Up the river

The secret garden

Belnap Hot Springs sits just off highway 126, one of Oregon's wooded corridors that was shockingly burned in last summer's fires. The highway runs through Eugene and closely follows the McKenzie River as it tumbles downhill to join the Willamette. It's a beautiful river, icy cold, especially in spring, and numerous campsites hug its edge. During the 70s and 80s, when we were living in Eugene, we knew this highway well and probably spent nights in every one of its campgrounds. But never, for some reason, Belnap.

So I was pleased to join my family there for a four-day camping trip last weekend. Highway 126 was too far south so we took OR 22 out of Salem most of the way. Here too were acres and acres of burned trees. Heavy logging equipment sat roadside in numerous places, and the almost complete destruction of the little town of Detroit Lake made us all sad. But there were multiple signs of rebuilding, which shows optimism. May it not be in vain.

Belnap sprawls across both sides of the river and has been a resort since the early 20s. The campground is huge, with crisscrossing paths that made it easy to get lost, even in daylight. One night my daughter and I did. We were coming back from the loo when our only light went dark with no warning. The trails and campsites are surrounded by tall trees and shrubs and the moon was no help. We stood in the blackness for a few minutes, shocked and amazed, and decided to move forward, thinking we could sense the absence of trees where our turnoff should be. 

This failed to materialize however, and after each of us had taken a turn walking into either a tree or a bush we turned around and crept back to the camp restrooms. Jennifer felt confident she could find camp using another route she knew, so I waited while she went off to retrieve a working light. It was blissfully quiet and from a grassy area nearby I could see the pale half moon finally rising. Eventually my dauntless daughter returned with a light and our little adventure was over.

During our stay we enjoyed the mineral hot springs pools, wandered the paths, sat by the river, and visited the "secret garden." On Friday we went to Clear Lake and rented a boat. Clear lake is the source of the McKenzie and the river was blocked by lava 2900 years ago. The river source, a large spring, filled the little valley and the extremely cold water left many of the ancient trees intact and still standing. We searched across the lake and found many. Jeff made his habitual dive into the icy water (any body of water will do) and after a quick return to the boat declared the cold a 9 on a scale of ten, and probably life threatening. (The lake supports no life, though fish are stocked in summer.)

On Saturday he road his bike over McKenzie pass to Sisters and we drove up to meet him. On the way back we stopped at Camp Sherman to visit the store and admire the Metolius, and then went on to dinner. It was late when we reached Sahalie Falls and the afternoon crowd had dwindled. We pulled in. I have been there many times over the years but have never seen such water and we wondered whether it was the recent rains or a too-early snow melt that sent so much of it plunging down the steep rocks.

It was lovely to have this break after so long in the city and I came home filled with memories of the weekend, and of all the many weekends Ray and Jennifer and I visited these same spots. There is a feeling of comfortable familiarity, of belonging here, that makes me realize how much this landscape owns my heart. Belnap isn't part of that yet, but I hope to return and explore more of its paths, and make more memories to fold away with the others.

As I write this on Wednesday, Portland is expecting three days of 100+ weather followed by several days in the 90s. This is so unlike the Oregon I have known so long that it startles. It's a clear sign, if one was needed, that our climate is changing and already there are a few small fires across the state. I fear for our forests and the people who live and work in them, and pray that the expected fires do not ignite. We have been poor stewards of this Earth and I can only hope it's not too late to be better.

Seeking balance at McKenzie Pass

Fall came early to Sisters Country but it retreated briefly this weekend, so we took advantage of a wonderfully clear day to drive to McKenzie Pass. Ray, of course, sees it regularly from his bike seat (it's 14 miles from our front door), but it was a first visit for me since last summer and the clarity of the air and the views took my breath away—and brought a much-needed respite from our current national craziness.

North and Middle Sister from McKenzie Pass highway (5,325 feet; 1,623 m).
The highway here follows the route of an 1860 wagon trail across 65 square miles of
lava flow. The area is covered by about 20 feet of snow in winter.

Visitors contribute a splash of color as they climb to the top of the
Dee Wright Observatory, built in 1935 by the CCC.

October is a transitional month, not only because the weather is changing, but because as the busyness of spring and summer wane we often find ourselves turning inward, weighing the old and the new in our lives; shedding cast-off ideas and habits as we prepare for the inevitable cocooning of winter. October encourages balance as the sun moves into Libra, and we all benefit from the season when we take time to reconsider and readjust. Living next door to such grandeur helps.

Mt. Washington, one of the oldest volcanos in the Cascades was active
between 300,000 and 500,000 years ago. The lava here is from three flows,
including Belnap and Little Belnap, which are to the left of this photo.

In Sisters, October marks the end of the summer tourist season. This year, it also marks the beginning of a new look for downtown. For years there has been talk of repairing Highway 20, at the heart of the community. Two years ago the Oregon Department of Transportation (ODOT) presented a plan to local officials and business owners. Their reaction was one of horror. The plan would essentially gut the downtown during part of its busiest season, and small businesses, still struggling from the recent recession, would take yet another hit. ODOT retreated and came up with a second plan—better but not good enough. 

Mt. Jefferson shines in this telephoto shot.
The tip of Mt. Hood could also be seen from the observatory.

Eventually ODOT officials and local business owners and city representatives sat down together. They listened, and more importantly, heard each other. (While listening is passive, hearing is active—an effort frequently ignored.) Together they compromised on a workable plan. Preparatory work began in August. In early spring the highway will be shut down in block-long sections rather than all at once, and crews will work 24 hours a day. The project, when finished, will provide new sidewalks, more street trees, and a much-improved road bed; and heavy trucks will be rerouted away from the business section.

Given the destructive nature of our current national politics, it's heartening to know that citizens and government can work together to solve problems. It would be even more satisfying if House Republicans understood that coercion is not a rational way to achieve one's goals. 

The weathered face of North Sister is revealed in the sharp, clear autumn air.
Can we send some of this clarity to Washington?

 

Winter into spring

While the rest of the country suffers through massive winter storms, we've been lucky here in Sisters country. Except for a cold snap in early January our winter has been mild, with some sunshine present almost every day. But yesterday our walk took us into the heart of a weather war.

Walking east along the long asphalt path that edges the route to McKenzie Pass we looked right to see nothing but whiteout conditions. All was hidden but the storm, from which buffeting winds carried thick snow that melted as it struck. A pale sun worked hard to break through but the storm prevailed.

On our left was a wide expanse of azure blue sky and bright sunlit patches brightening the forest floor. Our path was apparently the dividing line between winter and spring, and though the battle shifted throughout our hour-long walk, winter eventually prevailed.

This morning's walk was different. A light dusting of snow was already melting on the black asphalt and the sun shone from ear to ear except where trees lined the path and cast their morning shadows. These were filled with a thin layer of frozen snow. Some were so perfectly outlined it felt like sacrilege to trod on them, but trod I did.

And I felt a bit guilty. So easily do we cast aside these gifts of nature, like wondrous blinking signs reminding us over and over to pay attention, get out of our heads, and stay mindful. And nature is close here; I have no excuse.

The weather yesterday reminded me of a favorite poem by Nikki Giovanni. I can't improve on her words so I'll leave you with it.

Winter Poem

once a snowflake fell

on my brow and i loved 

it so much and i kissed 

it and it was happy and called its cousins

and brothers and a web

of snow engulfed me then

i reached to love them all

and i squeezed them and they became

a spring rain and i stood perfectly

still and was a flower

Walks 'n rides

A friend in Denmark wondered if I was finding good places to walk. Those of you who've been reading this for a few years know that I try to walk three miles every morning, or at least six days a week. I started this habit when we lived in France, where a narrow country road passed a few feet from our door and wandered uphill past vineyards and fodder fields to another tiny village. From there I could continue uphill, which I sometimes did, or turn back toward home.

The road back was a bit wider but there was seldom traffic, a tractor maybe, a few cyclists, a lost tourist, the bread lady. This track edged similar fields. About a quarter mile from home I turned onto the main road where, again, traffic was negligible. There were often horses to visit with along this stretch and in summer, colts. To describe it as bucolic is accurate but that word doesn't acknowledge the abundant wildflowers, the friendly waves, the smelly sheep, or the rugged mountains that surrounded our little valley.

As you might imagine I missed that experience whenever we left, and after we sold the house and returned to the U.S. I was pretty sure I'd lost those peaceful walks forever. Fortunately, I was wrong. Sisters is small and rural and though my walk here lacks old-world charm and has a little more traffic, it makes up for it with grandiose scenery and plenty of tall, red ponderosa pines.

The first half of my walk takes me past fields of those pines, some of them huge and humbling. I often say hello. The Three Sisters, volcanic peaks a little over 10,000 feet high, are behind me most of the way but when I turn my head to look, or turn right at the end of the longest stretch, there they are, dominating the landscape, impossible to miss or resist.

That longest stretch is also state highway 242, which travels through U.S. forest land and crosses McKenzie pass about 15 miles out of town. Since the pass is closed due to snow about nine months of the year there's little-to-no traffic. Once it opens to autos (next week) tourists will be heading up, because the views of spreading lava and towering peaks are spectacular.

This route is a popular bicycling challenge (I'm often passed by cyclists) and in fact Ray rode to the top (14.1 miles, a 2,231 foot climb, part of it a 7.7% grade) a few days ago, soon after the road was plowed from the gate to the top of the pass. The roadside snow towered over him and a Bulletin photographer snapped his photo. If I can get a copy I'll post it. The opening of the pass is a big deal for cyclists and tourists. We've known it to stay closed into July.

Back to my walk: After I turn right and greet the mountains I go one short block and turn left and touch the edge of town before turning back along a different, more commercial route. It's not bucolic or even beautiful but there are still those trees, and this is a short stretch. Soon I'm back onto quiet neighborhood paths and then home again.

It isn't rural France, which will always be my standard, but it's pretty darn good. So your answer, Annette, is "Yes!"

***

A friend in England wrote to say that after reading my review (5/6/12) she borrowed Half the Sky from the library and is reading it now ("emotionally exhausting," she said, and I have to agree). Several others have promised to read it too, and this makes me happy. Yes, it is a tough book. But if those women can live it, you can read it.