Wonder x Jungle: Eugene & Portland, OR (Part 2 of 2)
How many waterfalls was too many waterfalls?
Ninety sounded like a few too many, so we drove the Columbia River Gorge Scenic Highway and stopped at just five.
We began at the Women’s Forum Overlook which offered a wonderfully expansive view of the Columbia River, not only of the canyon that it had carved but also of the hills and mountains that rose north and south of the river. After the debacle that was our visit to Portland, we were able to breathe a sigh of relief to see the handiwork of Mother Nature. (Human Nature did not seem to be doing so well lately.)
Just a short drive eastward had us at the Vista House where a chat with the volunteers revealed that the structure had been built as a comfort stations for “the ladies” since the men, as the volunteer put it, “could just go in the bushes.” Considering the fact that the octagonal structure has decorative glass all around, included sitting areas with restrooms, and even had an elevator (because ladies would find stairs too… unladylike?), I assumed that the “ladies” expected to stop by were of the Vanderbilt variety.
The old historic Oregon Route 30 was intentionally built to attract travelers to the various waterfalls in this section of the gorge. In order, headed east, we stopped by:
Latourell Falls: delicate and polite, falling over a cave-like structure characterized by rocks that had somehow arranged themselves like Jenga pieces stacked vertically (surely there was a perfectly logical geological explanation for those formations). If I could be a waterfall, I would be a Latourell.
Shepperd’s Dell Falls: This one was the Hamlet of waterfalls — To fall, or not to fall: that was the question. It fell in several staggered steps, almost as if something were shoving it, and it was tumbling down against its will. I much preferred the pretty bridge to its right — it seemed much more decisive.
Bridal Veil Falls: splashy and showy, it brought to mind more Bridezilla than bride. It was well named since it cascaded in a double fall, in wide flamboyant swoops.
Wahkeena Falls: This was the Big Hamlet to Shepperd’s Dell’s Hamlet.
Multnomah Falls: tallest, biggest, highest — yeah, yeah, yeah. (For perspective: in the picture, there are people on the bridge.) Some people love superlatives; me, not so much. Don’t get me wrong — it was impressive and impressively dizzying. But if I could choose to be a waterfall, it wouldn’t be Multnomah.
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Mirror Lake Loop Trail (out-and-back, 4.2 miles): a reviewer on the trail app helpfully commented, “Be ready, at this time of the year there is snow but doable with good hiking shoes.” Others also helpfully posted pictures that seemed to indicate that the trail was packed with snow, three-to-six feet high. Fearing his protests, I mentioned to N. just the bare minimum without lying in the legal sense.
My subterfuge did not last long. We found ourselves at the trailhead, and he quickly discovered the trail conditions for himself since, although the parking lot itself was clear, the path from the lot to the restrooms — before the trailhead itself — was already packed with three-to-six feet of snow. Who knew?
The trail began with some switchbacks, and a few diehard snowboarders had carved themselves a little hill. We left them to their devices and were getting into the groove of things when N. muttered under his breath: his camera wanted juice, but he had forgotten to bring extra batteries. (Let it be know that this is the gazillionth time this has happened on our travels.) By this time, we had already hiked 0.25 miles. If it had been up to him, he would have just continued the hike and taken pictures with his phone (which I call “fake pictures” because I cannot use them for the photo books I plan to later make). I gave him “The Look” — the one all women learn how to make as soon as they get husbands — and he made his way back to the van while I waited in the trail.
Soon after, we encountered a couple returning from Mirror Lake who informed us that the snow on the ground was packed high all the way to the top. (Again, who knew?) And by the way, they couldn’t get a glimpse of Mt. Hood. What were we supposed to do? We were already here.
Hiking on snow was a new experience. The snow was packed hard — probably from people who had hiked the trail in snowshoes — but it wasn’t icy, so it was doable in our hiking boots; having our poles helped. The most challenging bit was crossing the many wooden bridges. As temperatures rose and the snow melted, the bridges had ended up with skinnier and skinnier ridges — crossing them felt like crossing the Bridge of Khazad-Dum.
Right before the lake, we saw colorful dots among the trees. Tents were set up — may I remind the reader that there was still about five feet of snow on the ground? — and campers were hanging out in hammocks. I realized then that I don’t like camping that much.
Out of the blue, a couple who looked as if they hiked professionally — crampons, gaiters, poles — startled us, but we began to hike companionably in the same direction. The guy stopped suddenly and pointed at some tracks in the snow, “Look, those could be the tracks of a cougar…”
“What? Are you sure? They could be those of a dog, too. We ran into a few people hiking with dogs…” I really didn’t want them to be a cougar’s.
He admitted, “It could be a cougar… or a dog… but a cougar too.” I think he wanted it to be a cougar.
Our destination was called Mirror Lake, but the namesake was completely covered in snow. The laws of optics — being as they are — meant that we would not see a reflection of Mount Hood on its surface. Heck, if we had been left to our own devices, we wouldn’t have clapped eyes on Mount Hood at all. But Cougar Man suggested that we hike to the other side of the lake.
Considering that the lake and the lake’s edge looked exactly the same — covered in snow — we proceeded carefully; I guesstimated the lakeshore with my trails app. Cougar Man was right — there was Mount Hood.
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At first it may seem impossible to see them and have one’s mind entertain thoughts other than warm fires, Santa Claus and elves, and wrapped presents.
One could drive around this part of the state and see multiple Christmas tree farms and multiple Christmas trees in multiple stages of growth. Some seedlings had just been put on the ground; others looked like toddler trees, all happy-go-lucky; others like teenagers, of the well-behaved variety, lined up. And then were the adult trees in their prime, looking ready for the ax. We even drove by a field of stumps, likely felled this past holiday season. As members of the newly retired class, we were not comforted by this imagery of the life cycle.
There was something a sad about seeing fields and fields of these trees. Perhaps it was knowing that, while a single Christmas tree decorated during the holidays would bring cheer and goodwill, seeing a whole field of them made it clear that the trees were just a cash crop for people trying to make a living. (From the highways, lest we forget where we were, we saw scarred mountainsides where trees had been felled and, on the highways, logging trucks reminded us constantly of one of the biggest industries in the Pacific Northwest.)
Before leaving Oregon altogether, N. and I stopped by a tulip farm in full spring bloom. Perhaps because of the Christmas tree farms, I was feeling a twinge of sadness on the tulip farm too. A bit ironic, since a visit there was supposed to have precisely the opposite effect.
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