Tag Archives: Hiking

It Doesn’t Get Any Groovier Than This

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It’s a well-documented fact that I like items of a retro nature. Lava lamps. Dogs-playing-poker tapestries. Avocado green appliances. The Bee Gees. So, when my birthday rolled around on Friday and Tara presented me with this, I was absolutely thrilled.

She had been teasing me with hints all week. “It’s something you’ve always wanted,” she said. She had elicited input from friends and family, and one person (hi, Esther!) told her, “He’s going to love you even more after this, if that’s possible!” Suffice it to say, I was pretty intrigued, and my mind raced with possibilities. I actually compiled a mental list of things I had always wanted in a vain attempt to figure out what my girlfriend had gotten me.

  1. A Volkswagen Bus. Ever the hippie at heart, I have long coveted a Volkswagen Bus. Preferably a Type 2, with curtains in the windows and a split windshield. Gotta have room to haul around all those lava lamps, after all.
  2. A walk-on role in Martin Scorsese’s next gangster movie. Who wouldn’t want to hobnob with the greatest director of the past 40 years and work side by side with the likes of Robert DeNiro, Ray Liotta, and Leonardo DiCaprio? It wouldn’t need to be a big role. I’d be content as Guy Who Serves Drink To Joe Pesci’s Character Before He Goes Apeshit And Stabs Fellow Bar Patron To Death With A Ballpoint Pen Over Some Perceived Slight.
  3. A rock ‘n roll recording contract. OK, so I can’t sing. Or play any instruments. I don’t even like karaoke. But none of these minor details dissuades me from the rock ‘n roll dream! I’d love to strut around stage wearing tight leather pants while thousands of adoring fans chant for an encore.
  4. A meet-and-greet with Abraham Lincoln. I’m about 150 years too late for a sitdown with the sixteenth President of the United States. Le sigh. I’d love to pick his brain about topics like being born in a log cabin and the Emancipation Proclamation and all those vampires he hunted in his youth. Plus, I could change history by warning him away from the Ford Theater that night.
  5. An official Red Ryder carbine-action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time. But I’d shoot my eye out.

Each of these items I summarily dismissed as unlikely gifts from Tara for various reasons, so I remained stumped until the moment I tore open the box. You should have seen my eyes light up when I saw the beautiful beaded curtain with the rainbow-colored peace symbol inside! Both she and Esther were right. I have always wanted a beaded curtain (I was even going on and on about one that was in the beach house in Lincoln City a few weeks ago when I crashed spring break), and I absolutely do love her even more since she gave me such a thoughtful gift. That, and concert tickets to The Shins, who are playing in Bend on May 25th. Best birthday ever!!

And it was. Last year I got an oil change for my car and didn’t even have cake. This year Tara made me a fantastic seafood quiche for breakfast, then we went into Portland for a visit to Powell’s, and ended the day with redneck eggrolls and red velvet cake. She showered me with attention and love and I ate it up like a beaver in a forest.

Today also marks the end of the first week with both the kids and Tara under the same roof (they go back to their mom later this afternoon). Things have actually gone incredibly well, which doesn’t really surprise me given how perfectly everybody has gotten along ever since our first weekend together in Boise last November. Rusty and Audrey love her cooking and sense of humor, and we had many good conversations and played a spirited (if rather lengthy) game of Trivial Pursuit last night. Yesterday we all went on a hike to Falls Creek Falls in the Washington Cascades, and that was a blast. All in all, a fun week! I love how well everything is working out.

Here are a few pics from our adventure yesterday.

Audrey, Rusty and I posing in front of the falls.

Snowmelt made this section of the hike treacherous. Luckily, nobody fell.

We're so fierce.

Falls Creek Falls, Washington. Probably the best-kept secret around here. We were the only ones at the lookout the whole time.

Huckleberry Hunting 101

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I loves me some huckleberries.

If you aren’t familiar with huckleberries – and chances are, unless you live in the Pacific Northwest you’ve never even seem them – you are missing out on some seriously good stuff. Huckleberries resemble blueberries but are smaller in size and a bit sweeter. They only grow in very specific climate zones at higher elevations in acidic mountain soil, and are impossible to cultivate or farm. Each berry must be picked by hand. This probably explains why they’re hard to find other than in a few local farmer’s markets, and command prices of $15-$20 a pint.

They are amazingly delicious, though. And picking them is an adventure in itself. You get to drive up into the mountains, traipse through the forest, and have a grand ol’ time communing with nature. Which is why I headed out Tuesday morning for a drive into the Indian Heaven Wilderness, one of my favorite hiking spots in southwest Washington and a place – conveniently enough – renowned for its bounty of huckleberries that ripen right around this time every year. I got there about 10:45, and the weather was absolutely perfect: sunshine, blue skies, and a cool breeze blowing through the trees that carried with it a not-so-subtle reminder that autumn is about to land with a thud. Right off the bat, I found plenty of wild huckleberries growing all along the trail, and I spent three hours gathering as many as I could. There’s a certain method to picking them: a one-handed maneuver in which you pluck each berry between your index finger and thumb and scoop it into the palm of your hand. I would pick ten or so and then deposit them into the ziploc bag clutched in my left hand. More often than not, I was balanced precariously on a log or a hillside and being dive-bombed by mosquitoes and biting flies during the process. Like I said, huckleberries take a lot of work! But what a sweet reward. I’d estimate I ended up with $50 worth based on their market value, but I’m not selling these babies. At one point a group of hikers passed me and asked what I was picking. When I told them, they wondered what I’d do with the huckleberries. “They make excellent jam,” I explained, “And are really good in pancakes and muffins.”

When I last picked them in 2009, I made a big batch of homemade jam, which has since dwindled to two small mason jars. I figured it was time to make some more, and also enjoy the aforementioned pancakes and muffins, provided I have enough left over. I should…we’ll see.

Betty Crocker, eat your heart out.

I should also mention that black bears love huckleberries. Based on my fear that I will one day be eaten by a bear, I was a bit apprehensive while picking the berries. OK, “jumpy” is a more accurate word. I kept imagining I heard phantom growling, so I’d stop what I was doing and listen carefully, but it was always just the breeze blowing through the treetops. Whew. I’m always happy to survive a bear-encounter-that-wasn’t.

(By the way, I stopped in Big 5 Sporting Goods the other day and inquired about bear spray. They had some on hand, but it was a very elaborate “Bear Attack Defense System” consisting of a can the size of a fire hydrant that required a great deal of finesse in releasing the safety. I figured I’d be halfway digested before I was even able to point the nozzle in the bear’s direction, so I passed).

After picking huckleberries, I embarked upon a 2.5-hour hike up a very steep series of trails to a gorgeous alpine meadow teeming with lakes, wildflowers, and clusters of fir trees, interspersed with gorgeous scenery that included stunning views of two nearby mountain peaks, St. Helens and Baker. All told, I covered about 11 miles yesterday, which explains the aching back and sore muscles today. I’ve been popping ibuprofen to deal with the pain, but I wish my girlfriend’s hands could work their magic instead.

Regardless, it was worth it!

Mount St. Helens - Indian Heaven Wilderness, Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

Huckleberries resemble blueberries; they're smaller and sweeter.

Eunice Lake, one of many I admired while hiking.

It's not every day you see a man leading a pack of llamas through the forest. I told him that and he smiled. Curious what this was all about!

Alpine meadow, Indian Heaven. After a long and steep uphill hike, this was my reward.

What’s That Weird Buzzing Sound?

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$30 Paperweight 

I picked up the phone the other day to call my dad, and got a busy signal. That took me aback – when was the last time I’d heard one of those?! It occurred to me then that busy signals also belong on my list of things that are obsolete nowadays. Thankfully, because they’re annoying. I tried calling back again and again, only to get that same ingratiating tone – one that is slightly less unpleasant than a buzzing alarm clock before the sun has come up. With cell phones, you don’t have this problem. The phone rings even if the person you’re calling is on the line, and either goes to voicemail, or the other person can pick up thanks to call waiting. I love the efficiency in that whole process.

As irritating as the busy signal was (it took twenty minutes of repeated attempts to finally get through), at least I knew what it was. A few weeks ago, Rusty had to call my parents for something, so I handed him my phone. He dialed the number, waited a few seconds, then gave it back to me.

“There’s something wrong with the phone,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There’s a weird buzzing sound, and nobody is picking up.”

I snatched the phone from his hands, dialed it myself…and laughed. My son had no idea what a busy signal was! I was incredulous at first, but then realized that he probably had never heard one before. That’s either sad or incredibly funny. Maybe both.

My parents have a cell phone – they just never use it. Hell, not only do they have a landline, but the phone in the living room is a rotary dial. You should have seen the looks on my kids’ faces when they saw that for the first time. My parents aren’t exactly “early adopters.” I remember in the early 90s trying to convince them they should invest in an answering machine, and up until last year they still used a VCR to record shows. Thankfully, they converted to a DVR (which, naturally, they love).

Something tells me their cell phone is always going to be nothing more than a $30 a month paperweight, though.

Nature’s Air Conditioning was on Full Blast

Yesterday, my dad asked if I’d be interested in driving into the mountains for a nice little summer hike and an exploration of Ape Cave. I took him up on his offer, but insisted on driving because his car does not have air conditioning (see what I mean about not being “early adopters”?) and we would surely need it since it was, after all, the middle of summer.

We stopped for a picnic lunch at Beaver Bay, a nice little spot situated on the banks of Yale Lake. The sky was overcast, a stiff breeze was blowing off the lake, and we shivered beneath sweatshirts and jackets while eating our sandwiches. This may yet go down as The Summer That Wasn’t, I’m telling you. “It’s just the wind on the lake,” I told him optimistically, but when we arrived at the trailhead – 2700 feet in elevation – the air was every bit as cold. My dad said it felt like we were hiking in an air-conditioned room, and that was a pretty accurate description. The sky remained gray with clouds obscuring the tops of the trees, and the temperature couldn’t have been warmer than about 58. Regardless, it was beautiful, even if the hike to June Lake is all uphill and gains 700 feet. I have hiked many times when it was sunny and 85, and I would much rather have a cool, cloudy hike.

Breathtaking scenery despite low clouds and a crisp August chill.

The smaller of two waterfalls spilling into June Lake, elevation 3,400 feet.

My dad, navigating the entrance to Ape Cave.

Ape Cave was just a few miles away, so we hit that next. This nearly 3-mile long lava tube was formed 1,900 years ago when hot molten lava from Mount St. Helens poured down the volcano’s southern flank and entered a stream channel. The surface of the lava cooled, forming a hard crust, and insulated the lava flowing beneath, which was able to travel a great distance.

/geology lesson.

I had never been to Ape Cave before, despite living here for nearly seventeen years! My parents have gone many times, and even my kids have visited. It was nice to finally get out there and explore it. Caves are fascinating, and this one was fun.

On the drive back, I did turn the A/C on, just so I wouldn’t feel like I had driven my car all that way for nothing.

We didn’t really need it, though. The high in Portland was 69.

Good Things Come in Cardboard Boxes

Later in the evening, I stepped outside to check the mail, and found a package resting against my door. It was a book-shaped cardboard box, and I knew what it contained without even opening it. An advance copy of my novel was due to arrive any day from the printer, and so I tore into it eagerly. I cannot tell you the jubilation I felt when holding my book in my hands for the very first time.

Holding my book for the first time, I felt like a new father showing off his baby.

I stared at it. Flipped through the pages, read the back cover, the introduction. It is indistinguishable from any book you would pull off the shelf in your local bookstore. In other words, it looks “real.” It IS real, of course. I do not believe there is any stigma left in self-publishing these days. Not when the finished product turns out looking so professional.

In just a few more days, it will be available for sale!

I crawled into bed last night and, as I so often do, curled up with a book. Only this was my book, and I can’t even begin to describe how amazing it felt to be reading it. I’ve only ever seen it in manuscript form before, double-spaced on 8.5″ x 11″ paper, and even though I know how the story ends, it is so incredibly cool to be reading it as if it were a book I’d just purchased at Powell’s. I read the first three chapters and can’t wait to dive in again.

Oma…huh?!

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A few days ago, I was in a weird place. I don’t mean physically – there’s nothing odd about my townhouse – but rather, in a strange state of mind. How do I know this? Because I found myself looking at classified ads in Omaha. Omaha! WTF is that all about?! Omaha isn’t even one of the places I visited, though I did pass through. For some reason I got it in my head that Omaha might be a nice place to live, so I started researching the job market and the climate and looking at the demographics, cost of living, etc. My reasoning for this temporary bout of Nebraska madness? I’ve always said I wished it would snow more here, and Omaha is not hurting in the snow department. No, sirree: they average 30″ a year. Plus, I reasoned, there’s a Raising Cane’s about an hour away. Anytime I craved chicken fingers, I could get ‘em! Based on the abundance of snow and the proximity of chicken fingers, for a few brief minutes I seriously considered uprooting my whole life and moving to the midwest.

Fortunately, sanity prevailed. An hour later, I wondered what the hell I had been thinking! I’m sure Omaha is great – the Counting Crows sing a nice little ode to it, after all – but, come on. I don’t have a Cornhusker mentality! The Pacific Northwest is my home, and I love it here. I don’t want to live anywhere else. Something similar happened years ago, after I took a business trip to Boston. Suddenly I was sending away for Massachusetts relocation packets and studying the housing market. I even started watching Good Will Hunting often, so I could pick up the Bahs-ton accent and blend in with the locals. Again, that time too, I came to my senses. I guess it’s just the allure of something new. I’ve often said, those first six months after moving up here in 1994 were the most exciting and happiest time of my life. Everything was new, and life was one big adventure. I sort of feel like a crack addict trying to chase after that elusive first high – it’s never the same again, no matter how many hits you take.

I’ve heard, that is.

I attributed my weird Omaha craving to a passing fancy, a fleeting “what if” moment in time that quickly disappeared. Still, I figured the best cure of all – one sure way to guarantee this wouldn’t happen again (and I mean no offense to Omaha people, of course) – was to give myself a fun day in Portland. It had been about a month since I’d even seen my favorite city, so I was overdue anyway. I needed a big ol’ dose of the Rose City in order to set myself straight again and ensure those crazy thoughts would not return. Kind of like a Portland immunization, if you will. An inoculation to prevent any weird I-think-I’ll-become-a-Nebraskan! diseases from developing.

So this morning, I took myself to town, if you will. It was lunchtime, so my first stop was the food cart pod at 10th and Alder. After debating my choices, I opted for a Thai chicken and rice dish from Nong’s Khao Man Gai, which I ate in O’Bryant Square, beneath a gunmetal gray sky that carried with it the hint of a light breeze. I love the hustle and bustle of the city – it energizes me, and makes me feel electric. And the weather? Perfect! A lot of people are complaining about our lack of summer this year. It has been unusually cloudy and cool – the temperature hovered only in the mid-60s all week, and we barely saw the sun – but with news reports of this massive heatwave gripping 2/3 of the country, I am certainly not complaining! I experienced heat and humidity aplenty during my trip. I am loving our weather this year! (Seven day forecast for Omaha: 92/93/96/100/100/100/97. Seven day forecast for Portland: 76/69/73/72/74/70/74. It’s not even close: we win, hands down. And I’ll bet those 70s are optimistic).

After lunch, I drove myself to Forest Park. Forest Park is a sprawling, vast forested wilderness that covers 5100 acres and stretches for eight miles over the hillsides of the Willamette River. It’s a leafy green oasis that is within the Portland city limits, making it the largest forest in a major metropolitan city in the U.S. It’s got a vast network of hiking trails and is home to all sorts of wildlife. And, shockingly, before today I had never been there. This was a serious wrong that needed righting! After all, not only do I love Portland to death, but I’m also an avid hiker. This month’s issue of Portland Monthly featured a big spread on Forest Park and a handy, detachable map, so I stuffed that into my backpack, wound my way into the park, stopped the car, and commenced my hike.

And promptly got lost.

Actually, that’s not true. I was never lost! I just didn’t exactly know where I was at all times. But I knew how to get back to my car, so again, I contend that there is a difference and I was. not. lost. The problem? Forest Park is so big, it’s overwhelming. There are trails bisecting other trails that intersect still other trails. Many of them are interconnected, like a giant spiderweb. But they’re not all marked. Case in point: I came to a junction of five trails, and only three had signs. I studied my sort-of-worthless map for a good five minutes before deciding the trail I wanted was second from the right. The good news: it turned out I was correct! The bad news: I was by now way off course. It really didn’t matter, though – the scenery was stunning. After walking forever, I came to a sign for the Ridge Trail, and came to a screeching halt. “What the hell?” I said out loud, whipping out my map and studying it again. The Ridge Trail was a hike I had contemplated originally, but decided to save for another time as it was way out of my way. Only, apparently, I had hiked so far off course it was right there! “How can this be?” I said, still talking to myself out loud, when another approaching hiker made me jump. She was coming off the Ridge Trail and had clearly heard me holding a conversation with, umm, nobody. How embarrassing! We chatted briefly, though – she was cute, after all – and I decided to walk the twenty minutes or so down the Ridge Trail for the fantastic view of the St. John’s Bridge that had caught my eye in the magazine. Cute hiker assured me it was worth it “if you like bridges,” and I’ve never met a bridge I didn’t like, so I decided to check it out. The Ridge Trail descends 1000 vertical feet (!) and though I wasn’t starting from the top, it was still plenty steep enough. Sure enough, the view of the bridge was breathtaking. Then, of course, I had to conquer the uphill portion of the climb, and that was a killer. Totally worth it, though. I finally made it back to my car 3.5 hours after setting out. I had planned on taking a gentle, scenic 3-mile loop hike, but ended up doing nearly 9 miles instead. Oops.

But you know what? I had an amazing day. This was exactly what I needed! Omaha who?! Portland and I are a match made in heaven.

View of the St. John's Bridge and Portland, from a confusing junction of five trails in Forest Park. Love the cloudy, cool day!

Forest Park is aptly named.

Tiger lily (according to my Nat'l Audubon Society Field Guide). These were growing in clearings throughout Forest Park.

Most definitely not scenery you'd find in Omaha.

Forest Park, Portland

The St. John's Bridge, as seen from the bottom of the Ridge Trail.