MOUNT HOOD

We all look the same here as we traipse the corridors in our McMenanmin’s issue rough terry robes. (I keep my key in the pocket to prevent startling a napping attendant at 4am to beg to get back to my bed.) I’m in the Reporter’s Room, which seems so impersonal considering the rooms to the right are the Mary and Minnie Tibbits and the David Flinn Buxton (with a painting of a mystical brunette on the door). I’m writing this over not-quite-done oatmeal in the Black Rabbit restaurant. With each sip of orange juice my head, which when I awoke felt like someone had poured in a bucket of soggy seawater laced sand, clears a bit.

I sneezed all the way to Mount Hood and was glad to be suffering in the hot clear skies of Oregon rather than in rainy New York. I kept the silver Ford Focus hugging the curves of the scenic bypass to Mount Hood and after passing two snowboard clad hitchhikers eventually made my way to Timberline Lodge which sits at 5960 feet, half way up the mountain. From the lodge the ascent to the peak looks like a gentle slope upwards and on this warm day I wondered how it was possible to get lost and die up there while the piles of lazy snow gave no hint of their ferocious descent. The gracious historic doors to Timberline are masked with a reinforced army barracks style tunnel that allows safe passage. The only view from anything below the third floor is snow that appears to have been there since the Timberline was built by the WPA in the 1930’s.




I settled in for lunch with a view at the Ram’s Head Bar and a jolly young man asked if I was alone. To my affirmative reply he invited me to join them. I happily declined as the woman with him kept her gaze focused on the spectacular view. Fortified I headed toward the Columbia River Gorge in search of woods I could trample in my sandaled feet. I spotted two cars parked to the side of the rode and hoped it marked an off beat trail. After traversing disintegrating felled trees and moss covered boulders I spotted a bridge crossing a wide rugged stream. Just across the bridge was a trail heading two directions that was barely distinguishable from the dry needled pine forest floor. I took both forks and found impassable snow about 500 yards out in each direction. Ho hum, I had not packed sensible shoes! The second fork did offer an uphill climb with a view of the stream so after my ascent I settled in and soaked up the intensity of the rushing water.
The final leg of my loop back to Portland offered five waterfalls, Multnomah being the most famous and the only one with a snow cone vendor. My favorite was Horsetail falls where I took the steep, winding path to the upper falls. I braved the recessed cave behind the falls that gave me a thrill and fright not possible at the Opera and gazed through the raging runoff at the sun splashed lushness dappled with 100 shades of green.

PORTLAND, OREGON

I remember my travels not only by the sites I see but also by the books I read along the way. On the flight to Portland I read Barbara Brown Taylor’s Leaving Church. Seemed an appropriate selection as I headed out to attend a meeting on progressive theology that lies intentionally outside the perimeter of the church I know. Mrs. Taylor became an Episcopal priest and wended her way to the ideal flock. In time she found herself so depleted from doing the work she loved for the multitude that were never satisfied and from hashing over human sexuality rather than focusing on divine Grace that she exited stage left.

Tired tears of understanding were pinched back as I read passages I could have written. I was heartened to realize I’d rather do the work of hacking branches to save myself than shoring up stones to preserve trampled tradition. And I’m scintillated by a quote from Vonnegut Taylor threw in, “Strange travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.” (Does anyone know what novel this is from? I just read Vonnegut for the first time recently and I feel a kinship with his quirky funny. I’ll now be on a quest to find this gem.)

When I looked up after finishing my book we were flying over a mountain range. Snow draped peaks cradled strewn gauzy clouds and I wanted to drop down just long enough to take a bite out of a freshly rolled ball of powdered snow. This trip to Portland gave two options for a day trip – the coast or Mount Hood. I wondered why I unhesitatingly chose to run to the mountain and thought perhaps it’s because it’s easier to get lost in the mountains. At the beach you can get lost by drowning; but the mountains offer countless options for straying and still finding your way home.

Portland proper reminds me of post-Annex Princeton blown up to a 10:1 scale - so clean and controlled and white. And for a little grit, the townies are gathered in the square, though these townies are probably from other places, like Decatur or Laredo. Loved the Japanese Gardens and was thrilled to have good food for not much money with free stuff thrown in by my servers at lunch and dinner. I think it was because I announced my exhaustion from taking the 7am flight from New York.

At 5:48 pm I trudged down to the shared bathroom (ugh) to brush my teeth before falling into bed. I was drawn to the lav at the back with a window overlooking the wine tasting patio. To my utter delight I discovered a claw tooth tub. Ah, now there’s a place I could prop myself up for another hour!