lookout mountain & hood river apple harvest

Today we ventured a hike we've long wanted to, but have never quite found the time: Lookout Mountain. We dragged our long lost friend V and K along for a ride (I say 'long lost' because K, who was once a fixture of my everyday, has been working at the Oregon coast these past several weeks as program staff for Outdoor School). It was great to see them both and catch up on all their news during the long ride up and around Mt. Hood.

The morning fog cleared quickly, and left in it's wake a gorgeous, clear, crisp sunny day. As we climbed into the mountains, we watched the car's temperature gauge drop by degrees. We piled out of the car at the trail head in 29 degree weather. A skim of snow crunched under our shoes as we made our way up the winding trail to the mountain top. The trail was not so steep as it might have been, for which I was grateful. M and I had tried another steep mountain scramble at Wallowa Lake last week and I just about busted a lung -climbing straight uphill while pregnant is not advisable. But this trail climbed gradually and while I huffed and puffed and crept rather slower than I once might have it was quite manageable.

We rounded the top of stony butte and as we caught a glimpse of the staggering vista a blast of icy wind nearly knocked us off our feet. I scrambled to wrap myself in the scarf I had abandoned during the heat of the climb. The view was magnificent and the day could not have been clearer. Mt. Hood, Adams, St.Helen's, Rainier, Jefferson, Bachelor, Three Sisters, and a far off speck that might have been McLoughlin or even California's Mt. Shasta all shone crystal clear in the distance. To the west, an endless, rolling stretch of conifer tops pierced the sky, and to the east a patchwork of farm fields spread like a giant quilt in the sunshine.

We huddled down in a rocky windbreak to rest and enjoy the scene. M scrambled around taking photographs. After a spell, we wound our way back down the trail to the car.

We had originally wanted to catch another hike at Fifteen Mile Creek, but it was getting later and we all hankered for a picnic lunch and some crisp Hood River apples, so off we went to the valley to enjoy the fall festivals and find a decent picnic spot (it seems there is a festival celebrating the harvest of something almost every single day in Oregon).

Our first stop was the Draper Girls Country Farm, a place we've often stopped before to taste whatever is in season, cherries, berries, peaches, pears -you name it. This time, a huge tent covered dozens of bins of apple varieties, from dull Jonagolds and crisp Galas, to tart Fujis and mealy Gravensteins, from the obscure, sour-tasting Winter Banana to my new favorite, the perfect apple: Pacific Rose. We made a few purchases, found a table on the lawn with a view of Mt. Hood, and enjoyed our picnic lunch while basking in the low glow of the glorious autumn afternoon sunshine.

After lunch, we made our way down Highway 35 towards Hood River, stopping along the way to visit a cookie factory (free samples!) and a pumpkin patch sporting a silly Cinderella themed corn maze. Our journey ended at the superb Double Mountain Brewery where my friends sampled the newest dry-hopped IPA while I looked on in envy.

It was a perfect day spent living perfectly and in perfect company. Now the rains can begin in earnest (they're scheduled to start as of this coming Wednesday -waah!).

gold coins

penance

It can no longer be denied -the Portland winter is upon us. Today dawned crisp and chill, and the sun glistened in the sky. But by afternoon the sky was crowded with clouds and a steady rain began to fall. It will likely continue until next June. So long to the lingering, meandering neighborhood walks in the waning evening light, now we pack ourselves off to the gym for a long, sweaty slog on the elliptical machines and the treadmills and the hellish stair masters. I confess I would far rather run or walk out of doors, but the rain takes much of the joy out of walking, and running is no longer an option (the giant breasts and burgeoning belly make it highly uncomfortable -I do not understand how large people do it?).

Today we trudged up the street through the cold to the community fitness center for an hour penance. It is fortunately only 5 blocks away. I say fortunately, because were it any farther it would likely see less of me. I look forward to taking full advantage of the facilities there once the kid is here. They have a fantastic kids pool as well as an extensive community ed class list, and the annual family membership is very affordable.

But meanwhile, working out pregnant is a real challenge. Up until today, I hadn't had to contend with the belly, just the shortness of breath and exhaustion that go with the territory (as if that weren't enough). Crunches with a baby belly are likely only possible for another month. Already, things felt snug and tight down there -I had better cram in as many as I can before it is too late. Half hour on the elliptical and I was ready to get back to my perch on the living room sofa.

I made the big mistake of stepping on the scale before I left. It seems I've gained 6 lbs since my last appointment on September 19th, which is way more than I was hoping for. According to the midwives, I have already gained over half of my allowable 35 lbs for the entire pregnancy -and I still have more than half the way to go. I am trying not to get too hung up on the numbers. I am decidedly not just eating for sport, but given that my diet is primarily vegetarian (and has been without ill effect for the last decade), I am certain that I am eating far more carbohydrates than are good for me simply in order to feel full. I have tried to add more fish on a regular basis, but even still I know I am not nearing the 80-100 grams of protein that are required.

On the other hand, I can't help but think the focus on pregnancy weight gain and post-baby weight loss is a little misguided. I am sure it would be nice to gain only the minimum, but does it benefit me at all to stress about each extra pound? Food is one of life's great pleasures, and I hate to make an enemy of it. A dear friend put it best when she told me that given all the sacrifices required of her during the long, hell of pregnancy, she was not about to deny herself a cupcake here and there. I tend to agree -my pleasures are so few these days, what harm can be done by partaking of a few extra enjoyable calories? Gone are the nightly stouts and IPAs, the bottles of pinot shared with friends, cigarettes, brie, sushi (well, I still enjoy sushi -shhhhh) jogging...the list is long. If I want to eat a giant, chocolate dipped macaroon, no one had better try to stop me.

wednesday evening at the library

M and I have developed a new and relaxing mid-week habit. The Woodstock Library remains open until 8PM on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, so we've taken to stopping by during our evening neighborhood strolls. We both enjoy a good hour or more perusing the stacks at random and picking out whatever catches the eye. This evening I scored a few handsome volumes right off the bat: Charlotte Bronte's Shirley, E.M. Forester's Where Angels Fear To Tread, Wallace Stegner's Recapitulation, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and Thornton Wilder's The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Of course, it is unlikely I will sink my literary teeth into each and every one of these tomes, but it is nice to have a handful of worthy candidates on hand at all times should time become a sudden luxury. M spent most of the evening hunkered down over the CDs, stacking them one by one on the table as he discovered fresh sounds.

Browsing among the memoirs and prose, I happened on a text by Kim Stafford, local son and the biological son of the great poet, William Stafford. The book is entitled Having Everything Right: Essays on Place and features various meditations on his experiences traveling the back roads of the Pacific Northwest. Having done a bit of adventuring myself of late, I was intrigued and settled in at a table for a bit of reading.

I happened to open to an essay about his journey through eastern Oregon and into Montana to investigate the site of the US Army's siege of Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce ("A Few Miles Short of Wisdom"). Rather than face relocation to a distant reservation or resist and risk the great bloodshed of war, Chief Joseph opted to lead the Wallowa band of the Nez Perce out of the Wallowa basin, across Idaho and Montana towards Canada where freedom awaited. The US Army would have none of it and pursued them all the way. The men, women and children of the Nez Perce tribe eluded capture for three months, fighting intermittently over 1700 miles when finally, at Big Hole Montana they suffered some of their greatest losses. They were captured soon after. A National Battlefield now marks the spot of this devastating massacre.

Kim Stafford describes his visit to this national monument and his attempt to glean some measure of meaning from his experience there beyond that of your average tourist. He asks the ranger if many Nez Perce people visit the site, to which the rangers gives the rather cryptic, halting reply that yes, they visit, except only at night for their ceremonies. The ranger tells him that you can tell they have been there from the ribbons that they leave in the trees and in the glade. Stafford wanders onto the battlefield, noting the plaques and markers that told the story of snipers positions here and Army positions there and the numbered lost and injured. And then he sees the ribbons, some new and shiny fluttering from the tree branches, others from a time gone by, lying rotted and fading in the dust, beads and bullets scattered nearby. He writes (and I quote at length because I found it beautiful):

"A century collapses into this moment of ground, where generations of private celebration grew outward from one story. This square yard of pine duff bound a guest register that could never be tallied, only renewed, only inhabited by the night-faithful memory that walked in the form of the people. Twenty steps east from the tree with the ribbons a ton of granite, hewn to a block and polished, was carved with the story as the US Army had lived it through. That was one way to remember 1877: carve the truth in stone and draft a platoon of guardians, write books and print brochures and script slide shows and build a hall to house them all, then carve a trail with numbers like a tattoo on the hill...

...The books, the message on stone, the trail's configuration would all have to be revised by an act of will; the ribbons were either renewed or lost by the very nature of their fragility. Sun and rain destroyed them. Pine budded and grew. Flowers withered, and the ribbons.

Suddenly in the heat a kind of fear chilled me --fear about my fellowship with the sometimes acquisitive tribe of patriots named America. Even in small things, we wish to map our conquest of the planet and the past. My own childhood collections flickered through my mind: stamps, stones, leaves pressed in a Bible, insects stilled by cotton soaked with alcohol and pinned to styrofoam in a box. And arrowheads. Smoky obsidian and blood-red flint. Modern habit is to lay such things away safe behind glass, and I had learned that habit well. I knew how to lift each bead with tweezers, plot and take each bullet up, sift them all out from the dust and alter them from a part of the world to an illustration of it. Could I leave the bones of the story still, and carry only its breath away in my mouth? Or would I thread five beads on a pine needle souvenir, saying softly to myself no one would know them gone?"


(ribbons and feathers adorn the tree beside Chief Old Joseph's grave -Wallowa Lake, Oregon)

tamastslikt cultural institute

To break up the long, cramped road trip from Joseph to Portland (6 hours in a car exceeds my usual limit by approximately 5 hours), we decided to stop midway in Pendleton at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute, a museum dedicated to the traditions and artifacts of the three primary tribes of the Eastern Columbia valley, the Cayuse, the Umatilla and the Walla Walla (http://www.tamastslikt.org/default.cfm). Plotted in the middle of nowhere and sharing acreage with a casino, we weren't sure what to expect, but we were pleasantly surprised to find a sophisticated and highly organized exhibit space.

The exhibit was organized simply as a time-line through history, and as one moved through the exhibit the artifacts, photographs and accompanying narrative reflected the changes that were taking place culturally. But what proved most effective was the way in which the exhibit changed structurally as one progressed. The earliest points in time, intending to reflect native life prior to the imposition of white culture, were loosely structured and open, featuring wide spaces mostly circular in shape. With the advent of US western expansion, we moved gradually into enclosed spaces, the first structure close, cramped and dark like a rustic trading post, then through a structure intended to represent a church (the history of the missions), and lastly, through a classroom space (coinciding with the history of mandated boarding school for native children). The effect of this physical transformation as we moved through the exhibit space was powerful. These external changes induced a deep empathy for the plight of these people as they slowly watched their culture erode and their wild, open lands disappear. We could feel their fear, sorrow and discomfort as we shuffled into the claustrophobic, boxy, rigid structures and away from the wide grassy plains and craggy hillsides that had previously defined their existence. It was altogether quite moving and rather discomfiting.

I should also note that I was most appreciative of the exhibits strict control. The narrative that accompanied each display was well written and to the point and the displays themselves were not cluttered and overdone. It seems that too many museums attempt to cover far too much material, which always leaves the visitor feeling slightly overwhelmed. I remember feeling this way at the Bob Dylan exhibit at the Walker in Minneapolis a few years back. Although I enjoyed that experience tremendously, it was quite simply an exercise in sensory overload -video, photographs, scraps of paper, detailed plaques, crammed display cases -so much information that I could absorb only a fraction unless I wanted to spend the entire day, which I did not. The Tamastslikt Cultural Institutes exhibit was classy, creative and moving. If you ever find yourself in Pendleton (rodeo, anyone?) and you're craving a bit of culture, I highly recommend a visit.

milkshake madness

I almost never indulge in anything as decadent as a milkshake, but when I do, it damn well better be a good one. So, today after being stuck in a car for 5 hours on the way home from Joseph, when my milkshake order was mixed up and I received a syrupy sweet strawberry imitation instead of a real fruit smoothie, I lost it. Down came the tears as I sucked the nasty concoction through a straw, trying my best to derive some cheer from the moment. But it was over –the pleasure of the moment was gone.

M looked over in bewilderment, “Are you crying?” He clicked off the radio. “What’s wrong?” And it was the same thing that is always wrong these days: I am left so few pleasures in life these 9 long, bloody months, if I order a goddamn milkshake I want to be able to enjoy it!

But in truth, it wasn’t the milkshake, it was being tired and carsick, it was dreading returning to work the following day, it was anxiety about how each calorie counts and the fact that a wasted crappy milkshake was one less milkshake I could enjoy in the months to come. I knew I was being infantile and I wondered secretly how much worse I would be come months 7-9. I thought back on the ice cube exercise and how far I had to go in terms of learning stress/pain management techniques (i.e. if a bad milkshake makes me cry, what is labor going to do to me?).

The tears subsided as quickly as they came. M put the radio back on and gripped my hand across the console. I hope my next milkshake is a good one.

hell's canyon

It drizzled steadily outside this morning as we enjoyed the delicious smell of soysauges and eggs frying on the stove in our little cabin. CNN blared on the television (we are suckers for 24-hour news channels) and the gas fireplace warmed the room as we packed the cooler and prepared our maps for the day ahead. Our plan was to head for Imnaha and then creep up a gravel road to Hat Point where we might catch panoramic vistas of the Snake River and Hell’s Canyon and maybe sneak in a hike along the ridge.

The rain let up as we rolled out of Joseph east towards Imnaha. At the recommendation of the fellow working the Joseph Chevron station, we stopped in at the tavern in Imnaha to inquire as to the condition of the road leading up to Hat Point. An old coot working the counter assured us the road was safe, excepting perhaps the first 5 miles which he promised were rather rough. And rough they were as our car hauled up the bumpy, rocky one-track winding road to the top of the ridge. We crawled 24 miles on gravel, although after the first 5 miles the travel eased a bit, winding through forests and along steep ledges overlooking the Imnaha Canyon to the West and Black and Bear Mountains to the south. Hat Point loomed ahead, shrouded in clouds. As we neared our destination it became clear that we were in for a serious disappointment. The watchtower situated atop the highest point was scarcely visible through the fog. We climbed the tower and peered out into the vast expanse of pure white, our rain jackets wrapped tight around our bodies to shield us from the whipping rain.


(the view from Hat Point)

We retreated to our car in grim defeat to peruse the maps and consider our options. We could wait around and hope for a clearing in the clouds, but time was short and we figured we would try our luck at another lookout about 35 miles to our south. So, we turned back and rumbled down the treacherous track to the valley, just as a thunderstorm roiled on the horizon. Lightening crashed round us and the rain came in sheets and I begged M to steer carefully as we wound our way off the mountain and back to level ground.

Back in Imnaha, we branched off onto yet another rough, stony road, this one taking us 30 miles or more south towards the alternate lookout. I grumbled and whined, never one for long car rides, I had not imagined spending day 2 in the Wallowa’s cooped up in the car. 30 miles is nothing on pavement, but on dirt it takes a good hour to navigate. Add to this my poor pregnant belly was completely empty as it rounded on 2pm. Anyone who’s been pregnant knows that ignoring the urge to eat when hungry leads to nothing but misery for anyone within 10 yards of said pregnant woman, to say nothing of the misery the woman feels. Poor M bore my bad attitude with stoicism. We just needed to get somewhere. Anywhere.

At long last we reached our destination. The clouds were on hiatus temporarily and gave us a tiny glimpse of the grandeur for which we’d suffered these many hours: Hell’s Canyon. But I had only one thing in mind, and that was making myself a hearty sandwich. M took a few photos from the lookout point while I cracked the cooler and dug in. By the time my lunch break was over, the clouds were moving in again and destroying the view for which we’d worked so hard. My hunger sated, I cheered up and took in the waning view. The wind was fierce and chill rains began to fall again. We decided to give up our hiking plans and instead opted to retreat back to civilization. M joked that many people claim to enjoy a day spent driving through lovely scenery. I would like to know if those people a) are driving on nauseatingly bumpy gravel roads and, b) are pregnant. Because if so, I think they’re lying.

hurricane creek

I am an unapologetic backseat driver. I am terrified of dying in a car and so in order to avoid the likelihood, I annoy M (and anyone else behind the wheel) by advising constantly on speed, turn signal usage, following distance and the like. I justify this behavior by reminding M (or whoever will listen) that there have indeed been instances, however rare, when my startling gasps have saved us from a near miss. More often than not, these near-shrieks are simply frightening and attend to no immediate danger, but I will remain vigilant nonetheless.

Now M is what we like to call a backseat hiker. His harping has grown particularly more acute now that I am carrying his first born son. I admit I am off a bit off kilter, owing to my growing girth up front. As we trek along, through forests and over hills, M walks behind me warning me to be careful over the stony parts, to go slow on the descent and occasionally, over particularly treacherous bits, he’ll grab my arm tight and hold on for dear life, as though without him I might hurl myself over a cliff and to my death. It strikes me as sweet, although a bit silly.

Today he was in good backseat hiker form as we crawled out of the forest and along the ledges of Slick Rock at Hurricane Creek. We were lucky to stumble on this fabulous destination, since it wasn’t in our initial travel plans. But during a brief visit to a bronze art gallery in Joseph this afternoon, we met a local who tipped us off to a hidden hike deep into the canyons of the Eagle Cap Wilderness.

The forest here is distinct from those of the West. Gone are the verdant ferns and spongy moss that carpet the floor of the forests of the Willamette Valley and soggy Cascades. This forest was more like the seasonal forests of the east –the Northern Minnesota forests of my childhood. Quaking aspen glowed pale yellow and shimmered in the breeze and the ponderosa pines released their lemony scent into the air. Downed trees littered the canyon floor and we puzzled at the cause. We speculated that Hurricane Creek takes its name from gale force winds that blow down the canyon, and it was a mite windy during our excursion. We learned in later reading that the trees are knocked down by annual avalanches.

We hiked in rather late in the afternoon, and reached our destination just as the light began to fade. With a 2+ mile return trip, we couldn’t linger but we dearly wanted to. Slick Rock was an amazing sight. Water trickled from high up on the mountain, sliding down the face and at the base, cutting a deep cavern through the granite. The gray granite peaks of the Sacajawea and the Matterhorn mountains towered 9,000 feet above the trail, dwarfing the rest of the landscape. They don’t call the Wallowa’s “Oregon’s Alps” for nothing.

The winds picked up and dark clouds rolled in as we turned our backs on the brilliance of the scene and started for the trailhead at a quicker clip than that which brought us in. My legs were tired (we’d done a series of hikes that morning also) and my gait grew sloppy and I stumbled on the descent. Thankfully, M was there behind me as ever, ready to direct my stride and advise me on how best to navigate the dangers of the trail.

slick rock

wallowa lake

escape to wallowa lake

A dear friend sent a card about a week ago in which she congratulated me on my pregnancy and implored me to take full advantage of my waning freedom by traveling as much as possible. She has 2 small boys and knows well how difficult and exhausting it is to get out of town. M and I took her at her word and a mere two weeks following our adventures in John Day, we plotted yet another escape –this time to Wallowa Lake and Hell’s Canyon.

We departed Portland on time for a change (I’ll note that M had his car serviced early last week in preparation –so, you can teach an old dog new tricks after all!) and headed out of town just as the Vice Presidential debate kicked off. We spent the 6 hour trip glued to public radio, dialing through the stations when we would move out of range, listening to the debates and then the after math as the pundits and public weighed in. We rolled into Joseph, Oregon just before midnight and settled into our cozy cabin at Wallowa Lake Resort, a modest resort just a short walk from the shores of the lake. We opted for a cabin this go-around (instead of our usual cheap and sleazy motel) because we knew that in early October the chances for rain were high. Should it piss rain in true Oregon style, we knew we’d be glad for something a little more spacious with cooking facilities where we wouldn’t mind hanging out for hours if need be. I hope we don’t wind up stuck indoors, but if we do this is a decent place to wile away the hours.