There's a striking difference when talking about the Gorge at a place like the Bridge of the Gods and the Gorge at a place like Rufus. The trees are gone. There isn't a waterfall in site, or a single mossy rock. It's desert country, rocky and scrubby and harsh. Our breakfast was at a place called "Sod Busters"—an old-fashioned name for an old-fashioned town of hearty pioneer-types.
We went back to the river valley, then just west to where the Deschutes River joins the Columbia. We rode our bikes along a trail that follows the valley of that river, dry and hot. It was along the same stretch of river, more than 150 years ago, that the Oregon trail settlers met their last great challenge—fording the river, penned in by water and rock. They were forced to abandon many of their possessions at the crossing, pushing through the last hundred miles to the green paradise of the Willamette Valley. I was glad to be leisurely riding the wide, smooth trail on a morning's outing rather than trying to survive in such a hard and unyeilding landscape.
The trail was an old railroad bed, apparently abandoned for a new track just across the river. Up and down the Columbia, too, on both sides, the mighty rails still shine, polished by BNSF trains rolling up over the mountains and through the landscape. The came so often and stretched so long we stopped even remarking on them. They're as much a part of this place as the river itself.
When we were done with our ride it was a quick trip up to the hilly bluff to Maryhill Winery, where Adrian played music for the last two days of our trip. The grapevine-shaded patio had grand views of the river and Mt. Hood, so Matty and I sat and read, drew and snacked through the afternoon of music. One of the benefits of traveling with Adrian to these afternoon shows is sitting in a civilized setting, having bread and cheese and a cool glass of wine. We knew it was going to be the end of summer soon enough, so the sunshine on our skin and the warm air was enough to fill the afternoon.
After the show, we wandered back up to Goldendale for dinner and the evening's entertainment. Dinner was at a small restaurant in a converted Victorian house, called "the Glass Onion" after a Beatle's song. The food was amazing, unexpectedly urban for such a remote local. We enjoyed rich gazpacho, a towering spinach salad with crispy bacon, brothy meatballs and a risotto with corn and shitake mushrooms. Everything was flavorful and delicious, even Matty's kids-meal grilled cheese sandwich with house-made applesauce on the side.
After a stop at Dairy Queen for dessert, we wound up the hill to the Goldendale Observatory, a State Park and one of the largest amateur observatories in the world. Their prize is a hand-crafted 24-inch telescope built by four hobbiests in the late 1960s. With much time—and dedication—the telescope found a home in the town and was eventually sold to the state, so that visitors can come and look at the skies.
There was a short program in the outdoor amphitheater, with a talk by the director as the moon rose and the sky grew darker. Then everyone lined up for a chance at the eyepiece inside the dome. It was a full moon, so there was little choice but to look at its face, since the brightness obscures so many other elements of the night sky.
When it was our turn, we each climbed the little rolling staircase up into the dome and had a peek. We could see just the very edge of the moon, glowing bright. The telescope magnification is so great that only 20% of the moon is visible at one time. We saw the bright wavy glow and went back to the motel feeling a little closer to the universe.
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