This Transition we are trying to make, it is a fairly big one and causes a ton of stress. Both of us in a new place, trying to find our feet, make new friends, learn new routines; it make us both beyond tired. On the other hand, having another person to explore the new environs with me was also a reminder that we had places to go and beaches to explore, so I planned a trip to the Oregon coast. Upon telling some Tri-Cities people where we were headed, a couple of them said, "Oh, once you get past The Dalles, it is a gorgeous drive." OK...I expected barren, lifeless visages, poison water holes, bandits, and maybe rabid Jackalopes. Boy, was I wrong (and so were my informants ). The weekends we took to the coast presented us with some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen.
The drive out of Kennewick, Washington, is punctuated by rolling farmland; about 30 miles of it before we reach the Columbia River and the border with Oregon. After another 20 or so minutes of farm country and a couple of small towns, the road starts to run parallel with the Columbia. The river is wide, it is deep and it kept us company for the next three hours as we made our way across the state to Portland.
One striking set of features visible early in the drive was the plethora of windmills, sorry, wind turbines (those high-tech, white marvels whose blades are as long as a commercial truck trailer) that sprinkle the landscape. Most were still during our first strip, but I knew if someone had gone to the trouble and expense of installing hundreds of them along the crests of hills for as far as we could see, there must often be something spectacular blowing across this area. In fact, during our second trip we learned that the wind can scream up the canyons to the east of The Dalles, as if trying to bully the Columbia into flowing in the opposite direction. The river responds with white caps and wind waves that crash against the small rock islands that dot the river. The dark teal water nevertheless continues its trek towards the ocean, carving ever-deeper into the gorge. The country through which it travels on the "east side" varies between rolling hills that look like velvet, covered in wheat-colored desert grasses, and jagged peaks and cliffs the color of aged mahogany. The landscape is beautiful, in a brutal, pay-attention-or-it-will-kick-your-ass kind of way. It is easy to imagine Lewis and Clark and company traversing these waters and then getting hit by the wind. Did they move close to the cliffs in an attempt to avoid the full force of winds that would surely surge them backwards, despite the push of men and paddles? I was slammed out of my reverie by the shove of wind against the car. Pay attention.
After hugging the cliff sides and following the curves of the river, driving defensively against the wind, we reached The Dalles (pronounced "The Dals" and yes, the "The" must be there). This spot in the river, the third oldest incorporated city in Oregon, was a campsite of Lewis and Clark, the end of the overland Oregon Trail, a hub of Native American trading for thousands of years, and the location of an extremely treacherous set of rapids on the Columbia. The area, a channel two miles long, 150 feet wide and 150 feet deep felt the brunt of the entire volume of the river pounding down the canyon. In 1957 The Dalles Dam was opened, its back fill waters effectively drowning the historic Celillo Falls and taming the once-grand rapids in the area. The Dalles also represents the beginning of a change in topography in our journey to the Pacific Ocean. Rolling hills give way to mountains and the desert yields to evergreens. By the time we reached Hood River, about 24 miles down the road, the arid landscape was replaced by the welcoming softness of evergreen and deciduous forests, and with them, more people on the road. Pay attention.
We reached what is clearly identified as the sexy part of the Columbia gorge. This area is even officially called "scenic" and truly it meets the classic definition. Along this route there are dozens of waterfalls that spill out of the mountains and into the river. Multnomah, Bridal Veil, and Wahkeena Falls are some of the 90 or so falls that feed into the river along this route. By this time in the journey we also reached the wet side of the State. Clouds here are more dense with moisture and thus more likely to let loose. In spring and summer, splashes of wildflowers show their appreciation for the showers by jumping up wherever the trees leave room, adding some bright diversity to the palette of 10,000 greens. This area is like the beauty queen contestant of the natural world; flaunting what its Mama gave it in a way that cannot help be dazzling, if a little over-the-top. But with such grandeur also comes the downside; thousands of people. Foot and vehicle traffic can reach mind-numbing proportions and parking lots and their associated highway exits are often closed due to the congestion. There are gorgeous scenic byways that one can drive; small mileage treks that are actually the old Columbia River Highway, still sporting beautiful remnants of a time when even the highways were designed with aesthetics in mind. These roads travel under canopies of trees and close to water falls and afford the opportunity to actually slow down (whether due to narrow lanes or many cars) and take a look at the surroundings. Pay attention.
Exiting the western end of the goge our route took us to the outskirts of Portland, the largest city in Oregon. Portland is a lovely city, with a mix of new and old architecture, a great foodie scene and terrible freeway infrastructure. Yes, Portland suffers a mean rush hour exacerbated by older, narrow freeways (Pasadena Freeway, anyone?). Any trip to the coast that involves passing through Portland and its surrounding towns should include proper planning to avoid the worst of the congestion which, for a city of this moderate size, feels Los Angeles-esque in its wear and tear on car brakes. Portland, however, boasts more Prius', Fits and Leafs than LA's Benzs, Hummers, and BMWs. If you are gong to clog the highway, do it sustainably...ahem (0_o). Our first trip to the coast was planned...poorly, and the Portland traffic added an hour to the trip. Pay attention (sigh).
The final leg of our most recent trip to the coast took us across route 26, out of Portland and across broad farmlands and into misty temperate rainforest mountains. The trees in these coastal ranges are literally dripping with gray-green moss that hangs over the twisting, undulating roads. These roads tested patience as we inevitably encountered many a campsite-on-wheels (RVs) doing their best to maintain speed in the you-think-this-is-the-last-6% grade-but-no-wait! mountain roads; roads whose signs reminded us that we might also encounter elk or deer (weeeee!). An hour and a half to two hours later (I lost track, to be honest) we saw the first hint of the Pacific; an elusive swath of deep blue peeking momentarily out on the way down and between mountains. The drive down then included a briny scent in addition to the already humid air. We were so close that it was difficult for me not to speed on this downhill race to the sea. Pay attention.
This trip brought us to Cannon Beach, a cute, intentionally touristy, but surf town-vibed community with more hotels than houses. The roads were narrow, the tourists on foot or bicycle were many, and the people unusually friendly considering it was mid-summer in a customer-driven economy. Our hotel was large and at first I thought we were in the wrong place because I couldn't tell that there could possibly be rooms facing the beach (a luxury I have no problem paying for). Upon checking in we were directed to our room; we had to descend stairs from the parking lot to reach it (if a tsunami hit in the middle of the night, we were screwed). The room indeed faced the beach and had a glorious view of Haystack Rock and the Pacific. Cannon Beach as a community has been a going concern for more than 150 years. William Clark visited the area with Sacagawea in 1806 where he bartered with local Tillamook natives for whale blubber and oil. Clark applied the name Ekoll (Ehkoli is a Chinook word for whale) to the nearby creek and settlers later called their community Elk Creek. In 1846, a cannon from the U.S schooner, The Shark, washed ashore near the area. The schooner hit land at the Columbia Bar (a.k.a the Graveyard of the Pacific) and was destroyed. The cannon was lost and
When I was a kid, you couldn't keep me out of the water at the beach. It didn't matter if it was cold or even raining, I would always make a bee-line for the water. My Mom used to tell me a story about a particular visit she and my father made to Santa Monica beach when I was a toddler. They put me in a playpen they set up under a beach umbrella to keep me wrangled. She and my father then went to the water (yes, left alone on the beach; it was the 60s). She said I started crying and the crying devolved into screaming. She figured it was because I was left alone so she went back to join me. I kept screaming. My father joined us, but to no avail. I kept wailing until my Dad, in desperation, took me down to the water. The minute I was able to touch the water, I stopped screaming. My Mom and Dad took turns slathering me in Sea N' Ski and taking me into the water. My daughter, too, is a water baby and both times we visited the Oregon coast she made a straight line for the water. I am still soothed by the sea, but I no longer feel the need to necessarily be IN the water. In fact, the water felt painfully cold, but there was no stopping my child. She played in the water while I stood, ankle deep, ready to run in after her in the event her body seized up from the cold. Of course it never happened, but when she finally did come out, she took to the warm sand and later a shower. Two days at the beach that included, tide pooling, wandering the lengths, falling asleep to the sound of the waves, and playing in the water (OK, I kept to the warm pools left by the receding tide). Bliss. Peace. Serenity. Paying attention - to us.
At the end of our visit we ventured back toward the southeastern desert wherein lies the Tri-Cities. As I drove, my daughter dozed, dreaming of warm sand and cold water, and listening to her iPod. The traffic was easy going this direction and I reveled in the peace that being near the ocean, with at least part of my family, had brought me. We were going back to continue the adventure, the transition of our lives. This jaunt to the sea allowed us time together and away from the anxiety of a new job I still wonder if I can do successfully, and the fear that a ten year-old has when her entire life changes literally overnight. As I drove, I watched the early evening light fall on the Columbia; changing the river from blue to silver to gold as I went east. By the time I got to the eastern entrance of the gorge there was no wind, the turbines once again still. We would need more weekends like this, next time with my husband and soon, I hoped, with the canine contingent of the family. Time to be together and remember why we are making this change in the first place. "We can do this," I thought. We just need....to pay attention.
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