I pinned my face against the cold window as the plane broke through the clouds over Mt. Hood on its initial decent into the Portland area.
The loudspeaker blasted, "Current weather; 42 degrees, overcast with an 85% chance of showers today."
Eagerly searching for familiar sights, I quickly spotted the radio towers pushing through a sea of heather gray. As our plane followed the Columbia River towards PDX, occasional holes in the clouds exposed suburban blocks nestled in ceder trees. Water droplets coated my window. A few seconds later, the clouds disappeared, exposing the familiar sights I had searched in vain for a few moments early.
Jerry Seinfeld once said on a visit to Portland, "The Pacific Northwest has two seasons: a rainy winter, and that one day in August." Although the truth is not quite as extreme as Jerry's quip, I learned to love the two-season climate growing up in and around the Portland area.
Unhampered by the clouds, rain and fog, I enjoyed the beautiful outdoors on my recent trip home. Like any obstacle barring from a fun activity, the constant rain only made the end result that much more rewarding. Here are photos from my 12 days back home. Muddy.
The Columbia River Gorge. Bonfire.
Whiteness. Buffalo Steaks from Yakima.
Twilight. The affirmation of the outside chance that I will one day, grow a beard.
The story reverted to the beginning of chapter 8. Fumbling for the case in the center console, I grabbed CD five, ejected CD four and continued the audio book. Unsympathetic to my interest in Moby Dick, the lights of a late 80's pickup flashed twice in the rearview mirror before unleashing its liberally muffled v8. In a cloud of blue smoke and the glimmer of a Bush/Quayle 92 bumper sticker, the truck passed on a double yellow.
"Bush/Quayle? Who the fuck was Quayle?" I chuckled, referring the question to my dad with a grin.
"Bush Senior's vice president..." he sardonically replied.
"Oh no, you don't say...I mean who was he?"
"He was an incompetent Senator from Indiana; a "Family Values" advocate."
"Only in Yakima, Washington would one of those be kicking around," I said, motioning to the truck as it passed around the corner.
Spending the majority of my time in Manhattan makes exploring country roads to the sound of audio books all the more appealing. Starting on the 23rd of December and ending the 2nd of January, I explored the roads of Pacific Northwest with my friends and family. I hiked, snowboarded, shot guns and took photos along the way.
My mom's Irish terrier, Lucy.
Behind the market, Seattle.
Looking East, Bingen, Washington.
Blasting away in Prindle Washington.
Red gate near Mt Saint Helens.
Straight from Alaska.
Hours before catching my red-eye back to New York, I walked down an abandoned road in the Columbia River Gorge. Lucy, my mom's spunky Irish terrier, ran ahead, chasing a quail. Despite the beauty and serenity of my surroundings, I looked forward to the bustle and energy of New York. Nine hours later, I landed in Newark. It's a crazy world we live in.
In the mornings, the first hint of autumn creeps through open windows. Dusk comes earlier each evening. Even the bold trade in their t-shirts for long sleeves during the brisk nights. As if attempting to stake its claim on the day, summer warms the lazy afternoons. These days are few, but important.
Like the bottom of a cold beer, I treasure the last few weeks of summer. I enjoy the last breaths of summer and search for the first hints of fall. Torn between bidding farewell to the warm comfort of summer and the excitement of change, I cherish both in the dog days of summer.
The first apples of the autumn.
Lazy drives with meandering destinations.
Hikes above tree line on Mt. Hood.
Rides on dirt roads in a 1952 Willys Jeep.
My dad and brother watching a glider circle the 11,000-foot peak.
The last blueberries of the season.
Wind torn trees on a ridge on Mt. Hood.
The first bites of a ripe pear.
Lazy Sundays in fields.
Recently, I enjoyed one such Sunday in early September near Mt. Hood in the Columbia River Gorge. I hope you enjoy yours.
"Seriously, the biggest pain was getting to fucking Newark. I took two trains, a light rail and had to deal with dudes with M-16s at security," I explained while pulling a blackberry vine out of the thigh of my chinos. "The plane ride was no problem."
"Gotta love New Jersey... The trail starts in a little bit," Tim (my little brother) said between yawns as he pushed the chest high bushes aside. Ever vigilant for the sharp barbs of a blackberry vine he distractedly asked, "What time is it?"
"7:13 AM"
"Damn." Tim sighed, attempting to act annoyed at his early arousal but telegraphing his affection and excitement to share the attention of empty-nested parents.
Craving the starry nights, fresh fruit, company of my family and the feel of the outdoors, I left my office in Manhattan some twelve hours earlier and set off for the northwest for the first time in 10 months.
Waking up with a jolt as the plane made its initial approach to the Portland International Airport, I jammed my face against the window. Looking for familiar fixtures, I quickly made out the hills where I went to high school and the highways where I drove to and from Mt. Hood. With a smile, I grabbed my Alder Springs backpack from under the seat in front of me and eagerly charged by the friendly Continental staff.
The following morning, I woke early. Energized by the morning's light and the excitement of my nostalgic surroundings, I scrambled up the stairs to bother my brother in the method known only to older siblings.
"Rise and Shine it's butt whipping time!" I bellowed as I barged through the door, grabbing his Pendleton blanket and ripping it off in one motion.
"The light's beautiful. Lets go for a walk," I half suggested, half mandated.
Tim found this elk skull while in a field near Mt. Helens. The flowers maybe fake, but the story isn't.
My dad and brother on the Columbia River.
Many of the things I resented as a middle schooler slowly have grown in importance and affection in my memory. As a kid I avoided spending time at our family's second home in the Columbia River Gorge, opting to stay some 40 miles to the west in Portland. Now, as a full fledged young-urban-professional, I yearn for the seclusion and inherent beauty like a trustafarian for a chance to give George Dubayah and Mr. Rumsfeld a piece of their enlightened mind.
"Damn it feels good to be home on the range," I grinned.
"Home on the range? We are not in Montana. This is Washington, we are home in the sticks."
In a jet lagged daze I lay in the bed after waking up at 5am Northwest time, (8am Maine time), eating breakfast and then falling back to sleep. Despite being 3,000 miles from my typical place of slumber, I reached over to my iPhone in my standard morning routine and flicked through the apps. After reading my emails and Twitter, I eventually thumbed the Magic Seaweed application out of desperation to rationalize staying in bed for a few more minutes.
Instantly I jumped up from my semi-catatonic slumber into a state of hysteria. As an enthusiastic rider of Maine waves, I check Magic Seaweed daily and usually see numbers an order of magnitude smaller than the ones I was looking at for the Oregon coast. Like a six year old on Christmas morning I rushed down the stairs, grabbed my camera, car keys, and a wool jacket and headed to the Portland Airport to pick up my dad and then head to the coast in search of waves and rain. An hour and a half later, I hopped out of my dad's 4Runner and scurried towards the lookout like a kid at the ball pit at McDonald's.
It was windy. The last scene of Point Break was filmed at this beach. "We'll get him when he comes back in!" It sure looked like Bodhi's 50-year storm last weekend.
keep me honest.
After two hours of rain and wind the clouds finally broke and for fifteen minutes. My dad and I watched waves roll in and thunderstorm cells lurk closer.
From 300 feet up and roughly half a mile away these waves looked more like an avalanche on the Discovery channel than things people ride for fun. We headed back to the car as the drops of rain fell on our backs. As soon as we got in the car and cranked on the heater, large hailstones started pinging off of the windshield. Our timing couldn't have been better.
My blog documents my interests and how I keep myself occupied. Currently I obsess over clothes, photography and American lifestyles. I am more interested in the ideas, stories, and philosophy behind clothes than the fabrics and cuts themselves. Feel free to email me at foster.huntington@ gmail.com.
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