From Portland to Hell

Fountain in City Park, Arlington Oregon

Taken 9/6/07

After yesterday’s extremely long post, today’s will be relatively brief. Also unlike previous posts, this will cover a couple of days on the road.

Faithful readers will recall that I went to bed Wednesday night, with my car still in the shop and a rented Kia Sorrento sitting outside my motel room in the Hollywood District of NE Portland.

Thursday morning I woke early, feeling rested, and was able to get some writing done. Concerned about travel time and not having the car, I decided to pack up the Sorrento and be ready to go as soon as I heard from Jennifer at Swede One. My absolute deadline for getting out or staying another night was 11:00 a.m., although the folk at the Banfield Motel have always been very good to me, and this time was no exception.

When 10:30 came and went with no word about the car, I tried calling the shop myself. Every time I called I got the answering machine. It must have been a madhouse there. Finally, with the Kia fully loaded, I locked the room, turned in my key, and headed out figuring that if nothing else, I could just sit in the parking lot while waiting to transfer all my bags.

Arriving at Swede One just before noon, I found that, indeed, the office was terribly busy. My car, on the other hand, was almost completed, and was just going through the final checks. There were no major mechanical problems with the car, but if I was to drive 10,000 miles, I’d probably want to get new tires. A quick call to Roemer’s Tire Factory in Missoula where Russ assured me that if I had the car to him by 12:30 on Friday, he’d have new rubber on the car that afternoon.

At 12:30 Thursday, I had a clean car, loaded and fully ready for the trip, thanks to the good folk at Swede One, and I hit the road headed home to Missoula. Rather than take the back roads, I chose my “fast” route: I-84 from Portland to east of Umatilla, I-82 from that point to Kennewick, US 395 to Ritzville, and I-90 to Missoula. I’ve driven this route so much that I could probably do it in my sleep—which is a good thing because once behind the wheel I felt incredibly tired.

Troutdale Oregon is at exit 17 from I-84 east of Portland, and is known primarily for its outlet mall, its relatively cheap gasoline ($2.54/gallon), and for a small but historic downtown where I have enjoyed great lunches in the past. Stopping for lunch again, I tried a place that was new to me, Siam Sushi (Yes, I know), where I ordered lunch combination C: sushi and chicken pad thai. That meant seven pieces of sushi, pad thai, and something else I couldn’t recognize, but seemed to be some sort of grilled chicken, all served in a large bento box. It was all very good, if a somewhat unorthodox combination, and I’d recommend the restaurant to anyone passing through the Portland area.

Leaving the restaurant, I saw a woman on the street carrying a small chocolate dog that I mistook for a MinPin. Turns out it was a Chihuahua, but lovely, and I introduced Gypsy to the woman and her dog before getting in the Volvo, turning on Paul Theroux, and heading east on I-84.

The trip home was uneventful. Even though I kept feeling as if I were falling asleep, somehow I made it all the way home, stopping only a few times. The first was at Arlington, Oregon where Gypsy had a pee and poop break and I took a few pictures in the city’s waterfront park.

I stopped again at Kennewick for dinner, but didn’t go to my usual Mexican place. Instead, because I was really feeling a time crunch, I stopped at my new favorite fast food burger place, Carl Jr’s, where I ordered a traditional six dollar burger and a orange creamsicle shake. Did I mention that I’m still wearing the black leather kilt? Even in Kennewick, no one said a word, or even looked at me strangely. You can read my impressions of Kennewick at www.travelforaday.com/kennewickwashington.php.

In one of those “timing is everything” moments, I looked to my right as I entered I-90 and saw what would have made a spectacular sunset shot. The sky was pink and pale blue, and there was a large brilliant orange semi-circle around the setting sun. No place to pull off and capture it digitally, so I had to chalk it up to what my friend Carl calls AFS—which is shorthand for Another Sunset. (You can fill in the F word.)

On I-90, I pulled off at Coeur d’Alene to get a large iced tea, and then again at Fourth of July Pass to rid myself of the iced tea and let Gypsy out for a bit. One more stop along the St. Regis River in Montana, and then clear sailing all the rest of the way home. Of course it was dark by the time I reached Spokane, so if it weren’t for the messages I’d received from Gary, and the highway reader boards all warning of Extreme Fire Danger, I wouldn’t have realized that I was driving through a landscape that looked like hell. Literally.

I pulled up to the Missoula house at half past midnight, and immediately went to bed. Friday morning I rose early, climbed into the hot tub, then started pulling stuff out of the car. I had some errands to run, and had the Volvo to Roemer’s in time for my 12:30 appointment. Choosing to stay and wait, I saw several friends come in, and I figured that if I sat there long enough, I’d see everyone I know in Missoula. Roemer’s is that good.

If I got off cheaply at Swede One (the bill was half what I was expecting), the tires I bought at Roemer’s made up the difference. But then my life is depending on those tires. I’m not interested in pinching pennies with this much driving ahead of me. Still the bill was over $200 per tire, so in the past two days I’ve spent around $1300 just on the car—and that doesn’t include gas. Living in a city with a good rapid transit system begins to become very appealing.

For some reason, Volvo specifies a very high torque for the lug nuts on my model of car. Most Volvos have their lug nuts torqued at 60-80 foot pounds, but my model requires 105 foot-pounds. Twice I’ve had a tire come off, or threaten to, because tire people didn’t torque the nuts sufficiently. This is the only car I’ve ever had that happen to, so now I’m probably obnoxious when talking to tire people. I insist that they check, double check, then check again to make sure my tires won’t come off the car. Russ, Shane and the guys at Roemer’s were very careful to do exactly what I asked, and even suggested that I take the car out for a 15 mile drive and then bring it back and they would recheck the torque. That’s how I got to see hell for myself.

Recently burned hillside
Evaro Hill, US Highway 93, Missoula County Montana
Taken 9/7/07

Evaro Hill is where US 93 heads north from Missoula to the Mission Valley. The road itself is about 10 miles west of Missoula, and is the most heavily traveled highway in the state of Montana. I first drove out I-90 to the Wye where US 93 turns north, and drove up to the top of the hill. The burnt land came right down to the roadside, and there were places were smoke was still rising from the ground. Gary had told me that the highway was closed earlier because of the fires.

Having seen that devastation, I took the frontage road to Frenchtown, the next town west of Missoula. The fires there had burned out of the forests, through the grasslands, and again, the burnt land reached all the way to the Interstate. This is an area with a lot of new, expensive construction, and the pattern seemed to be new homes, surrounded by very wet, very green lawns, which in turn were surrounded by burnt earth. I certainly would not have wanted to be the new owner of one of these homes, trying to save my investment while fire was raging all around me.

Scorched earth from recent fire activity
Taken 9/7/o7 in Frenchtown Montana

Say what you will about global warming, but I’ve been coming to or living in western Montana all my life. There have been years, 1962 comes to mind, when the fire season was terrible. But those years were in the minority until recently. Since 2000, we have had three years when the regional fires were so intense that the street lights in Missoula stayed on all day—there was so much smoke in the air. Three extreme fire seasons in seven years is a bit much for my taste. This year the smoke was preceded by a month of 100+ degree temperatures, another extreme that western Montanans aren’t used to. It could well be that the only reason the temperatures finally dropped is that the sun couldn’t get through the smoke. Things are not the way they used to be.

While in Frenchtown, I took a couple shots of St. John the Baptist Catholic Church. One of the older churches in the area, and on the historic register, this church is another example of just how fiery Frenchtown can be. Local legend tells of the time that the bishop in Helena excommunicated the entire congregation of St. John the Baptist. Why would he take such a drastic step? Well, it seems the parish tried to lynch their priest. I have no idea why, but it does seem that with all the troubles the Roman church is facing these days, maybe other parishes would like to revive this practice. Oh, I probably shouldn’t have said that.

St. John the Baptist Catholic Church
Built 1884
Taken 9/7/07 in Frenchtown, Montana

Back home to pick up maps, travel and camping guides at Triple A, and on to Roemer’s to have the torque checked one last time, then home to write up the long post about Portland.

This morning, sitting in the hot tub, I saw Orion in the sky and that told me that it was time to pack up and head out. So, as soon as this gets posted, I’ll be packing the car and heading for Helena, White Sulphur Springs, Harlowtown, Ryegate, Roundup, Forsyth, Miles City, Baker, and eventually Pierre. Mapquest tells me that it’s 14 hours from here to Pierre, and I’ll break that into two days. Whether I camp at Roundup or at Forsyth remains to be seen, but you can count on hearing all about the drive either on Sunday or Monday at the latest.

So for now it’s Cheerio, Pip-Pip, or as we used to say in Scottish Dancing Circles, TTFN.

It's called a kilt because.....

An Evening Primrose, growing by the highway
Taken 9/2/07 in Smith River, California
This picture has nothing to do with the trip.

Wednesday morning got off to an early start. I was taking the Volvo into the good folk at Swede One for its 90,000 mile check up. Swede One had moved since my last visit and I had no idea how much time to allow. Having slept poorly, I headed out the door about 7:15 for an 8:00 a.m. appointment. Need I say that it took only fifteen minutes to drive to the shop?

Was I prepared? Me, the consummate reader? Of course not. With nothing to read, I resorted to window shopping. Nice Volvos for sale at Swede One, but nothing better than what I was dropping off, so I moved on. Across the street I saw a sign for Lanvin French Bakery.

This really caught my eye, and only in part because I hadn’t yet had breakfast. My first partner, Steve, was a grad student studying Math at The University of Montana. His major professor was Hien Nguyen. Professor Nguyen’s father had been a physician in Viet Nam, but his family left for France before the fall of Saigon. After living in Paris, the family moved to the United States, and Professor Nguyen ended up at UM. His father was not allowed to practice medicine in the US, but felt that he and his wife had picked up a new profession while in France, that of bakers. As the parents were named Lan and Vinh (I have to admit that I’m not sure just how the given names are supposed to be spelled), they opened a wonderful French bakery in Missoula, Lanvin. In time, Professor Nguyen started his own software company and left the university. His company was so successful that his parents no longer had to work, and sadly, Lanvin French Bakery closed. Seeing the name in this Vietnamese section of Portland made me curious, so I paid them a visit.

The pastries in the cases were not nearly as appealing as what I remembered seeing in Missoula, but tbat didn’t stop me from getting a Paris-Brest and a type of cream puff. I saw a sign on the wall honoring someone named Nguyen, so I asked if they used to have a shop in Missoula. The woman serving me had to go into the back room and send out a teenaged boy to answer my questions in English. He had never heard of Missoula, and had no idea that once upon a time, another Nguyen family had opened a business under the same name as their shop. Oh well. I guess that Nguyen is about as common a name as Smith—at least among the Vietnamese. Oh, and that software company that Professor Nguyen started? My current partner, Gary, works there as a software tester. Wasn’t I just talking yesterday about it being a small world?

The Volvo being prepared for the trip
(The handsome man washing the car is the owner of Swede One,
Dave Davis. See why I like to take the car to Portland?)
Taken 9/6/07 in Portland, Oregon

Having dropped off the car, I planned on a car-less city day. Taking Portland’s wonderful rapid transit system was a matter of walking a half mile to the station, buying a ticket, and riding the train all day—or as much of the day as I cared to ride. And all for only $4.25 for a full day ticket. Arriving at the station, however, the first thing I see is a transit authority cop handcuffing and frisking a young man. Next I noticed several transit authority workers spread around the station. Finally I noticed the “out of service” sign on the ticket machine, or rather, on both ticket machines at the 82nd Street station. Not wanting to end up in handcuffs myself, I asked one of the workers what I should do. She assured me that Tri-Met was aware of the problem, and I should just get on the train and explain to anyone who asked why I did not have a ticket.

At this point I should note that all the times I’ve ridden Max, never have I had anyone ask if I had a ticket. I was sure that this one time I didn’t have one, someone would ask. But no, I rode the train from 82nd Street NE to Chinatown across the river and left the train with no one the wiser that I was riding without paying.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I planned the service call so that I could participate in two activities, the men’s massage group on Tuesday and Line Dancing on Wednesday. Once I arrived in Portland, however, I could find no information about current line dance instruction. Having been let down by the web, I took matters in my own hands and decided to stop by the bar and ask directly. I knew it was somewhere near Chinatown, but wasn’t sure exactly where. And of course, I hadn’t written down any addresses.

There are three shops I always visit when in Portland. All three are within walking distance of each other in or near the Pearl District. Powell’s City of Books claims to be the largest bookstore in the country. I have no idea if they are justified in that claim, but I do know that I’ve never been in a larger bookstore. The Tea Zone has more blends of tea than anyone could possibly want, and Spartacus Leathers, well, what can I say about that place in a family-oriented site?

Off the train, and walking around looking for C.C. Slaughters, the bar where we danced the last time I was in Portland, I found many interesting shops and restaurants, but not the bar I was seeking. Giving up that search, I headed across the city, walking from first to tenth, where Powell’s sits on Burnside, taking up the entire block from tenth to eleventh. Powell’s however, doesn’t open until nine, and once again, I was early.

I continued walking up Burnside to twelfth, Spartacus’s corner, but that toy store doesn’t open until ten. Having had two French pastries at Lanvin, I felt it was too soon to head to the Tea Zone, so I killed time by walking around a few more blocks, eventually using up minutes by reading about every book in the Powell’s window displays. By the time I reached the front door, it was 8:55, only five minutes to wait.

Looking around at the group of people who were assembled waiting for the store to open, I thought back to my days as a grocery clerk for Lucky Stores, Inc. Our store also opened at nine, and there was always a group of people, almost always men, waiting outside for someone to unlock the door. These men had one goal in mind—get the nineteen cents a quart Franzia wine. Yes, the winos were waiting, and so were we. In one of those aha! moments, I realized that we were the same. Just as the winos couldn’t wait to get their morning fix, we bibliophiles couldn’t wait for the next literary fix served up so nicely by Powell’s. When the doors were finally unlocked, there was a rush, an orderly, polite rush, but a rush none the less to get inside and start shopping for books. I was no different.


Having found an acceptable way to spend time by looking at and buying books (only 11 this trip), when I left Powell’s, Spartacus had already been open for a while. In the toy store, I found nothing that I needed, and quite frankly nothing I wanted that I didn’t already have, except for… Oh my gawd, is that a leather kilt? (You were wondering about the title of this epistle, weren’t you!) OK, I’ll admit it, I’ve wanted a leather kilt for quite some time, but I’ve never found one I liked. Spartacus had several kilts (or rather kilt like garments—these have no real pleats), but I couldn’t make out the sizes from the codes used on the tags. A friendly clerk suggested I try two differently marked kilts on in the dressing room. How could I refuse? The smaller of the two was definitely too small for my frame, but the larger fit only if I tightened it to the last hole in the strap. (I’m not about to describe how you put on a kilt. If you’ve never done it, use your imagination.) As I would rather lose inches, not gain them, I passed on the kilt purchase, and went into the back room where I found one thing I did want—a book. Of course. What were you thinking?

Beasts is a compilation of ninety-nine photographs by fifty-two photographers “reflecting on the relationship between men and animals and that of man as an animal himself.” The cover image is a cute blond boy holding what appears to be a malamute pup. Craig and Apache, by photographer Robert Emery Smith, was taken in 1993 in the San Francisco Bay Area. It is available in a variety of sizes at prices ranging from $200 to $600, with the edition limited to 10 prints. As I have started my own Men With Dogs collection, I deemed this book an important addition to my professional library. If you’ve forgotten my own men with dogs, all but one are currently on display at the Bank of America in Crescent City, California, or you can see them on Picasa.

Alan and Ivan
(Man and dog not in BofA show)
Taken 10/29/06 at the mouth of the Klamath River, California

Walking back toward Chinatown, guidebook in hand, I now had an address for the line dancing bar, which, it turns out, has changed format. Turning the corner, I entered another bar, the Fox and Hound. The bartender was very eager to be of help, even phoning to find where I might go to dance, but he came up empty handed. I ordered a shrimp salad and, since I wasn’t driving, a gin and tonic, and had lunch.

After lunch, I boarded Max, returned to my motel room, took Gypsy out for a walk, and then napped. It had been a stressful, but rewarding morning, and now I was just waiting for a call to come get my car. The call came around four, but rather than tell me that my car was ready, Jennifer told me that they hadn’t even started my car, and would need at least three hours, which meant finishing up Thursday morning. To compensate me for the inconvenience, they were renting a car for my use. Hertz would be calling me shortly.

At this point, I had two concerns. First, would my car be ready early enough on Thursday to allow me to drive to Missoula. It’s a ten hour drive between point P and point M, and there’s a time zone crossing that makes things even worse. My other concern was that knowing how much stuff I had taken out of the Volvo and stashed in my motel room, including Gypsy, her box and her travel bed, would Hertz have a car large enough? As it turned out, I said thanks but no thanks to the Ford Focus Hertz was offering, and took instead a Kia Sorrento. Who knew the Koreans made such large vehicles?!? I didn’t really need a car as I was content relying on public transportation, but I was concerned about getting all my stuff back into the Volvo in a timely fashion.

Parking the Kia at the motel, I climbed back on Max and went to buy myself a kilt. Amazing what having time to think about things can do. Well, that and some on-line research I did which showed me that if I wanted a leather kilt, and I did, I wasn’t going to find one for less money than what Spartacus was asking.

Once in my kilt, I told the clerk I was going to wear it, and to put my walking shorts into the rainbow beribboned man-bag I bought as well. Kilts don’t have pockets, don’t ya know. Well, the Seattle made Utilikilts do have pockets, and pockets, and more pockets—so many that you can carry all your electronic gear with you, if you don’t mind looking like a mal-formed kangaroo. This little leather piece has one small pocket which looks for all the world like the key pocket in a pair of Speedos. Nothing that will hold car keys, wallet, change, Swiss Army Knife, not to mention cell phone, PDA, and a good book to read on the train. The manbag held it all, including my walking shorts. The clerk kept trying to put things in a bag, but I was wearing the kilt and carrying the manbag. What on earth did I need any other bags for?

I did practice sitting down a few times with a mirror handy. Didn’t want to scare the horses, of course, and the leather kilt-like garment didn’t have as much “fabric” as my authentic Scottish-made wool kilts. Once I was sure that I could sit and still be decent, I headed out walking through downtown Portland in a skirt. OK, I guess it’s time. You know why it’s called a kilt, don’t you? Because the first ten to call it a skirt all got kilt! (That’s a joke son, you’re supposed to laugh.)

Portland is a large, metropolitan city, and only one person looked at me strangely as I traveled home in my bit of leather. A few stations after I boarded the train, the train itself came to a halt between stations. And there we sat. For quite some time. With the doors closed. Finally, a voice came over the intercom announcing that we would be backing to the previous station as the tracks ahead were blocked. It turns out a semi-tractor had managed to stop a Max train just ahead of us by running into it. It would be quite some time before the tracks were cleared, but Tri-Met would be sending us a bus. It turns out that Portland, as well run as it appears, is not terribly good at taking care of breakdowns in the transit system itself. My trip back to the motel, which should have taken 20 minutes, took closer to two hours.

At that point, I decided the Kia was a definite plus, and drove to Mudai, my favorite Ethopian restaurant for dinner. As there was no line dancing to be had, I went back to Steam for some restful time in the steam room and hot tub. I was still wearing the kilt.

And I'm still wearing it!
Self-Portrait in Black Leather Kilt
Taken 9/7/07 in Missoula, Montana

You now know more than anyone would want to know about how I spent my day in Portland. It was a fun-filled, if occasionally stressful, day, and when I finally hit the hay, I slept like a baby.

No miles traveled, but I went to bed feeling that I had indeed progressed in my travels.

Oh, and by the way, if you ever want to ask, make sure you phrase the question exactly this way: Is there anything worn under the kilt?

That’s the only question I’ll answer on the subject.

Up the Coast and Along the Siuslaw

God on high, hear my prayer.
In my need You have always been there.
He is young, he's afraid.
Let him rest, heaven blessed,
Bring him home, bring him home.

--Alain Boublil & Herbert Kretzmer

Umpqua Lighthouse
Reedsport Oregon
Taken 6/17/07

Sunday, June 17^th, dawned bright and clear. It would be a good day for a drive up the coast, but first there was something I had to do.

That particular Sunday, Father’s Day as it turned out, was also Michele Holloway’s last day in the pulpit of the Smith River United Methodist Church. After serving the congregation for four years, she was leaving to further her education at a seminary in Ohio. She had asked me to serve as organist for this special occasion, and with some trepidation, I had agreed. In the interest of full disclosure, I need to state that I am not an organist, and while I enjoy playing the piano, no one with any musical experience would consider me a pianist either. It’s odd how I can talk about the most intimate subjects to a room full of total strangers, but when it comes to sitting at a keyboard in front of a friendly and uncritical church congregation, I seize up and become a bundle of nerves. Furthermore, while I will be a Methodist to my dying day, I am currently on the outs with the denomination because of the continued battle that rages within the church over the issue of whether homosexuals have a place in the organization. That is the subject for another posting, however.

Originally, in agreeing to play at church, I had thought of learning the hymns (most of which I already knew) and using other hymns for the occasional music (prelude, postlude, processional, offertory, etc.). As Sunday approached, I decided to add two pieces of special music and started practicing “Bring Him Home” from Les Misérables for the offertory. I had another piece in mind for the postlude/recessional, but couldn’t find the sheet music locally. I finally bought it online at musicnotes.com, and printed out the four pages of Lennon and McCartney's “Michelle.” “Bring Him Home” is, after all, a prayer, and given the war in Iraq, it seemed appropriate for Father's Day. My reason for choosing “Michelle” should be self-explanatory—besides, it’s a beautiful piece of music that would serve well as a recessional. As things turned out, by the time I played it, Michele the minister was outside the church shaking hands with congregants, and I don’t think anyone still in the sanctuary had any clue what the music was. Oh well. I told Michele what I had done and until now it’s been our little secret.

Following the service there was the usual fellowship hour, complete with root beer floats and hot dogs (aren’t those traditional after church foods?). People asked about Gypsy, and I explained that I was leaving for Montana to pick her up. I got home around 1:30 and finished packing the car getting ready to head north and east to Missoula.

After a quick stop in Brookings to let Jeff know I was headed out of town, I drove north on 101 taking notes for future travel blogs on Gold Beach, Port Orford, Bandon, and Coos Bay. A geocaching stop on the dunes north of Coos Bay took a bit of time from the road, but got me out along the shore of Bluebill Lake. That Annual Pass I bought at Whiskeytown came in handy as this is a fee area run by the feds. Having found the cache and signed the log book, I continued my northward drive, stopping finally in Florence, Oregon for a dinner break. Along the way I kept checking gas prices and was surprised that in Reedsport several stations were selling gas for less than $3.00, $2.97 a gallon to be precise.

Weber’s Fish House in Florence appears to be a very popular spot. There were more diners than the two waitresses could comfortably handle, so service was a bit slow, but friendly. Many of the folk looked to be local, and I couldn’t help but notice the number of tables where two men were eating together with no women or children present. I expect to see men breakfasting, or even having lunch together, but dinner is a family activity. Maybe that’s why my gaydar kept going off. The couple seated across the aisle from me was noticeably foreign, both through their clothing and their accents. Turns out they were from England, at least according to what I overheard when the waitress pointed out their “otherness.” My meal was fine, but one of these days I’m going to have to remember that I don’t really like crab cakes. I keep ordering them, but I never really enjoy them. Wonder why that is? Maybe I just haven’t met the right crab cake.

Siuslaw River East of Florence, Oregon
Taken 6/17/07

I had a decision to make at this point. Having logged into Travelocity.com before leaving Smith River, I had booked a room at the Banfield Motel in Portland. Now I had to decide what was the best route to take. In the past I’ve always driven 101 to Lincoln City, then turned northeast on Oregon 18 to connect up with I-5 at the southern edge of Portland. With my renewed interest in scenic drives, however, I’ve been taking other routes across the coastal mountains. Two possibilities presented themselves at Florence. Oregon 126 heads more-or-less straight east to Eugene, and takes about one hour to cover. Near Eugene, it crosses the southern edge of Fern Ridge Lake. That was the route recommended by my waitress. One of these days I’ll have to drive it.

What I did instead was head east on 126 to Mapleton, about fourteen miles inland from Florence along the Siuslaw River. The Siuslaw was so beautiful in the early evening light, that I fell in love. When I first started planning this post, I was going to say that I have a new love. And indeed the Siuslaw was so photogenic that I kept stopping about every five miles or so to take more pictures. At Mapleton, I turned north on Oregon 36 in order to keep following the river.

Lake Creek (above the falls)
Along Oregon Highway 36, Lane County
Taken 6/17/07

Oregon 36 is a much narrower, twistier, and slower road than I assume Oregon 126 is, at least judging by the map, and it terminates at Oregon 99 twelve miles north of Eugene. On the way it passes through the towns (or widespots) of Swisshome, Deadwood, and Greenleaf, and the resort area of Triangle Lake which looked to be a lovely place to vacation—if you could get past all the privacy fences that front the highway. The Episcopal Church has a conference ground at Triangle Lake. Maybe they could get us to walk on, or at least in, the water.

Along the way I stopped to take pictures at a roadside park in Mapleton, at a covered bridge near Swisshome, and at the Lake Creek Falls fish ladder near Triangle Lake. I was spending so much time stopped with my camera out that I began to worry that Portland would be a long ways away. And it was.

Fortunately, after Triangle Lake the light was getting too dim for good shots, so I put the camera away as I crossed Low Pass. At 1,022 feet, Low Pass is actually lower than most of the towns west of the pass, but what the hey, I didn’t name it or designate it a pass. There is a High Pass, or at least a High Pass Road to the north, but I didn’t take that route, and my maps don’t show any actual pass with an elevation given.

Lake Creek Falls Fish Ladder
Along Oregon Highway 36, Lane County
Taken 6/17/07

Once at 99, I turned north to drive through Junction City and was prepared to stay on 99 all the way to Albany when I got to Harrisburg. Seeing a sign directing me to I-5, I turned east off 99 and promptly got lost in a small town. Go figure. As I doubled back, I noted that there was a miniscule sign directing travelers seeking I-5 to turn left at one intersection. Don’t know how I missed that. Eventually I merged with traffic headed north on I-5, and with one stop for a root beer float at Albany’s A&W, I reached Portland around midnight. Hmm, two root beer floats in one day. I may be getting addicted.

I’d like to say that having checked into the motel, I immediately climbed in bed and fell asleep, but that wouldn’t be accurate. I stay at this particular motel because it is within walking distance of my favorite Portland playground (an indoor, Adults only, playground, and we won’t go any further). Having stowed computer, suitcase and camera bag in the room, I drove to Steam with the idea of relaxing in the hot tub and steam room before calling it a night. As I said above, the motel is within walking distance of Steam, which is to say that the two establishments are about one mile apart. At midnight, after spending ten hours on the road, I really didn’t feel like walking two miles round trip. Especially since I didn’t expect the place to be open. But this was the day of Portland’s Pride celebration and the joint was rockin’, as they say.

Eventually I did get back to my motel and all I can say is that I’m no longer 21. Staying up till 3:30 am is not good for my system. But I did have fun, and as Edith Piaf sings, “Non, je ne regrette rien!”

Stay tuned for further adventures along the Columbia, Snake, Salmon, and Weiser Rivers.