Waterfall Wanders
Heat. Haze. Big roving rain clouds. Trails carved out of cliffsides. Waterfalls that drop loudly into deep, green pools. This is the seduction of Oregon in late August. Last weekend, Kelly, Marsha, and I were its victims.
After dealing with real-life bullshit all morning, we gathered at my house midday and drove east into the Columbia Gorge—for that is the province of waterfall hikes. On this day, we chose Eagle Creek Trail, a pretty famous Oregon hike that leads you ramblingly into the wilds by following the Eagle Creek itself.
Now, this trail is part of the Pacific Crest Trail, and as such, we passed tons of "PCTers" on it; all of them friendly, all of them covered in dirt—reeking of moss, earth, and abiding body odor, all of them heading north to Canada as we forged south toward Punchbowl Falls. In comparison, we were just lowly day hikers, carrying—all carefree-like—nothing but water bottles in our hands.
River Life
So Cal, you have your sparkling beach break; Jersey, you have your shore. But here in Oregon, our summertimes are defined by “river life.” Actually, it defines both summer and winter—one season, you go to the river, and one season, you think about how awesome it’s gonna be when you get to go to the river again.
The Sandy, the Clackamas, the Washougal, the Lewis … I know it’s not that time of year yet, but I’ve been persevering through rain, cold, and darkness for the next chance to toast on some round river rocks alongside one of these mighty rivers. And I know I’m not alone.
Come mid-June or so, river spots become a replacement for bars and parks and other places to gather. And if you have the whole day, then you’re obviously about to float. Required: Intertube, coozie, sunnies, and river shoes (kicked Vans slip-ons work great!).
Floating from one spot to the next provides soft, lazy hours of quiet, allowing you to contemplate the way the tree tips touch the sky and the odd birch leaf spiraling down stream at the exact same pace as you. Of course, if someone happens to bring a floating cooler, then things get a little loose out there on the river. Only within the realms of fun and safety, though, you understand. You come home from a day like that all sandy, sun-tanned and tired—but good-tired, you know? Ah, river life!
Like I said, I know it’s not summer yet, but my bones are positively ACHING for a river day in the extremely near future. See you out there?
A beauteous rope-swing spot near Hood River.
Lefty loves his unca’ Justin!
The journey is its own reward.
Beacon
Sometimes when the weather says, "100% chance rain," you still wake up to a day like this. In Oregon, November can be a little touch and go when it comes to your sanity. There's the nice days, but then there's also entire weekends where the sound of rain pelting the bricks outside never stops, and suddenly it's 4 o'clock and you never even changed out of your pajamas. A network of coffee stains works its way down your front. It's not pretty.
Anyway, my point is that when you wake up expecting flooding gutters and actually see sun, you better go for it. We drove out to Beacon Rock, a giant outcropping on the Washington side of the Columbia River. Highway 14 through Camas was awash with autumn clarity. The maple trees sprinkled yellow leaves down onto the black road. The sun catching ripples on the inlet waters dazzled our eyes. It was quite a thing to see at a time when I needed beauty in my life very badly.
