Journal: Portland Trip
May 11, 2000
In May of 2000, I set out on an adventure.
I loaded two suitcases into my S10 truck and left Little Rock bound for
Portland, Oregon. A new job opportunity awaited. My husband, Michael would
follow with our remaining possessions and pets in July. I made the trek over
half way across our vast country alone, leaving in the early morning hours of
the 11th. I had my first cell phone for safety. There was no GPS or
Siri to guide me. I had to depend on the ancient method of using a paper map.
My trip was well planned, having studied and marked my route carefully with the
aid of my oft-traveled mother. Along the way I scribbled down journal entries
to document the journey.
Thursday, May 11, 2000. 7:30 am - Leaving
Arkansas – laughed and shed a tear crossing the state line, unsure when I’ll be
back. Celine Dion’s, The Power of Love playing on the radio – “headed someplace
I’ve never been”. NO FEAR!
12:49 pm. Had a long stretch and a short
walk just east of the Texas line to loosen up the kinks in my body. Still
shooting for Albuquerque. Crossing Texas on the interstate is a long boring
drive.
Made it to Albuquerque! Sixteen hours on
the road was grueling for my body but my mind is still wide awake. The flats of
Texas and Oklahoma were pretty boring until just before New Mexico. The rolling
plains, the plateaus with their beautiful reds and browns with green bushes are
stunning. I could just imagine herds of buffalo dotting the landscape black.
The craggy mountains surrounding
Albuquerque are beautiful. The city seems tucked away, hidden in the midst of a
group of rocky giants, lounging in the shadows.
Friday, May 12, 2000. 6:30 am - Today is
my vacation day. I want to cover some miles but I also want to see the Grand
Canyon.
7:30 am – New Mexico is beautiful.
Sometimes the view is so overwhelming, the tears just stream down my face. The
red, dusty colors differ so much from the South.
12:25 pm – Arizona stretches out before me
like a great pink blanket. The vibrant colors of New Mexico give way to the
pastel pinks and yellows. From here it looks like this country goes on forever.
1:50 pm - I’m standing on a corner in
Winslow, Arizona.
3:40 pm – Made the Grand Canyon! $20, But
now I’m here. It doesn’t look real. The colors are so southwestern (imagine
that). It’s a bit hazy because of the fires that have closed the north ridge, but
it is awesome. The vastness, the enormity of the canyon is dizzying. It takes
my breath away. The Colorado River looks too small from here to have carved
this magnificent abyss. Rather it was the finger of God. He must smile at how
easily impressed we are with His handiworks. Even with all the tourists, there
is a stillness and a quiet as if the very air holds a reverence for the majesty
of this sight.
So many people. So many languages being
spoken. So many children, smelling of Coppertone and Juicy Fruit. The Gift Shop
has a fabulous view but the windows are dirty with the fingerprints of hundreds
of tourists. They come by the bus load and pack the warm, stuffy Observation
Station.
What in the world was I thinking? What
made me think I could take in the Grand Canyon in a couple of hours? I could
sit here all day. Alas, I cannot spend the hours I’d like and I lament I shall
not be here for sunset. It would bring me to tears, I’m sure.
The desert was beautiful. So many times I
would like to have stopped and written my thoughts about the desert with the
mountains looming in the distance. The sky even changes color. Over the desert
it is crystal blue. The white clouds hang over the mountains, and on the other
side it is hazy. Driving through the mountains was lovely but a little
frightening at times. I still like Arizona and New Mexico better than
California, but now that I’ve entered wine country, I may change my mind. It is
getting prettier all the time with the vineyards and lush vegetation. (They
water the roadsides in town to keep it that way.) I wish I had been able to
stop and take a shot or two of the great windmills on the mountainsides. It was
hard to even look at them as I was flying down the mountain at 70 with people
passing me the whole time. California drivers, yikes! I’m outside Bakersfield
now with a hell of a long way to go.
Red Bluff, California. Another Days Inn.
The bed is hard but the carpet is clean and there’s a huge claw-foot bathtub.
I’m just a few miles outside Redding where I take 299 to 101 and the Pacific
Ocean. Tomorrow is going to be a long day if I’m going all the way to Portland.
I should sleep great after swimming in that big ole’ tub.
Sunday, May 14, 2000. California Hwy 299
is a twisting, turning mountain pass winding its way through God’s handiwork.
At every turn there’s another jaw-dropping vista. Whisky Lake is serene. The
tree covered mountains wear every hue of green with bursts of yellow wild
forsythia dotting the landscape. The steep rocky hillsides along the road are
covered with wild purple sage. It’s hard to drive because I want to look at the
scenery, but the road is dizzyingly curvy and it’s beginning to rain.
The clear waters of Indian Creek bouncing,
rushing over the smooth stones, the picturesque cabins, tin roofed Pool Bar,
deer munching their morning away; all these things overwhelm me so much I have
to stop and get it down lest I forget one moment. This little cutoff is a
blessing.
In Weaverville, two young mule deer
casually trotted across the street right in the middle of town. This could take
a while, because I keep stopping. Portland may have to wait another day.
Even though some sort of mining scars part
of the mountain, the variety of flowering vegetation is amazing. I don’t recognize
them all. There’s peach and purple on the hillsides, all shades of yellow and
small deep purple blossoms by the roadside. I’ve seen amazing Fuchsias and
white Dusty Miller growing wild. Low clouds hang in the trees like they’re
stuck there. Sunlight streaming though the higher clouds ignites the mountain
in color. Again and again, I am overwhelmed.
I’ve stopped at Tom’s Small Fry. It’s a
store and café. I’m going to have a real breakfast for the first time in
several days. I tried to call Michael to share this with him but my phone won’t
work. We really must come back here. I could spend a week just staring at the
river and mountains.
What a great breakfast. All the backwoods
country charm Michael would hate and I could live with forever. From the old
man waiting tables and the two old guys sitting at the counter talking news and
neighbors to the bored teenager sitting at the table outside, this place is
adorable. There’s even what appears to be a bar of homemade soap in the single
restroom.
299 was an adventure. The adventure
continues. The Pacific Ocean, oh my! I called Michael from Clam Beach, the
first one I came to. The phone died and it began to rain. The sun was shining
when I finally found another beach. I took off my shoes and walked in the icy
surf. Got wet to the knees but it’s not like I don’t have dry clothes. I miss
Michael. I wish he was here to share this.
The ocean is magnificent. White-capped
waves crash into the shore. The foam chases me up the beach. Wow! Even when the
water is just over my ankles, I can feel the power of the icy surf trying to
pull me in. I could sit and stare at the waves all day but 101 is slow going
and I have no idea where I’m staying tonight.
My last night on the road: The hotel in
Newport is the funkiest yet. No air! Radiator heat. Just a shower complete with
mildew, but the sheets and carpet are clean and I have an ocean view. As funky as the Willer’s Motel is, there is a
big bunch of Calais lilies growing by the laundry room in the gutter run-off,
like we’d do elephant ears back home. They provide delicate beauty to an unlikely
location. Beautiful.
I’ve felt the presence of my guardian
angel on this trip. At every turn, whatever I needed appeared. And the amazing
landscape has reminded me that we live in a wonderful, vast and varied country.
Tomorrow, Portland.
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