roadtrip | summer 2011 | sat aug 13 | music & the universe

The town of Rufus is so small, there isn't even a proper restaurant—just a quick mart at the gas station and a BBQ place that seems to have seen better days. So we went north to the city of Goldendale, which is about 10 miles away from the river in the middle of fields of rolling hay. It's dry, dry country—arid and rocky, with exposed volcanic rock at every turn. Giant windmill farms cover the hillsides, the turbines casting shadows on the yellow fields.

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.


read about sun aug 14>

roadtrip | summer 2011 | fri aug 12 | big river keep on rollin'

We were eager to get started in the morning—the Columbia River gorge was waiting, a destination we've long wanted to explore. We headed south, then a little west to cross "the Bridge of the Gods."

From there we crossed into Oregon near the Cascade Locks, one of a series of locks that run up and down the river. The gorge here is green and filled with trees, and salmon fill the river each fall. We stopped at the local museum to learn more about the history of the people who lived there.

Then we traveled east, staying in Oregon, through the woods to the town of Hood River. The river joins the Columbia, with Mt. Hood rising to the south. The little town is a mecca for windsurfers and kite boarders, and a place Adrian has always wanted to visit.

This particular spot on the big river stands right at the junction of cool coastal air and the hot high desert air. The temperature difference creates steady winds throughout the spring, summer and fall, perfect for riding. The river was calling to Adrian, so we pulled into the beach-front park, had a bite to eat, and rented gear so he could hit the water for a couple of hours. Matty and I watched for a bit, then rented a paddleboard to paddle around the small inlet lagoon near the beach.

When we were all tired and happy, we drove up the street into the town. It's a cute little tourist-y spot with a couple of streets filled with surf shops and gift stores, and little bakeries and restaurants. It's also the home of Full Sail Brewery, which dominates the main streets with its big cylindrical vats. Full Sail is a good brew, and one we've enjoyed many times over the years, so we sat in the tap room and enjoyed a pint while watching the windsurfers in the river below.

We kept following the river along the Oregon side to the town of "The Dalles," an old settlement with a huge dam, a grain elevator (wheat) and an enormous lumber yard. We kept on through, continuing east to a tiny truck stop town called Rufus, where we spent the last two nights of our trip at a little family-run motel. At the Rufus Hillview, we all took much-needed showers to wash away a week's worth of dirt and campfire smoke, then settled into real beds for a full night's sleep.


read about Sat, Aug 13>

roadtrip | summer 2011 | thu aug 11 | deep woods & dark caves

We woke at Mossyrock, ready for adventure. After pancakes and a few more laps around the BMX track, we packed up our gear and made our way to Morton, about 12 miles further east from the campground. There we did another resupply for groceries and ice before our journey through the backroad between mountains. A flea market was just setting up near the store, so we browsed the scattered wares and came away with two antler pieces that looked perfect on our dash next to the cowboy hat.

Then it was off to the backwoods roads of Gifford Pinochet National Forest.

The park connects Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams and the Columbia River—vast stretches of mountainous forest roads winding through thick, dense trees. We zigged and zagged through the woods, trees and vistas rushing past. Our picnic spot was a little pull-out framing Mt. St. Helens in the distance, the east side, where the peak almost looks whole again. It's easy, from there, to see what was lost in the eruption. The other side must have once looked very much the same, instead of the dry, dusty scrub it is today.

After winding back down from the peaks, we made it over to the Ape Caves on the south side, where an ancient lava flow—rare for this type of volcano—flowed downhill, cooling from the outside in and leaving a hollow tube. The caves descend for about 1 1/2 miles, split into an upper and lower section. We chose the lower, and scrambled down the staircases to the dark. It's 42° down there all day, year-round, so we packed our warm jackets and headlamps, descending to the darkest dark. Just a little way into the cave we found it to be a thick black, with a hollow echo. Lots of people go down there, some with lanterns, but the cave winds and turns so that you only see fellow hikers when they come around a corner, and they quickly disappear.

The walls are ruffled, showing the contours of the lava as it cooled into rock. Strange formations, with crystalline details like the lobes of a brain, form where the rock was melted and cooled a second time. The fluctuating temperature created high ledges, stranded boulders and pitted pockets that are dark and deep. It was a hard hike, only 3/4 of a mile each way, but cold and dark. Coming back up to the sun and warmth was a welcome change, and we sat on a bench for a moment thawing our chilly fingers and toes.

After that we kept south on a small road that ends at the Columbia River. Our campsite was at Panther Creek, off the beaten track in a woody and secluded spot. It was a bittersweet night—our last night of camping for the trip. In celebration, we grilled thick, juicy steaks over the roaring campfire, and roasted potatoes in the hot coals. The meal was perfect, campside cuisine to rival the best steakhouse dinner. We savored the food, the company, and the thick warm comfort of our familiar tent and sleeping bags.


read about Fri, Aug 12>

roadtrip | summer 2011 | wed aug 10 | volcano, take 2

Morning found the air a little cool and cloudy, but we had a fun time riding bikes around the campsite and the little dirt trails that wound in and around the trees. We packed up and headed back to the Visitor Center across the road, this time to do a little lake hike nearby. But when we saw the live cam of the top of the mountain—clear and blue—we made the snap decision to go up and try again.

We road the same 50 miles, winding up to 4200 feet, but this time we climbed above the clouds to see the magnificent view.

It's really an amazing thing to see it, to know—to remember—the cataclysmic event that transformed everything around. The top of the peak is literally gone, slid off down the river. The entire ridge where the observatory now sits was blasted clean, along with the surrounding hillsides. Trees broke like twigs. Lava rolled uphill. An ash column rose 60,000 feet in the air.

The mountain now is ringed with basalt and wildflowers, with trees growing slowly in the sheltered spots but bare rock along every ridge. The views were spectacular, and we were glad to have made the trip for the second time. Matty got to do another, different Ranger program, where he watched and participated in a few experiments. We hiked the boundary trail along the lip of the ridge and saw the smoke drifting from the crater, from the domes of rock that grow a little every day. There's no openly-visible lava at this volcano, but it's not hard to imagine what's trapped just below a thin crust of rock and dirt.

On the way down we stopped for a late lunch at a place called Patty's, right on the Toutle River. We had burgers—Adrian had an elk burger—plus their homemade berry cobbler for dessert. We ate on the back deck with a view of the river, and felt happy and content to have been in the sun, in the fresh mountain air.

Matty's drawing of the mountain.

We kept north after that, making our way to the next destination at Mossyrock. The campsite was the opposite of Seaquest the night before—the open grass is a haven for families with campers, RVs, boats and bikes. A dam nearby has formed a lake stocked for fishing, with lots of room for waterskiing, swimming and picnicking. There's a little concession stand that sells ice cream, and the camp host drives around at night selling firewood from his pickup truck. Our site was right next to a bike track, where Matty could ride in circles. He bounced, turned and raced to his heart's content. After dinner, we roasted marshmallows to round out the day, watching bats swoop and glide around the edge of the lake.

The next day would take us into the wild backroads, and also to our very last night of camping.


read about Thurs, Aug 11>

roadtrip | summer 2011 | tue aug 9 | beach to volcano

Cape Disappointment is near the seaside town of Long Beach–the entry to a long sand spit that runs north about 13 miles. We packed up early and drove up to the town.

It's a classic summer spot with restaurants, ice cream shops, kite stores and gift emporiums. We had a humongous breakfast at Laurie's Homestead Breakfast House—too much to eat, with giant omelettes for the adults and pancakes, eggs and bacon for the boy.

Along with breakfast, Matty got treated to the biggest, fanciest hot cocoa we've ever seen—a kid's delight of towering whipped cream taller than the mug, covered in rainbow sprinkles and served with a strawberry on the side. We left very full, and very happy.

To ride off some of that decadence, we road our bikes along the Discovery Trail at the beach. It's a bike path that winds up the miles of dunes and bluffs in an easy roller coaster, turning and swooping through the tall grass. It's the same stretch of beach that Clark (of Lewis & Clark) explored with members of the Discovery Corps. At one point we stopped to go out to the beach itself, wide sand as far as the eye can see in both directions.

After the beach we returned to the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center to turn in the workbook for Matty's Jr. Ranger Badge. With the badge safely affixed to his new hat, we hiked the short trail to the lighthouse at the point. On the way, the trail split down to a spot called "Dead Man's Cove," a perfect little inlet with deep, clear water, waves and driftwood. If the tide had been out, it would have been perfect for tidepooling; as it was, we contented ourselves with rock-hopping and beach combing.

The lighthouse itself is still operational, although the trail is strewn with ruins of old outposts, armaments and bunkers from the last century. At the top, in the lookout booth, we could see the Coast Guard sentry monitoring traffic in and out of the river mouth. From there we could see all the way south to Astoria, Oregon and the coast, all the way to the three rocks featured in the movie "the Goonies." We'll have to venture out there another time.

By early afternoon we'd travelled across the bridge over the Columbia River–long and busy with traffic–into the town of Astoria itself. We stopped at an old building on the site of the original Fort–Ft. George–which is now a bakery and brew pub. We bought some bread for our supper, and had lunch at the brewery. House-made sausages, a great kid's lunch and delicious brews for us. It was a decadent day, eating out twice!

Then we made our way east, through Oregon to another river crossing at Longview. That crossing leads into Washington past an enormous lumber mill, the largest we've ever seen. The pile of sawdust alone was as big as a full city block.

We pulled into the Mt. St. Helens Visitor Center, just outside Castle Rock, to find a grey and cloudy day when it was forecast to be warm and sunny. We toured the center (Matty earned another badge, this one for "Junior Geologist,") then we checked into our campsite right across the road, at Seaquest State Park. It was nice enough, but the clouds and cold made it a bit unwelcoming to stay at the site for long.

So, tipped off by a volunteer at the Visitor Center, we traveled the 50 mile road up to the top of the mountain to see what we could see. The live cam at the Center had shown scattered clouds at the top, and with dusk so late, we decided to take the chance.

"View" from the top of Mt. St. Helens.

We saw exactly what it looks like on the inside of a cloud, but nothing more. It was milk-white, with about 10 feet of visibility all around. We gave it a go, and walked the little trail by the observatory for a while, looking at wildflowers and hoping the clouds would lift a bit so we could see the peak, but no luck. We headed back down, all 50 miles, back to our dark little camping spot in the woods. Fortunately, the road itself is quite beautiful. It was constructed after the blast in 1980, and winds through the valley where the mudslide took out the old road, homes and people who were stranded after the eruption. The entire top of the mountain slide down that way, the path of least resistance, clogging up streams and rivers for miles around. It's still one of the siltiest rivers in the country, and tons of ash and debris are filtered out of it each year.

Back at the site, we found the firewood too damp, the air too cold, the night a bit of a loss. So we tucked into bed and hoped the next day would have a happier ending.



read about Wed, Aug 10th>

roadtrip | summer 2011 | mon aug 8 | long drive to disappointment

We woke up rested from a night of sleep at the coast, deep in the slumber of pounding waves. Now for some of the hard work of the trip. There were a few days where we needed to put some miles on the odometer, to speed past sections of the state that have been given up to logging and industrial development so that they hold no interest for the casual traveler.

We pointed ourselves south on 101, down, down to the very most southwestern tip of the state. It was a long drive, filled with tree-lined highways. The towns–Quinault, Hoquiam, Aberdeen, Randall–are almost all old logging and mill towns, now in the throes of recession, job loss and cheap imports.

The one bright spot was a little town on the way, South Bend, still thriving with a seafood industry digging clams, oysters and shrimp from the amazingly rich tidal flats and harbors of the coast. We didn't get out to the true coast, to some of the more scenic destinations near Grayland or Pacific Beach. We'll have to get out there again someday.

Tidal flats along the coat.

Our destination was at the mouth of the Columbia River. We drove through little inlets and islands in the wetlands, over long dikes and bridges. Our campsite was at Cape Disappointment State Park, which we hoped would be better than its name.

It turned out to be an enormous complex with more than 190 campsites. Again, our reservation luck held, and our site was amazing, a soft, sandy spot protected by a thin stand of conifers just on the edge of the ocean. We quickly made our way to the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center before it closed. We looked at the exhibits and learned more about the two adventurers who ended their 4,000 mile journey right at that spot. Their story has always fascinated me, with its grand vision and scope. They endured hunger and extreme cold and inhospitable deserts. It's a story of survival and a quest for knowledge all wrapped up into one, and it was inspiring to stand and see what they might have seen.

At a quick stop for ice and firewood, we bought Matty a new hat–a camouflage sun hat for his Jr. Ranger pins. He had earned one at the Olympics, and was on his way to a second one for Lewis and Clark. He was so proud of his pins, and took the challenges–and the accompanying oaths–to heart. It's a really great program sponsored by the National Park system, and one that he can continue to do for many years to come.

Matty with his Jr. Ranger hat.

Back at our campsite, we grabbed a few things and headed down to the beach. This area is famous for kite flying, so we took out the dragon kite and let it soar high above the bluffs. We let out nearly all the string on the reel, and watched it go higher and higher in the mild, steady wind. Flocks of birds went by our spot, pelicans, gulls, geese, cormorants. Thick vees and trailing y's traveled north and south along the coast and into the mouth of the river. As we flew the kite, Adrian built a driftwood igloo the perfect size for a 5-year-old boy.

That night, after building a fire, we had a grown-up appetizer of barbequed oysters we'd bought from a stand in South Bend. They were plump, juicy and full of sweet brine.

A simple dinner and dessert brought us to our spots around the campfire, sighing contentedly and reading story books before bed. Matty couldn't wait to get his Jr. Ranger badge in the morning, and I couldn't wait to fall asleep on the soft sand, listening to the endless lullaby of the ocean waves.


read about Tues, Aug 9th>

roadtrip | summer 2011 | sun aug 7 | rainforest & beach

Time to break camp and hit the road. After eggs and toast for breakfast, we headed west. These are places that are farther than a day trip from Seattle, far enough that the houses are few and far between, and the towns no bigger than a few small shops and a gas station. The biggest of these is Forks, where we stopped off for a resupply at the grocery store.

Forks has two claims to fame, one depending on the other: the first, it's the greyest, rainiest place in the US; second, that greyness made it the perfect setting for the Twilight vampire novels, which have turned into a cult phenomenon. Here and there in town you could see Twilight this-and-that, but not being huge fans, we didn't take a closer look.

We turned off Highway 101 at the Hoh River, winding up the valley. On the way up, we stopped to see two Roosevelt Elk grazing along the banks of the river. They were both bucks, and though one kept to the shadows and brush, the other was out in the sunlight. His full rack was fuzzy and shiny, and he was nibbling the little flowers that grow in the riverbed.

Roosevelt Elk, Hoh River.

The Hoh Visitor Center sits at the gateway to a temperate rainforest -- one that has seasonal weather, but enough biomass to qualify as a marvel of living material. In fact, although it has less diversity of species than the Amazon, it has more actual living mass per square mile. I'll give you a hint: there are a lot of very tall trees, and every inch of them is covered with moss.

In the Hall of Mosses, Hoh Rainforest.

The trees are up to 1,000 years old, and they fall everywhere, exposing their roots and pulling up great mounds of dirt. When they fall, new trees grow along the trunks, filling in cracks and using the nutrients to reach to the sun. Gradually the "nurse" tree crumbles and turns back into dirt, collapsing and leaving amazing root structures that twist and turn and arch. They're mostly western hemlock and spruce, filled in with flowering maples. Lichens crust the decaying logs, and ferns fill in the sun-dappled glades.

Roots that grew around a nurse tree.

We hiked the two small hikes from the visitor center -- the Hall of Mosses and the Spruce Grove. On the Hall of Mosses trail Matty spotted a bird on a branch nearby -- which turned out to be another owl. A small one, this one brown and dark. A Burrowing Owl, diurnal, but very rare in this region.

As we watched, it swooped from the branch to the forest floor, then back up to the branch with a tiny black mouse in its talons. We took pictures as he ate his lunch, then continued on our hike in and around the fallen trees and the stones on the river bed.

Burrowing Owl with his furry lunch, Hoh Rainforest.

After spending most of the afternoon in the forest, we kept along south on 101 to Kalaloch, a small lodge and campground on the coast. It's the only campground on the coast that's within the National Park, and therefore the only one you can pre-reserve—we were lucky to get a spot, even reserving six months in advance.

And what a spot it was. As we pulled in, we found that we were at the end of one of the loops, in a large and sheltered space with moss-covered trees, a hidden nook for our tent and two baby bunnies living in a hollow of the tree. We could hear the waves just over the bluff, but were hidden from the other campsites and from the breeze.

After a walk on the beach -- splashing waves, balancing on driftwood logs -- we had a simple dinner. Matty played with the kids from the neighboring campsite, darting around the campground loop on their little scooters and climbing the trees. He told them all about his how he got his Junior Ranger badge from the Visitor Center, which he had to earn by completing a workbook and taking a pledge to protect the forest.

After we settled in, Matty sat at the fire pit, quietly lighting the tip of a stick on fire and waving it around. He was casting spells with the glowing ember -- a spell to rid us of mosquitos, a spell for good and no rain. A spell for plenty of dessert at the end of a long day.


read about Mon, Aug 8th>