like a dog ate them (thank you, Grizz), and the family/dining room has become a metal arts showcase:

If you’re in the Portland area this weekend, come visit. Mom’s making cookies, and sister Suzanne is doing her famous citrus-infused waters, while Nathan and apprentice Favin demonstrate forging and anticlastic raising.

Enough about that. Back to our latest wilderness adventure.

I finished work a bit early yesterday. Nathan pointed out that my beautiful mushroom knife STILL remained un-mushroomified, and the chanterelles were a-callin.’ We packed Grizz into the car and headed up-mountain to ‘shroom.

Chanterelle mushrooms are delicious and great beginning mushrooms, but good luck getting them clean (unless you have a good mushroom knife).

For those who’ve never gone mushrooming (poor you): A mushroom knife easily separates the tasty part of the mushroom from its mycelia (roots). If you cut a mushroom off the ground instead of plucking it, you not only leave the mushroom network intact (to better grow MORE mushrooms), you also keep forest floor debris out of the mushroom. If you’ve ever spent four hours getting elk poop and worse out of all those little mushroom gills, you will definitely appreciate a good mushroom knife.

My mushroom knife, with zebrawood handle and turquoise pins.

Nathan’s designed his mushroom knives to be extremely sharp. They sweep toward the user, tight to the ground, easily maximizing usable mushroom. The knife sits in a leather sheath necklace, out of the way, until needed. Nathan’s are very decorative; he adds file work patterns, exotic wood handles, and mosaic pins to hold the handles together, made from glass, precious metals, etc.

He’s carved a little mushroom scene into the sheath on mine (see pic), so it’s as much fun to look at as it is to use.

I had, unfortunately, forgotten to bring mine for the last three mushroom trips, and a couple more trips were canceled due to unseasonably dry weather. THIS time, come hell or high water, I promised, I would harvest a mushroom with my knife!

Never say that where The God of Adventure can hear.

Our favorite mushroom spot is about 40 miles away, up old logging roads in the Tillamook Forest (and no, I’m not saying exactly where–the Tillamook Forest is BIG and we want to keep all those golden nuggets of deliciosity to ourselves, thank you). We turned off the highway, onto the gravel trails and started the 10-mile trek to our spot.

The road was rougher than usual and the car literally juddered as we trundled along. “Looks like the loggers have come back,” Nathan pointed out, “They make those washboard ruts we’re feeling.”

The God of Adventure found us about four rut-filled miles later, lighting up the Suburban’s dashboard like a Christmas tree. Nathan swore. “We’re overheating. Engine temperature is 270 and rising.”

He pulled over at a wide spot in the trail, smoke pouring from the engine.

Nathan popped the hood. “We’ve lost all our coolant. I hope we haven’t blown a head gasket.”

I’d fortunately tucked a half-gallon bottle of water in the back for Grizz; Nathan poured it into the wherever-hole and we resumed our trek…for about 50 feet before the smoke resumed. He coaxed the Suburban up the hill to a bend with a creek, reopened the hood, and started digging.

The Suburban’s engine compartment is nearly chin-level for me so I could barely see what was going on, and in any case my experience with auto repair is pretty much limited to reading the total on the bill and handing over my credit card. Nathan outlined the diagnostic steps he was taking; I helped by nodding wisely and keeping my mouth shut.

“Ah-HAH!” he crowed, grabbing at a big black hose that appeared to be hanging out in space, “HERE’S the leak!” Apparently a plastic fitting had degraded with heat and time (it’s a 22-year old car, after all), and popped the coolant hose off the engine-hoozits. All those logging-truck ruts had shaken it loose.

The fitting was in crumbles–Nathan had to dig it out of the hosepipe–but without it, we weren’t gonna get that pipe back on the intake-thingee.

What followed was an exercise in McGyvering. Nathan dove into the back where–luckily–he kept a bunch of tools, looking for hoseclamps. Nothing, so he had to improvise. Maybe he could modify a flashlight tube? Naaah–too big. A chunk of PVC from the boat carrier on top? Nope, even bigger.

Cell reception was nil this far into the wilderness, so it wasn’t like I could call AAA for a tow. I took stock of our inventory for spending the night in a Suburban: Three sticks of doggie jerky, two bottles of Gatorade, and a stick of gum. I wondered if we could quickly train Grizz to hunt for dinner…

“I know: My bong!!!” Nathan yelled, waving it in the air.

Lemme explain: Pot is legal in Oregon, as you undoubtedly know; I used it for pain relief when we were saving Elmo and my left leg, and Nathan is something of an aficionado. A bong is kinda like a hookah but not really (and no, I don’t know the difference; my marijuana adventures were more of the edible kind because I can’t stand the smoke).

Nathan keeps a miniature silicone bong in the car in case he stops for the night or whatever, and wants to relax. It has a long, cylindrical neck, perfect for creating the interface between the engine intake and that pesky, crumbling hose. He chopped off four inches of the neck: Perfect fit!

A socket from his socket wrench collection would provide the rigid support needed to make the connection, and he dug out a coil of thick copper wire to secure the lot.

Grizz sat in the car, anxiously awaiting a chance to hunt grizzlebears and cougars, while the repairs continued. “OK,” said Nathan at last, “Let’s fire her up and see if it holds. Stand back over there so you don’t get sprayed in the face.”

I obediently stepped behind the rear view mirror and waited. Gurgle gurgle spit.

“Damn. What else do we have?

I plowed through the Suburban’s center console in search of booty. “How about, ” I asked, “A zip tie?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Give me that!”

Success. I felt like a hero. Nathan dug deep into the Suburban and unearthed a second, enough to get us down to the highway…”But we’re not going there. We’re going to go up and find mushrooms!”

Uhm…OK. I think. We drove to The Spot, only to find it picked out. (This is what comes, Nathan, of telling your best buddy about your really GREAT mushroom spot, and then she tells a friend and he tells a friend and…voila! No stroganoff for you!)

Nathan ranged far ahead, seeking an untouched chanterelle while I plowed stolidly through the underbrush and tried to ignore the loud crunch and crack of breaking branches behind me. (This place really DOES have lions and tigers and bears, or at least mountain lions and bears. Oh my.)

“Cynthia, was that you cracking branches? Never mind, I found a mushroom!” he called, “It’s right past the woodpecker tree! Come use your knife!….”

What the HELL is the woodpecker tree?

“Cynthia! Cynthia? Where are you?”

“Hold your horses, I’ll be there in a minute” I grumbled, “This is a VERY difficult trail.”

“Probably because,” he grinned, “You’re not ON the trail. The trail is that wide open spot where everybody walks. Why do you always pick the worst route?”

I ignored this, climbing over trees, fleeing hornets, and fighting blackberry brambles until I reached…The Mushroom.

“That’s it?” It was a quarter-sized fledgling chanterelle, barely visible in the undergrowth.

“Yep. That’s the only one I’ve seen. I wanted you to use your knife.”

I leaned over, applied The Knife to The Mushroom, and put it in my collection bag. We trudged back up the hill to the car, found cell reception, and thought about calling for a tow but…those zip ties looked pretty good and the engine temp was still normal.

The bong and zip ties held us all the way back home.