Oregon Ramblin' - Part 1
Anacortes to the Umpqua
We packed up Big Red and left Anacortes one cold, drippy day last week to go a-ramblin’. Crossed the magnificent bridge at Deception Pass and caught the early ferry to Port Townsend from Coupeville. The ferry crew sat in the galley discussing a drill they had accomplished that morning. It was good to hear how dedicated they were to getting it right.
Ate breakfast at The Crab in Port Townsend, a spicy scramble of eggs, cheese, jalapenos, potatoes, and sourdough washed down with stout northwest coffee. Left Port Townsend to roll down 101 on the west shore of Hood Canal toward the Pacific Ocean at Long Beach.
On the way, there were demons—memories of long ago on this road. The old black sailboat kept at Pleasant Harbor, the weekends spent sailing and swimming with the now grown cold daughters. That time little brother Ray came from Wyoming, and we sailed the islands like free hippies, short-tacking past Crane Island against a ripping tide, gaining mere yards on each leg, laughing like hell.
I was lithe, agile, and intelligent then. I am none of those things now. As the Buddha says, you will become old, sick, and die. You will lose everything and everybody. All you possess are your actions. Everything changes. Everything dies. The universe is indifferent to your puny life.
Grim thoughts, these—ego-shattering. Yet, while the universe is indifferent, it is also beautiful. Existence is miraculous. Ego is illusion and must shatter to know gratitude. Yes, gratitude in the face of inevitable obliteration seems insane, but what else is there?
We walked Echo on the miles-long, flat, breezy beach in Long Beach. She ran in loopy figure eights flat out beautiful in the misty ocean light. Later, she and I wandered down the boardwalk behind the dunes until we came to Clark's tree. A bronze sculpture of a relic fir stump carved with an inscription by explorer William Clark in 1805: “By land from the U States.” We kneeled in the grass until the sun sank behind far-away gray clouds.
Up early and away to Roseburg via Astoria and Salem. It rained hard, wipers on fast, intermittent, continuous slow, and fast again. Sheets of rain and pregnant clouds scudded over the land from the dark ocean. The Astoria Bridge was spooky and foreboding in the morning mist. Headlights shone watery in the murk.
Sad, soaring guitar riffs on the radio kept time to the truck whine and wiper swoosh. Georgia came through the speakers, bougainvillea, cypress, and live oak in A-minor. Dickie Betts was dead. Via con dios, ramblin’ man.
Winding up the forested west slope of the coastal range, we pulled into a parking lot fronting a massive log restaurant/gift store/museum. Ten motorcycles sat outside, their riders gathered around a table inside, waiting for breakfast while their gear dried next to the incredible stone fireplace. The ridge pole log spanning the room was six feet across and fifty feet long. Soft country music played, and the log walls sported old-time pictures of logging and loggers past. Downstairs, another giant tree made up the polished bar. The place was gorgeous, a logging museum haunted by the trunks of never-again old growth.
Back in the truck and onward down the east side of the Coast Range into lush farmland. The demons had retreated a step or two but still lurked a single thought away. I knew them well, old acquaintances - shame, fear, grief, and regret - and a new one - a curious lack of confidence, poor self-esteem.
I know how to contain this darkness - Churchill's “black dog.” Contemplating a creamy orange/grey cloud, a fabulous ancient barn, or a hawk soaring over a wet green field is a temporary tonic. More lasting is a walk in the woods. I needed to take a hike.
We maneuvered through the morning commute around Portland and into Salem. We bought a lovely basket of fuchsia flowers for Dawn’s mom as an early Mother’s Day gift. We hung the basket on her porch, and when she got home and saw it, she glowed with surprise and delight. It was very good to make her so happy. She hoped we would stay and visit, but road fever had us, and we kept moving.
After a delicious lunch in a Salem deli, we pitched down I5 to blighted Roseburg. The town is surrounded by lovely green hills covered in logged-over secondary forest. It is a quintessential northwest timber town built around the harvest of billions of board feet of fir and cedar. Its best years were back when the old-growth forest seemed endless. Now, in a sign of the times, a veterans psychiatric hospital and medical center are the primary employers, and a homeless camp is under the bridge. The old city grew in a jumbled heap up the hillside above the mill on the east bank of the Umpqua River. The houses are close to each other, the roads narrow and steep, the architecture eclectic. Adjacent to I5 on the more modern west side of the river lie strip malls, big box stores, parking lots, and gas stations - Anywhere, USA.
We walked Echo in the riverside park, examined some run-down houses listed for sale, which were not cheap, and ate supermarket sushi and salad. It had been a long drive from Long Beach; our hotel was bland, and a train whistled through town into the night. But we would not be here long. Tomorrow was a waterfall and hot spring day! Into the woods!
Thirty miles up the Umpqua River Valley is Fall Creek Trail. The trail climbs gently through a narrow cleft in a giant boulder. A forest fire swept through here last summer, and the scorched trunks and stumps of big trees littered the watershed. Trail crews have been here with chainsaws to open the trail. The tang of fresh-cut cedar and fir perfumes their work. The hillsides on either side of the trail are covered in flowering wild strawberries, pink bleeding hearts, and purple irises.
I hiked to a small, flat observation area between the upper and lower falls. Freshwater mist blew outward from the cataract and condensed on my hood, jacket, and Echos coat. The falls rumbled and tumbled over the first ledge—about thirty feet—past an old log wedged between the rock walls and launched over the final fifty-foot drop.
Waterfalls mesmerize me. I pick a slug of water, watch it shoot over the precipice, and splash into the pool below. Over and over, forever, free fresh water leaps into the void and flows burbling to the sea. I picked three irises for Dawn and returned to her through the wet salal.
On our way back to the truck, I considered where the wild ended and I began. Cedar was in my lungs, creek water in my stomach, waterfall mist in my hair, and flowers in my eyes. The spirit embodied here—a burned forest rejuvenating—was love itself.
Another forty miles up the Umpqua is Umpqua Hot Springs. Here, amidst towering conifers and the rush of the Umpqua River, is a natural marvel—a collection of seven terraced hot water pools, each a jewel cradled in the rugged embrace of ancient travertine.
We approached the springs on a pilgrimage of sorts. We parked Red at the small muddy trailhead and crossed the river on a rainbow-painted footbridge. We climbed through emerald canopies on moss-draped trails. Damp, blissed-out hippies came down the trail, and passed us draped in towels. A carved sign advised 1200 feet to the springs.
We stepped out of the forest, and the world shifted. We stripped down, hung our clothes on a convenient log, and slipped into the hot water. Time slowed to a languid crawl, and the black dog mood retreated from the splendor. The pools steamed lightly on the cool day, and birds hopped and chirped in the trees. A few others soaked in pools below us engaged in quiet, soulful conversation, like in a church. I surrendered to the pool, accepted its solace, and floated away.
Among the trickling springs, rustling leaves, and chirping birds was communion—a communion that transcended words and spoke the language of the earth. Soaking in these waters you commune with the spirits of ages past, partake in a ritual as ancient as the mountains and river.
I lay back in the steaming water on a rock smoothed by the ages into a perfect cradle and felt the sun on my face and arms. With profound gratitude, I basked in this fleeting moment of connection and this land's timeless peace and beauty. In the embrace of Umpqua Hot Springs, I found not merely respite but renewal—a refreshing reminder of the enduring power of wilderness to heal the spirit.
Next week - Painted Hills, the Mystery of Condon, and What is Up with Bend?
Peace.
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