Jane, the Mulchmaid suggested that this would be a good Christmas card image, and I agree. So…I am sending it out to all of you, who have enriched my life in the year that is drawing to a close. I wish you well…more than well…I wish you joy! It can’t get much better than that, and you deserve the very best.
Rooster Rock is a huge park just outside Portland in the Columbia River Gorge. I can’t believe that I have lived here most of my life and had never been there. It was not for want of trying: the place fills up pretty fast on weekends and holidays. When our friends suggested a picnic in the middle of the week it was one of those “Aha!” moments.
This is the view from our picnic spot looking down at the river (the hills rising on the other side are in the state of Washington).
Looking the other way, across the parking lot (see! no cars!). Despite temperatures in the mid-nineties, we had the place nearly to ourselves except for a gaggle of nude sunbathers and the odd dog walker. For a truly scenic outing, one can take the old Columbia River Highway that winds past a number of waterfalls and to the top of that cliff in the distance, where there is a picturesque lookout with an incredible view of the gorge. Silly me: I failed to take a picture of the rock outcropping that gives this park its name (it looks like a giant rooster’s tail).
After a refreshing swim, we settled down, with our wine and all sorts of good things to eat, to watch the sunset.
It just got better and better,
The haze from nearby forest fires does wonderful things for sunsets…reminds me of sunsets seen from Griffith Park in Los Angeles when I lived there in the 60’s. A guilty pleasure, but it is beautiful.
Usually, a drive to Sauvies Island (just minutes away from downtown Portland) means a visit to Cistus Nursery, a nature hike or a picnic and a swim. This time, I wanted to check out a farm stand I had heard of. If you go left off the bridge and keep straight rather than turning right onto Reeder Road, begin watching for:
pristine white fences and many cars on the right.
The tykes playing around the entry sign look tidy enough here, but by the time I left, their shirts and faces showed their appreciation for the berries and other goodies.
Before heading out to the fields, a stop at this station provides buckets, seacateurs, check lists and pencils: all of the supplies needed to “pick your own posies”.
The fields stretch as far as the eye can see.
So if you don’t feel up to the trek, or you just want to show the kiddies a good time, a transport is readily available (with hunky teen boys driving the tractors).
Who needs a cutting garden when fields of zinnias (among many other types of blooms) are offered up for 25 cents a stem?
I think repeat visits will be a must. I see a bouquet of sunflowers in my future, once the zinnias pass their prime.
My mission was to get peaches for a pie. Store-bought peaches are almost always a disappointment. Here, one is primed with information about what to look for in the perfect peach: a deep red blush, a slight give to gentle pressure, and no resistance when plucking the fruit with a tug straight down (twisting tends to break the skin).
The trees in this orchard have been kept small, so that it is easy to wander among them to choose and pluck fruit at its peak of perfection. I have visited many farm stands on the island, most often as an afterthought on the way to some other destination. This farm is well worth a planned trip with nothing else in mind…though you might want to meander up the road a bit to check out the lavender farm, or venture out Reeder Road to the Herb Farm.
Here’s what I plan to do with the peaches: arrange slices in a hot pre-baked cornmeal crust; pour over a mixture of 1 c sugar, half c flour,1 tsp ground cinnamon, quarter tsp each salt and ground nutmeg and 1 c whipping cream; bake at 400 for 40 min and chill well before serving.
I am leading with this photo because I just read a post over at Lost in the Landscape where James has a few things to say about dead trees as ART. I happen to think (and I think James would agree) that Mom Nature has done a pretty good job of turning this dead tree into ART all on her own. We spent the weekend at Sunriver, a resort near Bend, OR. It is a kind of wilderness version of Disneyland, where families can access entertainment for all ages, and an event like the wedding that brought us here can achieve the iconic status that will burn itself into the memories of all who attended.
Just get a load of this room, where the reception took place. The “Great Hall” was a part of the fort that was later renovated as one of the key buildings giving the resort its character. It would be hard to top this as a setting for a wedding reception.
But we had lots of free time, during which we chose to explore the outer limits of the resort. The stable offers many levels of equestrian adventures. In that field behind the horses we spied many ground squirrels. Overhead, the red tailed hawks were perusing the menu. I did not happen to see one zeroing in on his dinner, but R claims that he saw one of the hawks soaring overhead with something dangling from its beak. It’s one thing to watch these things on “Nature” and quite something else to experience them first hand.
This old horse looked like it would be about my speed, if we had not been committed to proceeding on foot.
We did, at least, stick to the horse trails, which took us off the paved paths for bicyclists and into areas where wildflowers like Indian paintbrush flourished.
Backing up a little bit, we can see the grasses and shrubs where the paintbrushes have chosen to proliferate.
The pine forests have none of the underbrush typical of the other side of the mountains.
We might not catch sight of all of the creatures living here, but there is no mistaking the signs of beavers working the woods.
The meadows are composed of many different grasses. It is hard to capture the undulating beauty of these seas of nodding seedheads, shimmering in the breeze.
Some of the wildflowers and grasses are familiar, but others are peculiar to this region.
Where landscaping has taken place, there is a heavy reliance upon grasses, day lilies and willows. I think they must water these bioswales with some regularity to keep them looking this lush.
The wedding took place on the lawn, cocktails on the terrace, and then we retired to this magnificent room for dinner and dancing. The site was originally a fort, so when, in the sixties, it was reconfigured into a resort, the log structures became the main lodge and the great hall. I’m repeating myself here, but the first photo showed the chandeliers, while this one features the spiral staircase built around a huge tree trunk. What a romantic setting for two young people to join hands and set off into their future.
Excuse the poor exposure. The light was all wrong, but I just had to share this guy with you. My preference is for plants that already have personality. Still, the personality that has been imposed upon this plant did stop me in my tracks and make me dig around for the camera.
Around the same time we left downtown Portland for our bit of ground on the outskirts, our good friends Susan and Gilbert made an even greater leap of faith. They moved to Carlton, OR, in the heart of wine country, where Gilbert opened Cuvee, a restaurant where he can ply his considerable skills as a French chef (yes, those are banners by Ricki bracketing the facade).
Susan, meanwhile, as soon as she recovered from the shock of rural life, located, and bonded with, every creative person in the vicinity. One of these artist friends has a birthday in late April. She and Susan put their heads together and devised an annual event, a Birthday Party built around a theme (different each year) requiring costumes, elaborate invitations, favors, awards…these babes pull out all the stops. This year we were to come as our 9-year-old selves. The invitations arrived in envelopes apparently addressed in a fourth grader’s best block printing. Inside was a lined sheet torn from a spiral notebook with a class photo and all the pertinent info.
Hopscotch, anyone?
Kid-pleasing vignettes met the eye in every direction. I was so taken with the bear that I failed to notice my pillows on the couch until I looked at the shot later.
Here’s our birthday girl, Lorrie, leaning into little (it’s a state of mind) Ashley. There must have been 25 to 30 women, ranging in age from 20’s to 80’s, and all blending into a harmonious whole…if you can imagine such a thing.
Mousketeer Nancy was adept with hula hoop and yoyo, performing with great dash and confidence some tricks I had never seen before. Annie in pigtails had just “fallen out of a tree”, and broken branches were sticking out of her tomboy duds every which way. Evonne came as the 9-year-old she always wanted to be, right down to the ankle strap shoes she didn’t get the first time around. That’s me on the right. Something about pulling hair into two pony tails, one on each side of the head, makes me feel like a kid again.
Footwear played a big part in our regressions. Marilyn’s white knee sox show off her Mary Janes, while Ellie’s zany patterned version hints that her mastery of combining colors and patterns started early.
Tracy threw herself into her role by ramping up her already high energy level to that of a hyper kid on a sugar high. With her is our co-hostess, Susan, who always could pull a look together.
Hank, at one year old, must have gotten his directions turned around. He arrived looking much older than his year.
Here’s Elna, showing off her certificate for “student of the year” and her lunch box prize filled with twinkies, bubble gum Crackerjacks, etc. You can see the refreshment bar to the side, well stocked with KoolAid, Tang…oh joy!
Having feasted on delicacies like grilled cheese, pbj, mac ‘n cheese, jello molds and the like, a fire drill booted us out to the fire pit for some singing and storytelling and visiting.
Everyone had come a considerable distance on winding country roads (plus that Tang was laced with a little something) so of course it was a sleepover. We had developed grown-up tastes overnight and brunch on the terrace was magnificent.
People were having a hard time tearing themselves away. As I wandered around taking pictures, I kept dropping into little groups having all sorts of interesting conversations. Tomorrow, I will take you on a walk around this wonderful property and then show you the strange sight that we earmarked for pictures on the way here.
Both of our kids used to live in LA, so trips south were on the agenda every once in a while. When we ran out of museums, I finally talked everyone into a trip to Watts. Have you heard of the towers? They are the work of one man, a day laborer who spent every minute off the job, and every cent he earned at it, constructing these amazing structures in his back yard. The armatures are rebar. Aside from that and the cement covering it, everything is done with scrounged materials.
In the close-up, you can see some of the detail. Every surface is covered with mosaics made of broken crockery, glass, shells, tiles, etc. The fence around the perimeter of the property has old bed springs as its base. Newel posts are topped with finials of teapots. Simon Rodea spent every available waking hour either foraging for materials or scrambling up his structures by means of a window washer’s belt and buckle. When dark fell, he rigged up lighting so he could continue his work. He made no drawings and used only the simplest of tools.
The tallest of the towers is 99.5′. Rodea’s comment on his magnificent art work was typically humble: “I had in mind to do something big and I did it.” His obsession had cost him his wife, but upon completion he deeded the property to a neighbor and moved away to be close to family. He was 75. The place fell into neglect. School children used the finials for target practice. The city declared it a hazard and prepared to raze it to the ground. A group of artists and actors, led, I seem to remember, by Vincent Price, were successful in saving them, in no small part by way of an engineering test that included a truck with a winch attempting to pull them down. Buckminster Fuller, no less, proclaimed them marvels of engineering.
Now listed on the National Register of Historic Places, they are protected and maintained. For a small fee, you can take a tour, hear the remarkable story, and best of all, sit a spell and soak up the extraordinary atmosphere.
If you saw The Shining, you have seen better shots of Timberline lodge from the outside than anything I can share with you, but the interior in that movie was, for some inexplicable reason, an insipid, uninteresting (oh, I get it: they didn’t want the surroundings to upstage the actors)…enough said.
Coming through the front doors, one is greeted by this impressive stone fireplace. When I was growing up, we spent nearly every winter weekend in Government Camp. This room was open to the public for use as a kind of warming hut. A roaring fire was always blazing, chairs full of recovering skiers were arrayed around it, and the air was permeated with the aroma of wet wool, scorched mittens drying on the hearth and wood smoke. It was a magical refuge between ski runs between Timberline and Government Camp.
The entire lodge was built as a WPA project during the depression, and is filled with the work of artists and artisans of the time. Just inside the entry, the drinking fountain is backed by this mosaic. You get some idea of the scale from the fountain in the foreground.
Turn around, look up, and see this frieze decorating the massive beam over the doors. The exit sign is distracting here, but when one is in the space, the art and architecture overwhelm such petty incursions.
Let’s go upstairs. Each newel post, throughout the building, is a full sized log, carved at the top with the image of an iconic northwest creature nestled down peacefully for a snooze. This one is a bear cub.
Here’s a fawn.
Love this owl.
Nothing can truly prepare one for emerging into this magnificent space, anchored by the massive stone fireplace. It extends a full three stories. See the railings of the balcony? That is where our dinner was served, with a view out across the foothills, with Mt. Jefferson framed in the distance.
Even more refined than the downstairs, every detail has been wrought by the hands of an accomplished artisan. Here I show you one of many light fixtures, and the warm, cozy glow it casts upon the timbered ceilings and walls, in contrast to the snow piled up outside the window. Remember that this is late March. In January, the snow would have covered the windows entirely. Paintings by C.S. Price hang on many of the walls.
Seated in the Ram’s Head Lounge, we were closer to the heavily beamed ceiling, and spent considerable time speculating “How did they DO that?”
The whole expedition to the mountain was prompted by a visit from San Francisco by daughter Hillary and her boyfriend Chris. When she emailed me about this as a desired destination, it surprised me, because as children, my two wanted nothing to do with the cold…both beating hasty retreats to warmer climes at the earliest opportunity. My attempts to propel them into nature were largely exercises in futility. Guess the seeds I planted years ago have finally decided to sprout. Thanks, Hillary, for instigating a visit to one of my favorite places on earth, right in our back yard.
Delma lives in the Sellwood neighborhood. She hosted our book club in her art-filled condo Saturday afternoon, and then we went for a walk around the ‘hood.
One intersection is designated as a community gathering place, with hand-built structures on each corner. This one is a play station for kids. The street itself (in the foreground) is painted with swirling, colorful designs that are changed or updated regularly.
Under-cover benches grace two of the corners. I think this is straw bale construction. Love the streamers. Directly across from this bench is a coffee/tea station with a couple of carafes, tea bags and a selection of mugs on pegs.
We couldn’t resist trying out the other bench, but it was way too cold to linger for long. The orange house in the background gives you some idea of the character of the neighborhood: lots of old-time houses, gardens galore, and in-fill projects designed to complement the mix.
Before we move on, here’s the artful little news kiosk, filled with local newpapers “The Sellwood Bee”, produced just down the street.
The commercial strip is lined with antique shops and boutiques. On this weekend, they had conspired to put on “Decemberville”, complete with horse-drawn carriage rides up and down the main drag, and goodies like hot cider and homemade cookies offered for browsers.
Fittingly, the swankiest building on the strip holds a shop filled with luxury items from many eras.
Just inside the door is this room-high tree with a white feathered peacock.
One of many chandeliers. There wasn’t a one of us who failed to find something to lust after in this shop…which made us short on time to do the other intriguing places justice. You could do worse than to plan on spending a whole day soaking up the atmosphere in Sellwood.
Can’t seem to let go of this holiday…but this will be the last of it for this year, I promise. We took a little trip to St. Helens (the town, not the mountain) to deliver boxes of apples and pears to a friend with a bakery there. Driving through on Hwy 30, one would never suspect that if you turn right, away from the strip mall atmosphere hunkered around the highway, you can wind your way down to the river’s edge, where you will find the charming remnants of the original town.
All along both sides of the main drag, at regular intervals, inventive scarecrow-like figures stand sentinel.
Like this tattered shade.
A towering pirate.
And a wacky chef doing a jig.
An ornate iron gate protects the grandest house on the street.
Where a gathering of ghouls and goblins await intrepid “trick or treat”ers (if, that is, they can get past the giant spiders cavorting on the stairs).
On the way home, we stopped at the Scappoose Fred Meyer to pick up a few things. The joint was jumpin. A costume contest for kids was attracting bevies of tiny princesses and fairies, hordes of skeletons, spacemen and hobos. My favorite was a mere babe in full pirate regalia. The woman who pumped our gas sported impressive black feathered wings, dark glasses and black horns sprouting through a maroon wig styled in a short bob. We live down a sheltered lane where nary a costumed kid has ventured in the six years we have lived here, no matter how much we doll up the house in attempts to lure them. That makes it vital for us to get out and about to soak up the ghostly atmosphere. Wouldn’t miss it!