I had a blog post all ready to go, but it was full of blue sky and soft sea breezes, crashing waves and soaring pelicans. I just can't bring myself to post it amidst this unsettling, almost apocalyptic scenario laid out before me, with so much suffering, loss, discomfort, and confusion all around.
I spent April chasing Oregon's elusive wildflower bounty, hoping to catch the brief moment in time when tight little buds transform into fields of color.
When we first arrived in Portland our son warned us that spring was actually several seasons in one - fake spring, late winter, early spring, summer, real spring, winter again, and so on.
An old railroad is given new life, and a reminder to mix life's sweetness with the challenges.
Hiking the Columbia Gorge is always a thrill, and finding a big rock to climb lets me to take the long view.
The Columbia River spills into the Pacific in Astoria, a confluence of legendary currents, tides, waves and winds, plus frequent fog and rain. I mean, who wouldn't want to visit the place known as The Graveyard of the Pacific?
Four years in Portland, and I'm no longer feeling quite Californian, and almost but not quite an Oregonian. I celebrated quietly and took note of how it feels now.
Looking for color in the Dog Days of summer.
...recently, driving 1900 miles through California and back, feeling the pull in both directions, I realize that I've become polyamorous, very much a two state woman.
A road trip to see more of the Columbia River turned into a discovery of history, economy, ecology, geography, and as always, beauty.