The Columbia River--Portland to Kennewick

The Columbia rolling down from the Canadian Northwest
Looking East from Chanticleer Point
Taken 6/19/07

Roll on, Columbia, roll on
Roll on, Columbia, roll on
Your power is turning our darkness to dawn
So roll on, Columbia, roll on

Green Douglas firs where the waters cut through
Down her wild mountains and canyons she flew
Canadian Northwest to the oceans so blue
Roll on Columbia, roll on

--Woody Guthrie

In my last epistle, I wrote of the drive along the Suislaw River, ending with a late night in Portland. With this post, I’ll talk about the second day of my drive, June 19^th, 2007, on which date I drove through the Columbia Gorge, and spent some time in The Dalles, Oregon.

Getting a late start from Portland (due, no doubt to the lateness of my bedtime the night before), I drove east out of Portland on I-84, heading for The Dalles, Kennewick, Washington, and points east. In the olden days, I would have driven directly from Portland to Missoula, taking about 10 hours for the trip. But I’m no longer under strict schedules, and can enjoy the journey as much as, if not more than the destination.

Approximately twenty miles east of downtown, I left I-84 to drive the Historic Columbia River Highway. The sign pictured below should have been my first warning. But I do love a challenge, and what’s a 10% grade, especially if you’re going uphill in something more modern than a Model T. Mind you, I wouldn’t want to take the road uphill or down in winter driving conditions. Nor would I want to have one of the houses hidden in the deep foliage, living in constant fear of having someone’s SUV landing in my sun room. The sign warned of a one and a half mile ascent, but I didn’t clock it. I can only say that once I came out on top, I was in suburbia, with beautiful homes, large yards, fences, and narrow, twisty streets which lead eventually to Chanticleer Point, or The Portland Women’s Club, which may be the same thing. The signs were confusing. If I had to guess, I’d say that the Portland Women’s Club was responsible for the establishment and maintenance of the Chanticleer Point Overlook. But that’s only a guess. The photo at the top of this page was taken looking east, up the Columbia, from the overlook. In the distance you can see the Vista House which turned out to be my next stop.

You have been warned
Corbett Hill Road, Corbett Oregon
Taken 6/19/07

A few (OK, many) twists and turns later and the road deposited me at Vista House, the next major tourist overlook on the highway. And actually the last overlook as immediately after Vista House, the road dropped quickly to river level. Vista House was somewhat frustrating in that I saw lots of folks walking around with grande lattes, but saw nowhere to buy one for myself. Grande lattes do seem to have become the drink of choice for Americans in what I refer to as the Seattleization of the World. I wandered around Vista House, taking photos inside and out, and then turned the Saab loose on the old road.

For the next several hours I drove at 30 mph or less, stopping at Latourell Falls, Bridal Veil Falls, Wahkeena Falls, Multnomah Falls, and Horsetail Falls. I hiked many of the short trails leading to these falls, but only at Wahkeena was I tempted to continue beyond the base of the falls itself. Meeting a pair of what Gary would call “Women in sensible shoes,” I asked if the trail circled back down to the parking lot. They weren’t sure about that, but told me that it did go to the top of the falls. Now personally, the only reason I can think of to go to the top of a waterfall is to throw yourself off. You can’t really get a good perspective of the falls from the top. So, semi-reluctantly, I turned around and followed the women back down the trail I had just climbed.

At Multnomah Falls I was put off by a bus load of fundamentalists, and decided against visiting either the gift store or the restaurant. I do recommend the Sunday brunch at Multnomah Falls, however. Many’s the time I’ve headed home from Portland with the idea of having my first meal stop here. All you can eat for a reasonable price and quite a choice as well, with both breakfast and Sunday dinner options available. In fact, why not just eat it all. Life’s short.

A brief stop at Horsetail Falls, led me to try and get a good close up. Instead, I found myself at risk of falling into the pool, and my acrophobia kicked in. Unfortunately, most of the shots I did take were ruined by sunspots as I had reached the time of day where the sun was directly behind the falls. Horsetail Falls is just a couple of miles from my favorite Columbia Gorge campsight, Ainsworth State Park. Before I discovered the nighttime pleasures of Portland, I would camp in Ainsworth and spend a day at Rooster Rock, a clothing optional state park right on the river. There’s no camping available at Rooster Rock, and Ainsworth was the closest park with tent sites. The downside of camping anywhere in the Gorge is that the flat area is so narrow that you’re camped right next to the railroad and the trains run all night long. The upside is that you’re in an absolutely beautiful area, so you ignore the trains rumbling by just outside your tent. I’ve camped with tent and with camper, and Ainsworth even has spots for motorhomes. If you’re at all into camping, I recommend the park which can be reached by taking exit 35 and heading west about half a mile.

I wanted to stay off the interstate as long as I could, but it proved to be impossible east of Ainsworth. The first road I took was a dead end. The second paralleled the freeway for a few miles then became an on-ramp. Even though there were other chances to get off the highway, I continued east on I-84 to The City of The Dalles. (That’s its actual name.) Along the way I saw some fantastic sights, including one fellow windsurfing with a parachute. The wind caught him and lifted him at least twenty feet in the air. Unfortunately, I was driving 65 mph on I-84 and had no place to stop and take some shots of his acrobatics.

Once at The Dalles (the common name for the city), I had some geocaches to find, and exited I-84 at River Road. You can read more about my impressions of this seat of Wasco County by visiting my travel site, www.travelforaday.com/thedallesor.php . I ended up spending much more time than I’d planned, largely because while I found two caches, the second required some hiking up a trail south of town and I had entered the co-ordinates incorrectly in my GPS unit. I got close, but no cigar, when I decided to check what was going on. Once I had the correct co-ordinates, the cache was relatively easy to find. However, having found it, I next found that I had no pen with which to sign the log, and I was unwilling to use my Swiss Army knife to draw blood for my signature. I took some bad photos of me at the cache, holding the cache, showing the cache in position, etc., and figured I could always mail those in as proof of having found the darned thing.

See, I found it! I found it!
Eagle Falls Geocache, The Dalles Oregon
Taken 6/19/07

This sure looked like good rattlesnake country, and the rocks I was climbing did have me a bit concerned about what could happen. I was at least a mile away from my car (and therefore my cell phone). No one knew where I was. No one was really expecting me to show up anywhere at any specific time. And I saw no one else for the entire time I was on this particular quest. Who knows how long my lifeless body would have lain there before it was found, or eaten by coyotes. One of these days I have to learn to carry that darned cell phone with me. And by the way, hiking back from the cache I turned and saw a spectacular view of Mount Hood on the horizon—but the lighting was wrong to get a good pic. Not sure why I missed it hiking in.

Back to the car, which I’d parked in front of a house as directed by the instructions on geocaching.com. The pickup truck in the driveway had a license plate frame that read "www.geocaching.com," so I figured I was in the right place. As I approached the car, I saw a man working in the yard, so I stopped and asked if he were responsible for the cache I’d just found. He seemed surprised that I would make that assumption, but I pointed out that having people park in your front yard was a dead giveaway. He called his wife out of the house. She was the one who actually had placed the cache. We talked for a while, and I thanked them for introducing me to a new section of The Dalles, new to me, that is.

There are lots of geocaches in the area. I had set out to find four and actually found two. After the fiasco finding the Eagle Falls cache, I decided not to try for the second cache hidden in the same general area, but did drive back to Fred Meyers to look for one hidden near the interstate. Alas, even though my GPS unit said I was right on top of the cache, I never found it. Guess that means I have to go back. I did find one along the newly constructed Riverfront Trail. This trail is ten miles long and is an excellent place to get out, stretch your legs, indulge your inner rollerblader, or just get on your bike. There are lots of caches hidden along the trail as well, so make sure you have your GPS unit with you.

The Skyline behind The Dalles.
Doesn't this look like good rattlesnake country?
Taken 6/19/07

Leaving The Dalles, I filled the Saab and my tummy at Biggs Junction, returning to the Shell Station/Linda’s Diner where I’d stopped back in April. Instead of continuing on I-84, however, I crossed the Columbia on US 97, then turned east on Washington 14. I’ve written about this road as well, and recommend it highly as an alternative to I-84. The trucks I was following turned north at Paterson on Washington 221, and I followed suit. This road led us through the Horse Heaven Hills, and past field after field of corn, peas, beans, wheat, mint, I don’t know what all else. The smells coming through the car were intoxicating. Nothing like acres of peas to really make you hungry.

The northern end of 221 is Prosser, the seat of Benton County, about twenty-five miles west of Kennewick. This is wine country—Benton County being the second largest producer of wine in the US. Napa County California is first. I was pleased to note that the monoculture taking over Napa, Sonoma and Mendocino counties in California is not happening here, at least not yet. Still I was struck by the evidence of extreme wealth side by side with that of poverty. Huge mansions are being built on the hillsides overlooking shanties and trailer parks on the flats. I didn’t see much evidence of middle class America in this region. Rather disheartening, I think.

Usually I come into Kennewick from the south. This time I approached from the west and promptly got lost. Kennewick is a much larger city than I previously thought, and the signs seem to be there to direct people who know where they’re going. Those of us from out of town, or out of state, just have to guess where we want to end up. Eventually I found my way to Inca, my favorite Mexican restaurant, where I enjoyed my dinner of tostada de ceviche de pulpo (Raw Octopus Salad). Having decided that I was going to drive no further, I also enjoyed Inca’s special margarita, served, to my surprise, with three cocktail olives. For dessert I had their version of fried ice cream, scoops of chocolate and vanilla ice cream served in a hot fried tortilla, and drizzled with chocolate sauce and whipped cream. Ymmmmm. My impressions of Kennewick can be found at www.travelforaday.com/kennewickwashington.php

Dinner done, I checked into my motel, and collapsed for the evening—spending time on line getting plenty of geocaches ready for the rest of the way east. But that’s a story for another day. You can see a selection of my (mostly unedited) photos from the day's drive on Picasa

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.

Father's Day, 2007

Poppa (Clarence Gilbert Spellman), 8/16/1912-3/20/1988
With Hans (1968-1980)
Taken at the family cabin near Stevensville, Montana
Summer 1973

Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword,
O how our hearts beat high with joy
When e’er we hear that glorious word!

--Frederick W. Faber, 1849

I never came out to my father. By the time I gained the courage to be honest, my father was no longer mentally competent. Mother tried to explain my living situation the one time my parents visited my partner and me in our Montana home, but neither Mother nor I were ever sure just how much Poppa understood.

Maybe I should get one thing out right in the beginning. I’m a PK. Now you all know what a PK is, don’t you? Poppa was a minister in the United Methodist Church. I’m a Preacher’s Kid, a PK for short. At fifty-seven years of age, I’m ready to accept that fact. It’s taken a while. As a kid, I didn’t think too much about it. It was my life and I lived it.

Growing up I quickly became aware that I was not the son my father wanted. My parents had been married for fifteen years when I was born. They had lost two children, boys both, at birth or shortly after. I grew up being told that the doctors had said Mother couldn’t have children. And indeed, her pregnancy carrying me almost killed her and me both. When my father was transferred from Stevensville to Laurel, Montana, in June before I was born in October, Mother’s doctor told her that she would have to stay in Missoula until after the birth. Mother refused, saying that her husband had been transferred and she would be going with him. The doctor replied, “You’ll lose the baby.” I’m here to tell you the doctor was wrong.

Poppa really wanted a son. When I was six months old, Poppa came home with a gift for his boy—a 30.06 rifle. I still own it. If you can appreciate the beauty in a well turned piece of wood, this particular killing machine is beautiful. I’ve even shot it—twice. I doubt that I’ll ever fire it again, but I keep it because it came from my dad. On the other hand, I’ve been told that the first “toy” I asked for by name was a vacuum cleaner. Can you sense some disconnect here?

We got our first television when I was in second grade. There was only one channel in Billings, Montana in 1957, and we watched everything. I enjoyed the variety shows. I really enjoyed the male dancers on Red Skelton’s show. I wanted to be a male dancer, but Father let me know that Men don’t dance.

St. Mary's in the Bitterroot Mountains
Our land west of Stevensville, Montana
Taken April 23rd, 2007

After we moved to the Bay Area, Mattel introduced a new toy. I didn’t want Barbie myself, but I wanted to design her clothes. Father was livid. If he’d only known how much money the big designers make, he might have changed his tune, but I doubt it. Men didn’t do that sort of thing. I put away the cloth, the scissors, the sewing machine, and gave Barbie back to the girl down the street.

I was always very close to my mother. I got my civics lessons from her. I got my reading lessons from her. Ironically enough, as a PK, I got my religious training from Mother. Over the years I would remind Momma of just how much she had taught me. A year or so before her own death, Mother asked, “Didn’t you get anything at all from your father?” I had to think about that, but yes, indeed I did.

My father was an avid fisherman—on the river before dawn and out until after dusk. He tried taking me along, even as a toddler, but the hours and the tedium were too much for this child. His statement, “Just one more hole”, became a family joke. I never became the fisherman Poppa would have wanted, but I learned that a day spent on the water is never wasted.

As should be obvious from his early gift to me, Poppa was a hunter. I grew up eating elk, venison, antelope rather than beef. We always had a freezer full of game. But shortly before my fourth birthday, my grandma was hospitalized with pancreatic cancer and Momma went east to look after her. Momma stayed in West Virginia for six weeks, long past my birthday and into hunting season. Poppa knew he had to look after me, but it was his nature to be out in the woods. Was it his fault that Walt Disney had just put Bambi in the theaters? Was it his fault that I had seen the movie just before Poppa took me hunting? Was it his fault that four-year-old Bryan screamed when Poppa shot Bambi?

And while I have never shot Bambi myself, except with a camera, I enjoy hiking the hills in crisp fall weather. From Poppa I learned how to walk with a rolling gait that makes no sound in the forest. From Poppa I learned that a day in the woods is a treasure. Frankly I feel closer to God in the mountains than I ever do in church. And I like to think Poppa might have felt the same.

Momma and Me
Taken by Poppa on the Boulder River, South-Central Montana
1950

Poppa was an amazing photographer. He shot Ektachrome in his Kodak 35mm range-finder camera. I grew up watching all those slide shows—and they were good shots. As an adult I met a man in the camera department of a big box store. When he saw my name, he asked if I were Clarence Spellman’s son. He told me that Poppa had done the earliest color work in the Yellowstone Valley and that he himself had processed all of Poppa’s film. As I reinvent my life for the fourth time, I am studying to be a travel writer and photographer. I look at Poppa’s images for my own inspiration.

And Poppa taught me one other thing—probably the most important aspect of my life to date. Poppa taught me about “vocation.” He always said that he did not choose the ministry. In fact he fought the “call” for ten long years. The hardest thing he ever had to do in his life was ask Mother to give up their newly-built home, so that he could go to college and then seminary. I believe that we each have a vocation. Some people are called to ministry, some to education, some to being Chevrolet mechanics, but all are called. That has been my guiding principal for the past forty years, and the main impetus behind my activism in Montana gay politics.

Faith of our fathers, we will love
Both friend and foe in all our strife;
And preach thee, too, as love knows how
By kindly words and virtuous life.

I will never forget early September, 1976. I was headed to Santa Rosa for the annual Highland Games sponsored by the San Francisco Caledonian Society. I was going to dance. Just before stopping at my parent’s home in Smith River, California, I pulled into the gas station to fill up. Sitting at the pumps, the Cougar wouldn’t start, and I had to have the battery jumped. When I explained to my parents what had happened, Poppa said, “C’mon. We’ll get you a new battery.” Driving north to Brookings Oregon, Poppa asked me to stop at the pharmacy. He’d eaten something at Kiwanis that didn’t agree with him, and he needed some antacid. Looking him over, the pharmacist said, “I’ll give you antacid, but I’m also calling the doctor. I think you’re having a heart attack.”

The doctor couldn’t tell what was happening and decided to hospitalize Poppa for observation. By the time I collected Momma and continued on to Gold Beach, Poppa was resting comfortably in his bed. The doctor sent us home saying that he’d release Poppa in the morning.

Smith River (California) United Methodist Church
Poppa's Last Parish
Taken Spring, 2007

It was dark when we pulled into the parsonage driveway in Smith River. One of Poppa’s parishioners was standing on the porch. She had received a call from the hospital and we were to return immediately. “Mr. Spellman has taken a turn for the worse.”

Poppa had suffered two cardiac arrests and was in a coma. He remained comatose for three days. Momma never left his side. Curry General is not a large facility. It has twenty-four beds. Sitting in the waiting room, I overheard two girls discussing their hospitalized friend. “He’s not too bad. It’s that old man in there who’s in trouble.” I wanted to scream “HE’S NOT OLD. He’s only sixty-four.”

Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.

Poppa lived twelve years after that episode. There were so many things I wanted to talk over with him, but it was too late. I can only hope that now, now that I’m the only one left, he can hear me when I talk. My parents are gone. My grandparents as well. Most of my first cousins have now passed on. I feel truly an orphan, which is an odd feeling at fifty-seven years. I want to tell Poppa on this Father’s Day, “I am your son. Whatever our differences, I am your son and I love you. I miss you. I want to get out on the river and talk. I want to tell you who I am.” I want to come out to my father.

Weaverville to Yreka and Home

Happy trails to you, until we meet again,
Happy trails to you, keep smilin’ until then.
Who cares about the clouds when we’re together?
Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather.
Happy trails to you, till we meet again.

--Dale Evans Rogers

The Trinity Alps, as seen from California Highway 3
North of Weaverville, California
Taken June 1st, 2007

A little bit north of Weaverville, I saw a sign along side California Highway 3. This sign warned that no snow would be removed from the roadbed evenings, weekends, or holidays, but since the warning was for a stretch of road some 40 miles ahead, and since the outside temperature was in the 90s, I wasn’t terribly worried about being snowed in. Perhaps I should have been as the Trinity Alps are known to be great snow catchers.

My first concern was to get a good look at Trinity Lake. Part of California’s Central Valley Project, Trinity Lake was created in 1963 with the completion of Trinity Dam. The reservoir behind the dam is the third largest “lake” in California, with a surface area of 16,000 acres. The Central Valley Project (CVP) was created in the 1930s as a way to take water from the mountains and valleys of sparsely populated northern California, and divert it to feed the agricultural needs of the San Joaquin Valley and the thirst of a growing Los Angeles. For good or ill, California wouldn’t be the powerhouse it is without the CVP.

As I drove north on 3, I kept seeing signs pointing out various marinas, camp grounds, and other access points for Trinity Lake, but no water or shoreline. Remember, this was the trip where I’d left all my maps at home, so I had nothing to check as a reference. The further north I got, the more I worried about missing the lake entirely, but that was not to happen. The lake itself is huge, and much of the shoreline is quite a ways east of Highway 3. Eventually the road came back to the shore, and once I found a viewpoint, I pulled off the road, and scrambled down to the water. You could probably spend a week or more boating Trinity Lake and never see another boat except at the marina.

Every ten miles or so I’d pass another one of those signs warning me about the lack of snow removal, but it still was in the 90s, so I pressed on. There were also signs warning that the road was going to get narrow and steep up ahead, but it seemed pretty narrow and steep (at least in places) already. The Saab was usually in 4^th gear, and sometimes in 3^rd. I’ve rarely had to downshift from 3^rd, so I wasn’t sure just what the warnings were all about.

Eventually the road turns west, leaving the Trinity River, and begins its real climb. I’ve never seen a paved road this steep before. The Saab was now in 2^nd gear, and on curves I’d downshift to first. Some curves looked, and felt, as if the car were sitting on its rear bumper climbing straight up the mountain. Remember that this is a convertible and with blue sky and sunshine, I had the top down. I could see the road immediately in front of me ABOVE my windshield. As I neared the summit I saw full-sized pickups towing boats heading down the mountain. I wouldn’t want to have that much weight on such a narrow, steep road.

At Scott Mountain Summit, I pulled off and took some pictures. The first thing I noticed was the altitude sign. This summit is at 5,401 feet. Who knew that the coastal mountains were so tall. A second sign I noticed said that the Pacific Crest Trail crossed the highway at this point. Then I noticed the California State Historical Marker which told me that this route had been the original Portland to Sacramento stage route. Now I know those folk were a lot sturdier than we are. I was complaining about putting my trusty Saab through its paces. How on earth would you get a stage coach up and down this road? The road was completed in 1860 and was used as the main north/south route until the railroad was completed in 1887. According to the historical marker, “The Winter road was kept open by Oxen to break trail and sleighs to carry passengers and express.” Those folk were much sturdier than we.

They mean it! (may have to enlarge the pic to see the second sign)
Steepest road I've ever driven, California Highway 3
Scott Mountain Summitt, 5401 feet
Taken June 1st, 2007

The summit was also where I crossed from Trinity County into Siskiyou County. The road down the north side of the crossing was smooth and not nearly as steep as the south side had been. I was able to drive most of the way down in 4^th and even 5^th gears. At the bottom of the grade is the wide spot known as Callahan. I continued north on 3, but I could have turned west at Callahan, climbed over Carter Summit (6100 feet) and dropped down into the Salmon River canyon, ending up at Somes Bar on California Highway 96. I’ll have to take that road one day, if only because about half way along you come to Methodist Creek.

Being more interested in Methodist churches than Methodist creeks, I drove on to the farming community of Etna which is part of the Scott Valley Parish for the United Methodist Church. Downtown Etna looks like a well preserved Old West town, and there are some lovely Victorian era homes in this community of less than 800 folk. The church, however, looks to be of much newer construction.

I could live there!
Victorian Style Home in Etna, California
Taken June 1st, 2007

It rained on and off all the way from Callahan to Yreka, but the Saab's top stayed down. Frankly after all the heat, the rain felt pretty good. I didn't put the top up until I reached Medford several hours later.

The other church yoked to Etna in the Scott Valley Parish is the Fort Jones UMC. This is a much older building sporting a sign that says “Methodist Episcopal Church 1873.” Just across the street from the church is a carriage house, complete with several horse drawn buggies on display.

It’s a short drive, relatively speaking, from Fort Jones to Yreka, Siskiyou County’s seat on Interstate 5, but you still have one more summit to cross. I’d forgotten just how mountainous northern California really is. The Saab handled Forrest Mountain Summit quite easily, and in no time at all we were in Yreka, trying to find the Methodist church there. Never did find it, and it’s not on the list of churches put out by the Yreka Chamber of Commerce, but then neither is the large RC church I found as I was looking around town.

What I did find was a lot of historic looking buildings. I’ve written about Yreka in my business blog, www.travelforaday.com, and I’ve noted there that Yreka still has seventy-five buildings built in the 1800s. I also found gardens in full bloom, some of which were in the most unusual places. I have to get back to Yreka and give it the time it deserves, but the hour or so I spent driving around town convinced me that there’s a lot here for the traveler.

Twenty-five miles south of Yreka is the town with the most infamous highway sign I’ve ever heard of. Wanting to see the sign again, I turned south on I-5 for a quick side trip to Weed, California. Alas, the state of California must have tired of replacing the sign, for while the option still exists, the sign is now much less controversial than the old one which gave you the choice of Weed or College. Actually, I don’t know anyone who had to make that particular choice. Most folk I know did both.

Oh Tempora, O Mores
California State Highway Sign at the "Central" Weed exit off I-5
Taken June 1st, 2007

I was now over four hundred miles into my Sunday Drive, and had close to two hundred yet to go if I was going to make it back to Smith River without spending another night on the road. My hope was to get to Medford, Oregon, before Costco closed at 8 p.m. Once I had done my shopping at the hundred dollar store, I would grab a bite to eat and continue the final one hundred ten miles back to the coast.

I’m pleased to say that I did, indeed, make it to Costco with 45 minutes to spare. Every now and then I like going to Red Lobster, so that’s what I did in Medford. Choosing immediate seating in the bar, as opposed to waiting for a table in the dining room, I took Khaled Hosseini’s book A Thousand Splendid Suns with me for dinnertime conversation.

I wasn’t able to get much read, however, as a woman dressed much better than I, was seated across from me at the bar. She too was reading, but she turned to me and asked if I were just traveling through Medford. We talked for a bit across the way, and I invited her to join me at my table. When I asked what she was reading, she answered that it was a scholarly treatise on what was at stake in Iraq. We shared an interesting dinner and real conversation that went all over the place—politics, religion, fund raising, education, you name it, we probably talked about it.

After dinner, we said good-bye, and the Saab took me the final stretch home. This particular Sunday Drive covered over 600 miles from start to finish, if we include the 100 miles from Smith River to Arcata on Thursday. The five hundred or so miles driven on Friday wasn’t nearly as tiring as I had expected it to be, probably because of all the stops I made taking photographs. Lots of land covered, and lots of places to go back and revisit. AND, sitting in the rest area on I-5 just north of Weed, I took what I consider to be my best photo yet. I’ve used it as the header for every page in my business blog, www.travelforaday.com, and I remain convinced that Saab really should pay me for it.

Till next time. Happy Trails.

Arcata to Weaverville and Beyond

The Mountains rising above the Fog
Taken from California Highway 299
Humboldt County, California
6/1/07

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost always makes me high.

--John Denver

Lots of sunshine on my shoulders last Friday. So much I began to wonder about sun poisoning, but so far no problems and they would have shown up by now. Leaving Arcata at 6 a.m., I headed east on California 299, following the Mad River (don’t ya just love that name) for the first five miles, then climbing rapidly through the fog to the Lord Ellis Summit at 2263 feet. Looking down into the valley below it seemed like I was looking down at a prehistoric landscape rising out of the mist.

Two weeks ago when I drove the Klamath River Highway, I turned west at Willow Creek where I saw many restaurants (well, at least three) all advertising breakfast. My thought in leaving Arcata was that I’d grab a latte before hitting the road, but I’d wait to Willow Creek for breakfast. Apparently, they eat breakfast late in Willow Creek. Not one restaurant in town was open, unless you count Subway, and the place east of town that claimed to open at 7:30 was full of Forest Service folk at 7:15. I drove back into town, stopped at the grocery store and stocked up on provisions for the road, including yogurt, cheese sticks, and one of those cheese, meat and cracker lunch sets. Heading east again I saw a sign out on the side of the road for a “Bakery,” and stopped there. Apparently it had just opened for the day and the sign had just been put out. Only reason I can think of that I didn’t see the sign the first time through town.

Sitting at a table in the small café, I wrote out my morning 3 page exercise that Julia Cameron recommends, then had a great breakfast of turkey and cream cheese on a kalabata olive roll. A large mug of chai washed the turkey down, and I was ready to get back on the highway. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the name of the place, but if you’re heading through Willow Creek, it’s right in the middle of town on the south side of the street, next to the real estate office. The folks were friendly, the customers all local (except for me), and the food was outstanding. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I lowered the Saab’s top. The temperature was in the mid 70s, the sky was blue and the sun was shining.

Father Leo had told me that gas was cheaper in Willow Creek than in Arcata/Eureka, and I believed him. He is a priest, after all. And he was right. Gas was a dime a gallon cheaper in Willow Creek. This makes absolutely no sense to me as Willow Creek is a small town on a side road, forty miles inland from the coastal cities. I didn’t need to fill up there, however, and waited till I got to Weaverville where gas was even less expensive and where I did finally fill up the Saab.

From Willow Creek east the road follows the Trinity River. There were so many photo opportunities that I finally had to ration myself. I would stop only every 10 miles, UNLESS something absolutely special came into view. Then I had to say, “OK, that’s special, BUT….” Highway 299 is a beautiful drive, especially if you’re not in a hurry, the sun is shining, and you’re in a convertible.

Thursday afternoon, driving south from Smith River to Arcata, I passed a spot in Del Norte Redwoods State Park where several Park Service vehicles were parked and lots of rangers were out standing around, looking carefully at the ground, talking on their cell phones. I wondered what was up, but Friday, when I kept seeing Highway Patrol cars driving slowly and making U-turns on the narrow highway, I really wondered what was going on. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the TV show CHiPs, but none of these guys looked like Eric Estrada, unfortunately. I was tempted to flag one down and ask if there was trouble ahead, but somehow I’m just not comfortable stopping a CHP officer on patrol.

California Highway 299 Bridge over the Trinity River
Taken 6/1/07

Nearing the Trinity County seat of Weaverville, I saw a sign telling me that Helena was only one quarter of a mile away, off the road to the north. Since I wasn’t aware that I’d driven so far east as to be in central Montana, I headed north to see what the state capitol looked like these days. Alas, Helena is a ghost town, surrounded by burned forest land. But what a photo op. I must have spent a good hour wandering around taking photos of buildings, ruins, the landscape. There’s one abandoned house in particular that I’d love to use as the location for a nude photo shoot. Don’t know how to get permission for that, or if I have the guts to just go ahead and do the shoot, figuring that it’s always easier to beg forgiveness. Four of my pictures from Helena are available on Eyefetch. The links are Helena California, Unknown Flowering Tree, Ghost Barn, and Ghost Home.

A month ago, driving back from Missoula, I drove through Damascus. Today I found myself in Bagdad, and boy, it’s worse than the press lets on. I saw absolutely nothing except a California Historical Marker indicating that the town of Bagdad used to exist on this spot. Ya know, the Saab really does get around.

My intent had been to check out the site of old Whiskeytown, so I continued east on 299 crossing Buckhorn Summit and entering Shasta County at 3213 feet. Dropping from the crest, I followed a semi and trailer at 20 mph. Two lanes with absolutely no passing points, and one curve immediately following the previous curve for eight miles. I wasn’t terribly upset at the slow speed, but having to breath in the diesel fumes and the smell of burning brakes was not comfortable.

As I neared Whiskeytown Lake, I saw a sign pointing to the south, indicating the trailhead to Whiskeytown Falls. That sounded like something to check out, so off the highway and up the mountain road we went. Everywhere I looked there were signs indicating that I was now in a Fee Area and that I needed to have my day-use fee pass visible should I park the car. All the signs were Department of the Interior/National Park Service signs, and I was confused. I had no idea that Whiskeytown Lake was a national park.

At the trailhead, the parking lot was almost full with only two open spaces, and lots of cars were parked along side the road. I got out briefly to check my options, found that the hike to the falls was 1.7 miles each way, and that I’d have to have my day use permit on the dash of the car. I will give them this, there is a self-service kiosk at the trailhead where you can pay your $5.00 day use fee and pick up the permit, but I had nothing smaller than a twenty in my wallet and no check book with me. Deciding that I wasn’t even half-way along on my Sunday Drive, and since it was already past noon, I climbed back into the Saab and headed down the mountain, stopping only for one photo shoot of the flora in the area (wild lilacs).

At the Whiskeytown Visitor Center I learned that the lake is a National Recreation Area, and that is why it’s administered by the Park Service. As I plan on visiting lots of such places on the trip east, I bought an annual pass for $80.00, and felt comfortable parking the car along the road—well at least as far as the Park Service was concerned. Heading west again, I stopped briefly to see the only building left of old Whiskeytown, and walked along the lake’s shoreline through heavy manzanita growth. I even came across one nude sunbather, and really wanted to join him, but duty and my readers were waiting, so settling into the Saab, I headed west back to Weaverville. By the way, Whiskeytown itself now lies under 120 feet of water. Only the old post office remains, having been moved to dry ground before the dam flooded the valley.

Lunch in Weaverville consisted of a reuben and fries with iced tea. The town, Trinity County’s seat, has long fascinated me, and once before I had stopped to check out some of the history of the place. Last year, returning from Mother’s stay in Redding’s Mercy Medical Center, I drove through Weaverville and wondered why I had been so taken with the town previously.

This trip I would spend more time in town, not enough to do it justice, but enough to decide that Weaverville is worthy of a day or more just for itself. After lunch, I headed down the side street to a park where I found, who’d a thunk, a folf course. There was one handsome man playing, so I waited till he stopped and asked him about the course. Unfortunately, he was a mute, and as I don’t know sign language, we were unable to communicate. But next time I’m in Weaverville, I’ll have my folf disks with me.

Kuan Yin -- One Who Listens
Shrine and Koi Pond at Entrance to Joss House
Weaverville, California
Taken 6/1/07

Back on Main Street, I headed toward the Joss House. Weaverville had a large Chinese community in its early days, and the Taoist temple they built has been turned into a California State Park. I was ready to pay my admission price and visit the temple, but a bus load of elementary children were in line in front of me. I just didn’t want to share my experience with them—although I’m sure I’d have picked up some fascinating insights had I chosen to do so. Staying outside the fence, I got some shots of the temple and the grounds. Next time I’m in Weaverville, I promise to get inside the temple. By the way, the pavement in front of the Joss House has something written on it in Chinese characters. My knowledge of characters comes from studying Japanese, and that was quite a while ago. I have no idea what these characters mean, but I’m sure it’s important to someone.

Weaverville offered one more surprise in the form of the Highland Art Center sponsored by the Snyder Highland Foundation. The Center has studio space currently being used by painters, a sculptor, and a photographer. It offers classes and exhibits on an on-going basis. Click on the link above for more information.

The Grounds at the Highland Art Center
Weaverville, California
Taken 6/1/07

All in all, Weaverville reached out and grabbed me, and I climbed back in the Saab knowing that I’d be back to spend much more time in this small mountain community. Only downside—the outside temperature reading in the Saab, as I started out of town, was 105 degrees. That quickly dropped—to 95 degrees—as I turned onto California Highway 3, but that’s a story for next time.

Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair

There’s a young man that I know just turned twenty-one
Comes from down in southern Colorado.
Just out of the service and he’s lookin' for his fun.
Some Day Soon, goin’ with him, Some Day Soon.

Ian Tyson

I lied the other day. I do have roses blooming,
just not on the four bushes in the back garden.
All four pictures today are roses that are blooming in my yard.
All four pictures were taken on May 20th, 2007

There’s an old song that I love, Judy sang it first for me.
It talks about a star-crossed pair of lovers.
He is rough and rowdy, she’s her father’s cup of tea.
Some day soon, I will sing it, some day soon.

I can’t remember the first time I heard Judy Collins’ cover of Someday Soon*, but I fell in love with the song immediately. I started singing it, without changing the genders in the song. Never sung it in public yet, however. That may change. Down at Borders Books in Eureka on Saturday, I wandered past the CD section and a boxed set of four Ian and Sylvia CDs jumped off the rack and into my shopping basket. The set was expensive, almost fifty dollars, but it was a compilation of all seven records the Canadian duo made with Vanguard which made it seem more affordable, somehow. And even at $50, that’s only twelve-fifty per disk, a bargain in today’s market. I knew precious little about Ian and Sylvia. I knew they were Canadian. I knew they were responsible for the song Four Strong Winds. That’s about it. I may have noticed in my Judy Collins’ Songbook that Ian had written Some Day Soon, but if so, I’d filed that in the back of my head where it was now covered with cobwebs. Looking over the list of songs on the back of the CD box, there were enough songs that I know and like that I felt comfortable in shelling out the money.

Sunday morning, I pulled off the shrink wrap and put disk one in the CD player. Turned the volume up and came into my study to check e-mail and maybe get some work done. What that means is that I wasn’t really listening to the album, just using it for background noise. Disk one played through without me paying much attention. There are twenty-six songs on the first disk, and I missed most of them, including C.C. Rider, Un Canadien Errant, When First Unto This Country, Jesus Met the Woman at the Well, and Spanish is a Loving Tongue, not to mention Four Strong Winds. I’ll have to put that disk back in the machine.

Later in the day I put disk two on, and this time I listened. I had to. The first cut on the disk is one of my favorite songs from high school days, You Were On My Mind. All I have to do is close my eyes and the group We Five are singing in my head. I had no idea that Sylvia had written the song, nor that the words were changed before We Five recorded it so as to get it past the censors. Other songs on disk two are Little Beggerman, Nancy Whiskey, Early Morning Rain, Darcy Farrow and For Lovin’ Me. Gordon Lightfoot credits Ian and Sylvia as putting him on the map as they were the first major performers to record his songs. Early Morning Rain always gets me crying. It’s one of the songs my group, The Internationals, prepared for our concert tour of northern California prisons. (Haven’t I told you about that???) Just like Johnny Cash, I have sung at Folsom Prison. But the number seven cut on disk two stopped me in my tracks. A gorgeous baritone voice was singing “blow him back to me, he’s likely drivin’ in from California.” Ian Tyson was singing Some Day Soon, and he wasn’t changing the genders. I skipped back to play the cut a second time. Then a third. Then I paused the machine and got the 12-string out. For the most part it’s the same song that Judy Collins sang, only a few words were changed for Judy’s cover. But the original words strike me as so much stronger. The main change comes in the second line of the second verse. Judy (and pretty much all the other female singers who have covered this song) sings “My father says that he will leave me cryin’.” Ian’s original words are “They [my parents] say ‘He’s not your kind. He’ll leave you cryin’.’” “He’s not your kind” really hits home, at least to me. Very much what a lot of us were hearing in the nineteen sixties. Does anyone remember Janis Ian’s “Society’s Child.” And indeed, the sixties were when a lot of us came to terms with being –or not being—society’s child.

My parents cannot stand him ‘cause he works the rodeo
They say “He’s not your kind. He’ll leave you cryin’.
If he asks I’ll follow him down the toughest row to hoe.
Some Day Soon, goin’ with him, Some Day Soon.

San Francisco is celebrating, I suppose is the word, the fortieth anniversary of the Summer of Love. We’ve been reading about fights, disruptions, all kinds of things happening that don’t seem very “loving” in this re-enactment of the hippy invasion of Baghdad by the Bay, as Herb Caen, the SF Chronicle columnist, referred to the city. I wish I’d been there for the “reunion.” I wish I’d been there for the original, instead of living fifteen minutes away across the Bay in El Cerrito. I never considered myself a hippy. In fact, I was a pretty conservative kid until the California National Guard and the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office shot tear gas at me in an attempt to keep me from going to class. Nothing like having the guardians of peace destroy your health to radicalize a person.

The Chronicle has been giving us quips from various spokesmen who had something or other to do with the original Summer of Love. Can’t say I recall seeing anything from Scott McKenzie, but Lawrence Ferlinghetti appears a lot. Of course, he’s San Francisco’s poet laureate—or at least he should be. I’ll have to find a copy of A Coney Island of the Mind. The poetry will undoubtedly mean a lot more to me now than it did when I first came across it some forty years ago. Just now, in doing a Google search, I found and reread the poem “Christ Climbed Down.” Pretty powerful stuff. Although, come to think of it, if forty years later I still remember the title of the collection and even the title of one of the poems in the collection, it must have been pretty powerful stuff when I first read it.

I suppose that everyone one has triggers that take them back to their youth. But you have to admit, growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, and graduating from high school as Scott McKenzie is telling us to “put flowers in your hair,” all the while our government is dropping napalm in Viet Nam to get rid of any plant life, including flowers, I’ve got some pretty potent triggers. Especially now when we seem to be making the same mistakes, and even greater ones, in the Middle East. I can’t read about Iraq without thinking back on Viet Nam. And I know I’m not the only one. I just finished Gore Vidal’s Point to Point Navigation, and he certainly connects the two. Right down to noting that in 1967 the US was ecstatic that so many Vietnamese had turned out to vote. Hmm, where have we heard that lately?

When he visits me my pa ain’t got one good word to say
Got a hunch he was as wild back in the early days.

So blow you old blue northern, blow him back to me
He’s likely drivin’ in from California
He loves his damned old rodeo as much as he loves me.
Some Day Soon, goin’ with him, Some Day Soon.

If you don’t know Ian and Sylvia, I urge you to check them out. This is the way “folk music” should have been sung—and was by a very few. Listening to three of the four disks yesterday, I spent a good bit of time replaying certain songs, crying over others. I also bought a CD of Melanie Safka’s music—her two first albums now on one CD. Something was really looking to take me back to my youth. Melanie I knew—I have several of her LPs on vinyl. Ian and Sylvia were a wonderful discovery. And while Ian and Sylvia are no longer a couple, they are both still making music separately. Ian is now living in the Calgary area and singing about cowboys. Makes ya wonder. His tour dates for 2007 include a concert in Livingston, Montana, and the Monterey Cowboy Festival. It even turns out he was in the Bay Area singing at the same time I was there for the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus concert. Had I only known that the night before the concert I attended, Ian was singing at my old favorite, Freight and Salvage in Berkeley. But then, we don’t dare let life be made up of what ifs.

But one thing I do know, Some Day Soon is going into my public repertoire!

Some Day Soon, goin' with him, Some Day Soon!

*For the record, no pun intended, Ian Tyson wrote Some Day Soon. The Judy Collins Songbook refers to the song as Someday Soon. I love Judy’s version, but Ian’s original is so much better, in my opinion. And I don’t mean to imply that Ian might have a thing for cowboys, other than for their music. To the best of my knowledge, he’s a straight arrow with a beautiful voice and a great way with words and music.