April 27, 2013

Saturday

We are in Bend, Oregon. Desert flowers are blooming and I am frustrated with finding a way to compose them. Poppy and I walk, she was not supposed to be with us on this trip, but she is now.

The Great American Road Trip - Exploring Hood River

Continued from Driving to Hood River, Oregon.

I stepped out of our motel in Hood River, which was settled cozily between Interstate 84 and the Columbia River Gorge. If you have never been to the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, I highly recommend it. There are mossy forests, stunning scenic views of the gorge, waterfalls, and some amazing hiking. So anyway, I stepped out of the motel room to take Poppy for a jog. The sun was warming up and there was a cool breeze. Wow, it was really breezy. Actually, I think it is downright windy. But I have heard the kitesurfing is the king of sports here, so I guess its to be expected.

The Columbia River Gorge, view from near our motel.

After the jog, Paul and I head downtown to the Dog River Cafe where I heard they served Stumptown Coffee, another recommendation of mine, if you find yourself in the greater Portland area.

Dog River Cafe

The highlights of our morning include: watching the windsurfers at the waterfront park and trying to get Poppy to fetch a stick in the river, hiking six blocks of stairs built into the hillsides above downtown in the residential neighborhoods, eating bland and overly-stuffed-with-lettuce tacos downtown, ordering freshly made juice from the Juice Brothers cart while talking to a local about Hood River as well as the guy Matt, the juice guy, and watching Tibetan monks create a sand mandala at the library.

Downtown

View of Downtown with the Columbia River in the distance.

The Waterfront Park

Another View of Downtown and the neighborhoods above.

A view of Downtown as we climb the hill above town.

Matt, the Juice Guy, from Juice Brothers.

Tibetan Monks

After all that excitement, we decide to drive around the surrounding rural area. The Hood River Valley is rolling green with orchards and vineyards. The back roads are winding, hilly and fun to drive. After meandering to the end of the paved road near the top of a mountain, we made our way along the fruit loop and wine loop and stop at Apple Valley Country Store along the Hood River where I sample and purchase some Huckleberry and Marionberry jam.

Hood River Valley with a faint view of Mount Hood.

Poppy, enjoying the countryside from the car window.

A fun, hilly country road.

The Hood River Valley

A view of Mount Adams in Washington.

Another hilly road in the rural Hood River Valley.

After a Paul and Poppy nap back at the motel, Paul and I head out for an early dinner. We go to the Trillium Cafe, which I hear is a low-key sort of local place with simple food. We order beer and food and a large, bald, middle aged man sits down next to me. We start to talk to him and learn he is from Sacramento and is in Hood River for a month to learn to teach yoga. Interesting. He continues to talk and I politely listen until I start to overhear the women in her early thirties sitting next to Paul telling him about having all kinds of exciting sexual encounters with multiple men at the Cannes Film Festival in France this past spring. Okay, what the hell is going on? Meet Vita.

Vita

Vita is from Vancouver, Washington. She mentored a group of film students at the Cannes Film Festival and decided to take advantage of every single opportunity that came her way in Cannes. It sounded like an adventure in celebrities, exquisite and lavish parties, lots and lots of booze, debauchery, and basically having sex or at least making out with many, many people. She continued to tell us the sad tales of her broken heart love stories, which included a poet from Milwaukee who had enough of her three dogs. She lamented about the only available bachelors in the small town where she is living with her parents are the 18-year old high school quarterback and the mid-fifties former child molester. Hence, she is Hood River.

Chris

In the midst of these thrilling tales, we meet Matt, the juice guy, again and he joins our conversation, reiterating that Hood River is a really cool place. Then comes in Chris, who says he is from Seattle but also owns a condo in Huntington Beach, is a chiropractor, has a better voice than Layne Staley, plays in a band (who he probably thinks is better than Alice in Chains) is recently divorced and is hanging out in Hood River with some friends. Naturally, Vita and Chris end up hooking up outside, where I will save you the description of what I saw when we stopped to say goodbye. I did manage to talk to both bartenders, both from Portland, who both said that Hood River is really the greatest place on earth. Well, we'll see.

The Great American Road Trip - Driving to Hood River, Oregon

Continued from The Great American Road Trip.

Despite baking in the sun, I do like the drive to Oregon. My sister mentioned to me that I seem to drive to Oregon every month and actually, she is pretty close to correct. Once you get away from the Bay Area and past the Sacramento Valley, the landscape becomes more interesting along Shasta Lake and through the Siskyou Mountains. My favorite part is always the appearance of Mount Shasta on the horizon.

Mount Shasta

Poppy

After getting off the interstate in a town called Weed (go ahead, giggle), California, the road continues north and east toward Oregon. On the way, is the grasslands of Butte Valley, green and watery in the spring and dry and golden toward the end of summer. I find many people are surprised to learn that Central Oregon is actually quite dry, unlike the rest of the state on the west side of the Cascade mountains.

Butte Valley

The California-Oregon border

Dry Oregon

I could almost do this drive in my sleep, but this time, unlike most, my final destination is not Bend, Oregon. For the first time, I continue past Bend, without even stopping. The sun is setting in velvety waves of color behind the silhouette of several dark and pointy Cascade mountaintops. We are just outside Madras, Oregon driving through lovely countryside, with large irrigation sprinklers spraying rosy sprays of water over golden fields.

The first stop on our Great American Road Trip is Hood River, Oregon. Hood River is about 60 miles east of Portland with a population of about 7,000. It is on the banks of the great Columbia River, along the Columbia River Gorge, some of the most scenic landscape in America. We arrive at our motel late and a less than full moon is hanging low and golden orange in the sky. Tomorrow, we explore Hood River.

From Bend to San Francisco

Again, I am in Bend, Oregon. With a smile, I remember walking with Rose, eating soup with Stephen, making baby Aiden giggle as I pretend to gobble his hand, hearing Abby's contagious laugh, seeing the fuzzy deer and rabbits from Dawn's window and getting warm hugs from my favorite people in Bend.

My favorite image in Bend was not one that I captured. At night, I walk the patchy path of crunchy snow and ice from one street to another. I look up and see the criss-crossing, thin branches of a young, bare tree with a few shriveled leaves clinging and glowing in the moonlight.

I eat by myself at a narrow counter by the window. Three of the staff members stop by to check on me and I can feel their kind and somewhat pitying expressions for the woman all alone. It makes me uncomfortable. I do not feel lonely as I write in my battered and worn, green journal. I appreciate their concern, but would feel better if they had a different conclusion of my solitude. But I get it and maybe they feel more about me than I do.

I appreciate my time walking with Abby. The calm morning turns blustery and you can see the wind from the flying, sandy dirt and debris. I wipe the film of sand from my lips caught there by my lip balm. We walk along the loveliest of all rivers, the Deschutes.

I exit the wind into the airport and breeze through security. We are buckled into our seats, ready for takeoff, unknowing that the plane will not move again, at least not on this day. In line to be re-ticketed, I call my sister to check the weather for the towns I would pass through if I happened to drive back to San Francisco. At 9 p.m. snow will fall in Dorris and the same for Weed, California but Redding looks clear. I want to be home. I could get past the snow before 9 p.m. but it is not my fate to drive this time.

Instead, I board a plane for Portland, in the tenth and final row of the small plane. I trade the aisle for the window seat with the young man next to me. Better than a movie, I watch the land of central Oregon stretch out below me and I salivate as I look north and east to the remote stretches of desert and I strongly desire to explore it. That is the kind of alone-ness that energizes me, in it I feel who I am.

We fly into the clouds and above them and the ground is gone again until we near Portland. Then the clouds break up and the rolling green hills and forests appear. I can see the farthest reaching western touches of snow, the trees are dusted in white and then finally, only green. I am grateful to see the Columbia River Gorge as we fly parallel to the huge river. We land smoothly.

I spend five hours at the Portland airport, sitting in the large open area at a table next to the tall windows. Businessmen are scattered about on their laptops. One man is engaged in a video call and by his looks and hand gestures he must be talking to his kids. A large crowd of people gather just beyond security with balloons and signs and they start clapping and cheering for someone who has finally arrived. What a nice welcome, I wonder if I would ever like that.

I sit next to two off-duty flight attendants by my gate for two hours waiting to board our delayed flight. I can tell they have lots of practice waiting. I finish the book I bought at the San Francisco airport before I left, never expecting to read a whole book on my short trip to Bend. I am not sure the book was good for me. Many times I wanted to stop reading, throw it out, even burn it. It wasn't all bad. It glared at me the addiction of doing, doing, doing things, lacking passion, and bloated with shallow activity. But it wasn't all bad.

I talk to another of my sisters on the phone. It is her birthday and I wish I could be with her. I miss her nearly every moment I am not with her, I don't feel that way about too many people, maybe only her. Why is that?

The air feels very rough and I tighten my seatbelt as much as I can. We are over the runway, but we have not touched down yet. I like flying but I don't always like landing. We bounce and swerve small amounts and then brake hard but we are safely on the ground. We wait for 15 minutes just short of the gate in San Francisco. I have finally run out of patience. I am at the back of the plane and it takes a long time to empty. Paul picks me up, curbside.

At nearly 1 a.m., I walk in the door of my house exactly 12 hours after I walked into the Redmond/Bend airport. Knowing that fact turns me into a complainer. But really, I want it as an excuse to take the morning off, to gather myself and clear my mind. I need that time. If I take the time without an excuse, I fear I am weak and lazy. I roll my eyes and shake my head at myself, "Give me a break!" I tell myself, literally. Okay fine, I just might try.

View From Above

I have a lot of flying dreams. They are so vivid that I swear my body remembers the sensation of flying (which is always like swimming through the air). My father's passion is flying airplanes. He wanted to be a fighter jet pilot and was forever scarred the day he was twelve and got eyeglasses. Even to this day my father is affected deeply by this turn of events in his life and still talks about how much he wished he could fly in a fighter jet, just once, and experience what it is like to do a roll in the air, just because you can.

As kids, my father would take us up in small two-seater airplanes and sometimes we would fly over our house. That was the coolest thing. A couple of years ago I went up in a helicopter for the first time at the helicopter museum in West Chester, Pennsylvania. My grandfather, who built and worked for helicopter companies the vast majority of his career, helped start the helicopter museum. That helicopter ride was an amazing experience.

I travel to Bend, Oregon many times a year. I usually drive except in the winter when conditions can be too wintry for such a long journye. A couple of weeks ago I flew from San Francisco to Bend. I love this flight because you fly in a small jet at such a low altitude that you can experience all the sights (and more) you see on the drive, from above. For me, it is magical. I hope you enjoy the journey in photographs. See the map below for a sometimes rough estimate of each photograph point.

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I turn on my DSLR the second after the attendant announces, "It is now safe to use approved, electronic devices." This was the best shot of San Francisco I could get at this stage in the flight. I like finding my street and all the familiar places in the city. Here, you can see the long stretch of San Francisco beach, the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the rectangular Golden Gate Park and Alcatraz, which looks much smaller than I pictured from the ground.

A: San Francisco, the Bay and the Marin Headlands

We head north and east and pass over the East Bay where you can see Golden Gate Fields Racetrack, part of the Berkeley Hills, Richmond and towards San Rafael.

B: The East Bay

C: Further north at the edge of the Bay, near American Canyon.

It took me a little while to realize that this is Napa Valley. The rectangle at the bottom left corner is Yountville and the body of water on the right, center is Lake Hennessey. You can see north up the valley all the way to St. Helena. The vines would probably have leaves on them that have turned fall colors or maybe they have shriveled up by now.

D: Napa Valley

This is the edge of Lake Berryessa where Berryessa-Knoxville Road crosses two bridges. The surrounding hills look relatively vacant over Napa County's largest lake.

E: Lake Berryessa

Between Clearlake and Interstate 5 is this small mountain range. I drove through some of these hills last spring in search of wildflowers.

F: Hills East of Clearlake

G: A valley somewhere in the hills west of Arbuckle.

H: Hills and farmland north of Willows

I: The Sacramento River near the town of Proberta

On my drives to Bend, I often get glimpses of the Sacramento River and I am always amazed at how long it runs. One of my favorite parts of the drive is around Lake Shasta. I always make my halfway stop in Redding for gas and a break. Then I get to enjoy the amazing scenery around the blue waters, mountains and inlets of Lake Shasta. I think it is actually more beautiful from the ground.

J: Lake Shasta, north of Redding

When Interstate 5 gets to the town of Weed (yes there is a town called Weed) you get on Highway 97 to drive to Bend. This is where the drive gets really remote, but it is here that you are treated to the vistas of the looming Mount Shasta.

K: Mount Shasta

L: Snow fields in the foothills of Mount Shasta

M: Southeast of Macdoel at Robison and Technor Roads

After leaving the hills around Mount Shasta you enter Butte Valley, a dry valley of irrigated farmland.

N: A view of the town of Macdoel and Meiss Lake in the distance

Just over the Oregon border, the farmland changes a bit and you can see the difference a state funded irrigation program makes in the landscape.

O: Oregon farmland just over the border

Continue on and soon you will be over the city of Klamath Falls, the first city since Redding.

P: Just north of Klamath Falls, the Upper Klamath Lake

Q: West of Chiloquin on Sprague River Road

The most amazing sight for me on the whole trip was seeing Crater Lake from the plane. It was truly amazing. When you visit the lake and look down from the rim, it feels like you are looking so far down. I never realized that the surface of the lake is actually at such a high elevation.

R: Crater Lake

Between Crater Lake and Bend, there is a lot of pine forests and then lava fields. The most striking thing in Bend is the view of Mount Bachelor and the Three Sisters, one of my favorite vistas!

S: Mount Bachelor and the Three Sisters

Summer Road Trip - Driving to Idaho

START: 507 miles, 11:45am.

Maui

Siena

We had agreed the night before to leave at 10am, but we left at 11:45am. My normal habit is to be upset by this and I still felt this pattern in me. But just like unconscious slouching most of your life, the pattern is still there, in your body, even though now you are consciously sitting up straight. The pattern was still there, but not active. Instead, it felt like the space for more time was needed and so, I was at peace. I was a little surprised by this, but I enjoyed my calm and enjoyed watching Rose's cat, Maui, sit in the long grass under a tree, watching us pack up the cars and Rose's dog, Siena, get excited because she thinks she is going on the trip. Poor Siena.

Rose driving the Eurovan

I felt a pang, as we, Rose in her Eurovan and me in my Honda Civic hatchback, left Bend, because I wished I could have spent more time there. But the road was calling and I would be back in Bend at the end of the month. To the west of Bend are the Cascade mountains and to the east is the beginning of high desert. As we drive out of Bend the pine covered, snow-capped mountains relax into shorter mountains.

The trees become thinner and smaller and sagebrush (I guess that is what they call it) begins to cover the ground intermixed with brown, dry grass. It is dusty and hot and dry.
Even these desert mountains spread out into tall hills, sweeping up and down with longer and wider spaces between them. The trees disappear and are the pastel green of sagebrush carpets the ground. In my rear view mirror I can still see a snow-capped peak of a mountain behind me. Long stretches of the road are empty, this is the Oregon Badlands.

Oregon desert hayfield

After a while, I see some signs of human inhabitance, in the form of hay fields. This creates bright, green swathes amongst the brown, gold and pastel green of the desert. There is something about a road trip that is unlike other types of travel. By traveling so many miles, you get a greater sense of vastness, not just by huge, endless landscapes, but by the sheer number of miles there are available to cross in this country, on this planet. You are not just on it, you are in it. These places can be known, even if just a little, by you. There are so many places to know and even then, you could stay and get to know them well. Who really knows these places? Can they be known? What is there is to know? And if we do know them well, how long before we forget that we know them?

Rose and I stop in Burns for gas and lunch. In Oregon, like in New Jersey, you can not pump your own gas and so the station attendant was available to recommend RJ's for burgers. So Rose and I eat lunch at RJ's. The burger was good and does not make me feel sleepy as I digest.

Western Oregon

Desert River

After leaving Burns the hills roll in again and then whip up getting taller and move in closer in dry, brown and rocky forms. After a very long time, green-ness appears and so does a shallow river, which the road follows through a modest and narrow valley. I get caught behind a tractor trailer hauling an oversized, odd piece of metal-something. It is slow going until we get to a small town and are able to pass. After the dry hills, it flattens out again with silvery-green trees and farms begin to appear. Enter Idaho.

Golden Idaho fields

Idaho onion farm

In Idaho there are many farms, but there seem to be many fields of onions. Maybe the other fields are wheat or straw, lettuce, maybe even potatoes. The air is still, too still, it would be stale if it weren't for a surprising, sweet smell in the air which I can not identify.  We continue on Highway 20, towards Boise through farmland. I think this area is the Snake River Canyon. Sometimes it is flat and sometimes there are deep ravines, which I suppose are considered canyons. It continues to be dry and golden and hills pop up again and grow into mountains. The landscape continues this way on Interstate 84 and all the way to Boise.

Downtown Boise

In Boise we get off the interstate and drive down Main Street in downtown Boise. This small city seems to be an oasis or maybe a relief from the surrounding, dried out area. There is a river and tall, green trees. The downtown is very small and is lined with shops and restaurants where people are out-and-about, quaint. The western outskirts seemed deserted but moving in deeper there are old neighborhoods with large, well-kept established looking houses. We pass many pleasant, tree-lined streets.

Highway 21

At the eastern end of Boise we get gas and then get on Highway 21 towards Stanley, Idaho. It is beginning to get dark. Mountains appear on both sides of the road, along with a river.  A deep ravine, carved by the river, descends below the road. Trees become thick and the road takes us to higher and higher elevation. The mountains block the sun prematurely. We pass through a couple of small towns, including Idaho Falls. Darkness comes and the windy road makes driving slow. But eventually, it flattens a bit and I see the lights of a very small town ahead, Stanley. We stop alongside the road in Stanley so I can check my directions to the campground. I call Paul as well as I don't expect cell service at the campground.  Stanley is quiet and seems like a one road town. At the end of town we turn down Highway 75 for four miles before reaching the road that goes to the campgrounds.
We pull into Point Campground, site 11, only to find that it is occupied.  A youngish man is standing in the campsite, all else is very quiet and it seems many campers have gone to bed. I ask him if he has a reservation, he says no, but the campsite was not tagged with a name so he took it. I told him we had it reserved. I did not see a sign for a campground host, so I figure we are on our own. The man seems nice and apologetic and offers to let us park in the campsite. I find it a bit ironic that he is allowing us to park in the campsite that is ours, reserved and paid for with my name on it. I re-check my reservation, then I drive around the campground loop to see if there are any empty campsites, which is ridiculous because they have been booked up for weeks. Instead, we park in the walk-in tent parking. We eat yogurt as our dinner in the van and then get ready for bed. Rose pulls out the beds in the Eurovan. Rose is on the top bunk and I am on the bottom bunk and we talk this way for a couple of hours until finally, we fall asleep.
END: 1016 miles.

Bend, OR to Stanley, ID:

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