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36 Hours
in Portland, Ore.
August 25,
2011
The New York Times
By FREDA MOON
WITH its
celebrated bike culture and obsession with all things independent and artisan,
Portland is a small-scale metropolis with an outsize cultural footprint. Spread
across the twin banks of the Willamette River, this provincial hub of the
Pacific Northwest has more than its share of natural beauty and an earnest,
outdoorsy reputation. But in recent years, the city has emerged as the capital
of West Coast urban cool, earning it a television series, IFC’s “Portlandia,”
devoted to satirizing its aesthetic and progressive social bent. Indeed,
Portland — whose nicknames include Beervana and Soccer City, USA — is easy to
poke fun at. It’s also hard to resist.
Friday
4 p.m.
1) JAPANESE, IF YOU PLEASE
Adorning the hillside above the Rose Gardens, the five-and-a-half-acre Japanese
Garden (611 Southwest Kingston Avenue; 503-223-1321; japanesegarden.com; $9.50)
is less crowded than its photogenic neighbor. Instead of being packed with
people, this elegant corner of the 400-acre Washington Park has five distinct
gardens — artfully designed “compositions” of sand, stone, water, flowers and
foliage — with views of Mount Hood. On the third Saturday of each month April
through October, a Japanese tea ceremony is presented at the Kashintei Tea House
(1 and 2 p.m.).
6 p.m.
2) SMALL PLATES
Continue your Japan-themed afternoon with a happy hour sake or shochu at one of
Portland’s proliferating izakayas, Japanese-style pubs that serve small plates
to accompany drinks. Biwa (215 Southeast Ninth Avenue; 503-239-8830;
biwarestaurant.com) is a low-light basement with booming music, concrete walls
and a fanatical following. Two-year-old Miho (4057 North Interstate Avenue;
503-719-6152; mihopdx.com), in a remodeled Craftsman house on the residential
north side — is less moody, with a patio and small plates priced in
even-numbered increments ($2, $4, $6 and up). Opened in February, Mirakutei (536
East Burnside Street; 503-467-7501) is the newest dot on the izakaya map,
serving delicate starters like Quilcene oysters with ginger sorbet ($5) and $9
three-sake flights.
8:30 p.m.
3) CLAMS AND CRABS
Tucked into a small storefront in a neighborhood of tidy lawns and German beer
gardens, Cabezon (5200 Northeast Sacramento Street; 503-284-6617;
cabezonrestaurant.com) has the unaffected feel of a small-town restaurant. A
fish market by day, seafood bistro by night, the place has an easy
sophistication; the only distraction from the food — a seasonal menu of
fresh-off-the-boat dishes like Totten Inlet mussels with Borlotti beans,
chorizo, fries and unctuous rouille ($13.50) and thin-brothed cioppino with
Dungeness crab ($20.50) — are colorful glass sculptures with flowing tentacles
that hang above the bar like psychedelic jellyfish.
11 p.m.
4) FUNERAL PARLOR PARTY
After dinner, head to the retro Sellwood-Westmoreland neighborhood. Window shop
for tchotchkes at Stars Antiques Mall (7027 Southeast Milwaukie Avenue;
503-235-5990; starsantique.com) or slurp Jell-O shots at the Cosmo Lounge (6707
Southeast Milwaukie Avenue; 503-233-4220). For a less kitschy postdinner drink,
settle into the attic at Corkscrew Wine Bar (1665 Southeast Bybee Boulevard;
503-239-9463). Then listen to live music at the Woods (6637 Southeast Milwaukie
Avenue; 503-890-0408; thewoodsportland.com), a former funeral home in a
Mission-style 1929 building with gaudy chandeliers and an Art Nouveau lounge.
Opened in 2009, this 3,000-square-foot space draws musicians, D.J.’s and
performers from across the country. On off-nights, there’s karaoke, stand-up
comedy and movie screenings.
Saturday
9:30 a.m.
5) NORDIC BREAKFAST FEAST
Come early to the perpetually packed Scandinavian brunch spot Broder (2508
Southeast Clinton Street; 503-736-3333; broderpdx.com), which serves atypical
offerings like lefsa (a thin potato crepe) stuffed with goat cheese ($9) and
Pytt I Panna, which is Swedish hash with smoked trout ($11). Afterward, walk off
your Bloody Mary at Mount Tabor Park (Southeast 60th and Salmon Streets;
portlandonline.com), a forest-covered cinder cone with sports courts, open
reservoirs and a statue of a former Oregonian newspaper editor by Gutzon
Borglum, the sculptor of Mount Rushmore’s granite presidents.
Noon
6) ARTS AND CRAFTS
The 811 East Burnside Building houses an array of boutiques, like Redux (No.
110; 503-231-7336; reduxpdx.com), an analog Etsy with products from some 300
artists, including frames made from salvaged bike hardware; the
gallery-cum-specialty shop Nationale (No. 112; 503-477-9786;
thenewnationale.com); and Sword + Fern (No. 114; 503-683-3376;
swordandfern.com), home to outsider art, handmade housewares and vintage
oddities. Walk over the Burnside Bridge to the Pearl District and the Museum of
Contemporary Craft (724 Northwest Davis Street; 503-223-2654;
museumofcontemporarycraft.org; $3), which houses nearly 1,000 works in clay,
fiber, glass, metal and wood.
2 p.m.
7) WORTH THE WAIT
Don’t be daunted by the line at the taqueria ¿Por Que No? (3524 North
Mississippi Avenue; 503-467-4149; porquenotacos.com). You will be rewarded with
an umbrella-shaded sidewalk table, colorful papel picado (perforated paper
flags) strung between beams, fish tacos ($3.50) and horchata borracha
(rum-spiked rice milk, $6).
4 p.m.
8) BREWS CRUISE
Start your pedicab brewery tour (Rose Pedals Pedicabs; 503-421-7433;
rosepedals.com; $60 per hour, one or two people) with a sour beer tasting at
Cascade Brewing Barrel House (939 Southeast Belmont Street; 503-265-8603;
cascadebrewingbarrelhouse.com). Next, stop in at the tasting room at Upright
Brewing (240 North Broadway, No. 2; 503-735-5337; uprightbrewing.com) before
taking the North Williams “bike highway” to the brand new Hopworks Bikebar (3947
North Williams Avenue; 503-287-6258; hopworksbeer.com). Opened in June, the
cycle-centered organic brew pub has 75 bike parking spaces, bike tools and
energy-generating exercycles. For sober sightseeing, Rose Pedals also offers
tours of the Willamette waterfront.
6:30 p.m.
9) PUT A BIRD ON IT
Join the sunset crowd at Skidmore Bluffs (also known as the Mocks Crest
Property, 2206 North Skidmore Terrace), a grassy expanse of hillside above
industrial rail yards on the banks of the Willamette River. On warm nights,
clusters of 20- and 30-somethings spread picnic blankets and watch the sun slip
beneath the West Hills. For dinner, sit at a communal table at Le Pigeon (738
East Burnside Street; 503-546-8796; lepigeon.com), flagship of the chef Gabriel
Rucker. Mr. Rucker, who was just named Rising Star Chef of the Year by the James
Beard Foundation, serves French-influenced nose-to-tail fare, like beef cheek
bourguignon ($22) and veal sweetbreads with bread pudding ($26), from a
hyperactive open kitchen. Reservations are a good idea. If you can’t get in,
give Mr. Rucker’s newly opened Little Bird Bistro (219 Southwest Sixth Avenue;
503-688-5952; littlebirdbistro.com) a try.
9 p.m.
10) CURTAINS
For dessert, head up the street for a scoop of salted caramel ice cream at
Lovely’s Fifty-Fifty (4039 North Mississippi Avenue, No. 101; 503-281-4060;
lovelysfiftyfifty.com). Or skip dessert and skirt past the black curtain at an
unassuming Old Town storefront and pull up a stool at Central (220 Southwest
Ankeny Street; no phone), a new speakeasy with a moose head on the wall, a
converted windmill ceiling fan and a bartender who builds cocktails with the
care of a perfectionist furniture maker. For a quiet evening, catch a 3-D
blockbuster or indie hit at the stylish, modern Living Room Theaters (341
Southwest 10th Avenue; 971-222-2010; pdx.livingroomtheaters.com), where you’ll
find a full bar and cushy seats.
Sunday
10 a.m.
11) LOVABLE LUDDITES
Ben Meyer’s first restaurant, the beloved wood-fired bistro Ned Ludd, shares a
name with the English weaver who inspired the anti-technology Luddite movement.
With his gorgeous new north-side restaurant Grain & Gristle (1473 Northeast
Prescott Street; 503-298-5007; grainandgristle.com), opened in December, Mr.
Meyer has found another outlet for his culinary craftsmanship and woodsy
aesthetic. At brunch, look for the homemade lox on a house-baked soft pretzel
($8) or the doughy beignets with bacon caramel sauce ($3) on the ever-changing
specials board.
12 p.m.
12) RAILS TO TRAILS
Take Highway 26 to Banks, where you can rent a bike at Banks Bicycle Repair &
Rental (14175 Northwest Sellers Road; 503-680-3269; from $8 an hour) and ride
Portland’s rural answer to the High Line in New York — the Banks-Vernonia Bike
Trail (oregonstateparks.org), a 20-mile route built on former train tracks.
Completed in October 2010, the trail leads across two 80-foot-high trestles,
past farmland, into forests, up hills and through the nearly 1,700-acre Stub
Stewart State Park, where there’s a picnic shelter and dozens of trails.
IF YOU GO
The Crystal Hotel & Ballroom (303 Southwest 12th Avenue; 503-972-2670;
mcmenamins.com; from $85) has 51 rooms — each inspired by a performance from the
Crystal Ballroom’s 100-year history — a soaking pool and a hard-to-beat
location.
The second Ace Hotel (1022 Southwest Stark Street; 503-228-2277; acehotel.com)
to open in the country, Portland’s outpost of this trendy hotel chain has 79
rooms (from $95), recycled furniture, Malin+Goetz bath products and free bike
rentals. Adjacent to the lobby is a Stumptown and the “European-style tavern”
Clyde Common.
36 Hours in Portland, Ore., NYT, 25.8.2011,
http://travel.nytimes.com/2011/08/28/travel/36-hours-in-portland-ore.html
Explorer
4 Days and 2 Wheels on the Oregon Coast
July 12, 2009
The New York Times
By DAVID LASKIN
IN a car, you’d cover the hundred miles of the southern third of the Oregon
coast in a couple of hours, and you’d think, How gorgeous! But on a bike, you
don’t so much view the scenery as absorb it. With every sense and muscle, you
register how the hills fold and join, how the air and the light change with
distance from the sea. You notice the seed heads ripening beside the road and
hear the birds cheering you on your way.
In a car, scenery is wallpaper. On a bike, it’s your mission. And when my old
grad school buddy Jim and I left our cars last summer in Brookings, Ore., the
last coastal town before the California border, took a bus north with our bikes
and gear to Coos Bay, and set out to cycle back, we found we had assigned
ourselves one of the most spectacular missions imaginable. Where our route
hugged the coast, the wows were almost continuous. Where it didn’t, there was
always a salt breeze luring us over the hills to the next harbor town.
We covered the 160 miles in a leisurely four days, allowing ourselves some
detours and side trips, staying in nice lodges or motels, eating well in good
restaurants and soaking up a ruggedly varied landscape of forest, field,
mountain, sand and rock against a backdrop of sky and sea.
Coos Bay, a shipping and lumber mill town fallen on hard times, made for a
dreary jump-off. But its strip malls, shuttered mills and casino were behind us
in a flash as we cruised a back road into pastures and wood lots. A spray of
rosy purple fireweed nodded by the side of the road; warblers sang in the dark
green firs; traffic was practically nil.
About three miles out of town, we descended a hill into tiny Charleston —
working harbor, fish-and-chips shack, wind, tidal shallows raked by whitecaps.
Here was the first fork in the road: either proceed directly to Seven Devils
Road (named for its killer hills), which would deliver us to Bandon, our
destination for the night, or take a 10-mile side trip first on the Cape Arago
Highway. We took the detour, and the oceanside parks, headland and lighthouse at
Cape Arago were indeed lovely. But it was 2 p.m. by the time we had finished
sniffing the luxe ivory Elina roses and photographing the finches in the garden
of a former private estate at Shore Acres State Park, and the Seven Devils still
bristled ahead.
Some wag had spray-painted graffiti on the approach to each of the fiendish
hills — “Devil #2 Doncha Love It”; “Devil # 6 — I Think”; at the crest of the
final devil, “Let the Fun Begin.” In truth, they weren’t that hard.
Bandon itself turned out to be a little West Coast slice of Nantucket with
terrific beaches to the west; the silvery estuary of the Coquille River to the
north and east; and galleries and restaurants in a compact Old Town. We had a
superb dinner of fresh fava beans, feather-light lasagna, sautéed local snapper
and Walla Walla cabernet at the Alloro Wine Bar and spent a quiet night at the
Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast. I was up the next morning in time to see the sun
rise over the estuary before we set off again.
South of town, the lightly trafficked Bandon Loop Road parallels the coast for
four and a half miles. There are a few too many cottages and motels, but you
forget all about them when you stop to wander on the beach amid fantastically
carved sea stacks and watch the colorful kites slashing against the sky.
The loop rejoined Route 101, the rarely busy but occasional R.V.- and
truck-encumbered Oregon Coast Highway, which we would be following for the bulk
of our trip. Only about 23 miles of it remained on the way to Port Orford, our
next overnight stop, but it was an inland stretch, past cranberry bogs and
ranches, and more side roads called out. We had a picnic lunch (toted from
Bandon) beside the grassy banks of the New River, and somehow 5 o’clock was upon
us by the time we reached the turn-off for Cape Blanco. Our guidebook insisted
this was a must stop — the farthest west point on the Oregon coast, the state’s
oldest lighthouse, one of the windiest spots in the country — but it would add
10 miles to our day’s trek, and I was bushed. Jim somehow succeeded in
motivating me, and I have to admit that Cape Blanco was one of the high points.
The road climbs through rolling sheep pastures, which in the slanting afternoon
light reminded me of Cornwall. Once we reached the headland, we hit wind
powerful enough to knock us off our bikes, and so we walked the last couple of
hundred yards over the moor to the stark circa-1870 lighthouse. With the sun
spilling fire on the sea beneath us and the wind coursing through the tundra
grass, we stood and stared for as long as we could withstand the blast.
Dusk was falling as we finally cruised into Port Orford, past a scattering of
weathered wood-frame houses and shops, a whiff of hot fat emanating from the
Crazy Norwegian’s fish and chips, spears of Douglas firs going green-black in
the fading light. And then, around a bend in the road, buildings and trees fell
away and we were standing at the continent’s edge, before a vast azure bowl of
mountain, sea and sky.
Imagine the shabby picturesque waterfront of an outer Maine island fused onto
the topographic drama of Big Sur: that’s Port Orford. There’s a salty, dreamy,
small-town vibe to the place; every street ends in blue sea framed by huge dark
green humps of land; and, as we discovered when the sun came blazing up over the
Coast Range the next morning, dazzling white light saturates the whole
composition. Somehow the town’s stark beauty was all the more exhilarating
because we had arrived under our own steam.
At the New Age-luxurious Wildspring Guest Habitat, where we had reserved a
cabin, we soaked away the day’s 48 miles of biking in a hot tub with glimpses of
ocean below and stars glittering through fir boughs above.
From Port Orford south to Brookings, Route 101 stays close to the coast. On our
third day, whipped into shape over the previous 87 miles, we traversed the warm
inland flank of Humbug Mountain without much effort and sailed on past empty
beaches, rustling groves of myrtlewood trees, flowery meadows and drowsy little
beach towns.
Outside Gold Beach, we reached the Rogue River. The bridge over it is a beauty —
multiple-arched, elegant, vaguely Deco — but pedaling across while trucks roar
inches from your left side is distinctly hair-raising. The skimpy shoulders that
pass as bike lanes on much of Highway 101 were mostly missing on its bridges.
Although we spent a pleasant half-hour amid the dioramas, vintage photos and
mammalian taxidermy of the Rogue River Museum, Gold Beach was my least favorite
of the four coastal towns where we stayed — utilitarian motels hunkering along
the strand, uninspiring chain stores and shops (with the exception of the
well-stocked Gold Beach Books), a drab dune obstructing views of the ocean. But
the scenic splendor recommenced about 100 pedal strokes beyond the last housing
development. At the top of a leg-punishing three-and-a-half-mile incline just
south of town looms magnificent Cape Sebastian State Park with miles of trails
through stunted spruces and views down the coast to California.
From here on it just keeps getting better. About 14 miles south of Gold Beach
you enter Samuel H. Boardman Scenic Corridor — a nine-mile roadside corridor
with turnouts overlooking natural stone arches rising from the waves, trailheads
accessing the Oregon Coast Trail, and paths winding down to hidden beaches and
tide pools.
For me, the scenic summa came at Whaleshead Beach, a cove with the mystical
beauty of a Japanese scroll — spray blowing off the crest of a wave, massive sea
rocks dazzled in the westering sun, two happy boys making tracks in the sand.
From there, it was seven miles to Brookings.
A meteorological quirk makes Brookings by far the toastiest town on the Oregon
coast, and as we pulled into the circular drive of the Craftsman-style South
Coast Inn, the evening was hot and heady with the perfume of flowers. It felt
strange to retrieve our cars and stow the bikes. But it felt good, after a
delicious sushi dinner at Café Kitanishi, to lounge on the inn’s deck over a
bottle of wine and watch the stars come out over the Pacific.
Most of the other bikers we had met on the road from Coos Bay were half our age
and bound for San Diego, clocking 100 miles a day, while we calculated we had
averaged 40 miles at a speed of 8.6 miles an hour. Nothing to brag about,
perhaps, but I wouldn’t (and probably couldn’t) have done the trip any faster —
and certainly can’t imagine doing it more enjoyably.
FOREST AND SEA, OVER THE HANDLEBARS
LOGISTICS
Curry Public Transit (800-921-2871;
www.currypublictransit.org ) transports cyclists and their bikes between
Brookings and Coos Bay on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. One-way fare is $20.
The Oregon Department of Transportation (
www.oregon.gov/ODOT/ ) publishes a free waterproof bike map of the coast.
The same map can be downloaded from the Web site. The Adventure Cycling
Association (800-755-2453;
www.adventurecycling.org ) also publishes a useful annotated map of the
coast, for $14.75 for nonmembers.
BANDON
The Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast (650 Jetty Road Southwest; 541-347-9316;
www.lighthouselodging.com ), with
five rooms, some facing the Coquille River estuary, is a lovely walk to Old Town
and the beach. Doubles: $140 to $245.
At the luxurious Bandon Dunes Golf Resort (57744 Round Lake Drive; 888-345-6008;
www.bandondunesgolf.com ) north of
town, high-season doubles start at $230.
Alloro Wine Bar (375 Second Street Southeast; 541-347-1850;
www.allorowinebar.com ) serves superb
Italian entrees for about $20 to $25 and a fine selection of Northwest wines.
Lord Bennett’s Restaurant and Lounge (1695 Beach Loop Drive; 541-347-3663) has a
beach view and seafood entrees for about $17 to $25.
PORT ORFORD
Wildspring Guest Habitat (866-333-9453;
www.wildspring.com ) has five cabins set in an evergreen forest; the hot tub
and deck outside the breakfast room have a distant view of the ocean. Summer
rates are $249 to $279. Paula’s Bistro (541-332-9378) at 236 Sixth Street
(Highway 101) serves entrees like vegetarian Thai curry or French lamb chops.
Griff’s on the Dock (490 Dock Road; 541-332-8985) and the Crazy Norwegian’s (259
Sixth Street; 541-332-8601) are good bets for fish and chips.
GOLD BEACH
The Pacific Reef Resort (800-808-7263;
www.pacificreefresort.com ) has
spacious, unremarkable motel rooms from $89. Tu Tu’ Tun Lodge (800-864-6357;
www.tututun.com ) is more luxurious but
seven miles out of town on the Rogue River; doubles start at $233.
Spinner’s Seafood Steak and Chophouse (29430 Ellensburg Avenue; 541-247-5160)
features hefty portions of entrees like grilled duck breast, Alaska halibut and
ribeye steak for around $25 to $30. Indian Creek Café (94682 Jerry’s Flat Road;
541-247-0680) is the place for filling breakfasts.
BROOKINGS
The Best Western Beachfront Inn (541-469-7779;
www.bestwestern.com ) is the only
lodging right on the ocean; doubles start at $159. The more charming South Coast
Inn Bed and Breakfast (800-525-9273; www.southcoastinn.com) in town has doubles
from $119.
Smuggler’s Cove Restaurant (16011 Boat Basin Road; 541-469-6006), across from
the Best Western Beachfront, serves steaks, seafood and other entrees for about
$16 to $25. The Café Kitanishi (632 Hemlock Street; 541-469-7864) has sushi,
teriyaki beef and chicken, and ahi tuna for about $20 to $25.
4 Days and 2 Wheels on
the Oregon Coast, NYT, 12.7.2009,
http://travel.nytimes.com/2009/07/12/travel/12explorer.html
Explorer | Oregon
Taking the Plunge in Oregon’s Grand Canyon
July 27, 2008
The New York Times
By MARK SUNDEEN
AS a young man drifting in desert, I acquired a valuable bit
of wisdom: when you come across a cave, you should go inside, and, if possible,
spend the night. This chestnut has served me well through the years, and came in
handy this spring, when my friends and I were on another of the haphazard,
marginally safe expeditions that we undertake each year when the West’s sudden
snowmelt floods its valleys with cold current.
This time we’d chosen the Owyhee River in the desolate southeastern corner of
Oregon, a river so rarely floated that it doesn’t require a permit. This, of
course, is another way of saying that our applications for more popular rivers
had been denied or, in my case, sat blank on my desk until several days after
the due date.
And so two days in, we found ourselves snaking between sheer rock walls while a
headwind blasted us with grit, having just run a rapid called Bombshelter. One
paddler had got his inflatable kayak pinned in a tiny alcove, and had to be
kicked free by another.
By then he was rattled, and the next wave dumped him into the white water, from
which we eventually fished him out, the second such rescue of the day.
Then it started to hail.
I should mention that a day earlier, at the Three Forks launch ramp, after a
couple of hours of drinking beer and bouncing across dirt roads, we concluded
that the raft was overloaded and jettisoned some supplies. Our choices,
influenced by the 90-degree heat and the beer, now seemed like poor ones.
Items that remained on the raft included an iron-wrought set of regulation
horseshoes, two bottles of top-shelf bourbon, a small cedar chest of Brazilian
cigars, and a 94-quart ice chest packed with five cases of beer. Items left
behind in the truck were fleece jackets, paddling gloves and my tent.
It may sound now as though we were simply in over our heads. Actually five of
the seven of us had been river guides, and one a river ranger. But then, that
level of experience allows a certain slackness, which can sometimes result in
bold and rare incompetence.
Now wet and shivering, with the gales blowing the raft upstream, we fought our
way downriver, and there we saw the cave. It was 3 o’clock and we were still six
miles from our intended camp, but without discussion, we paddled to shore and
hauled all the coolers and boxes and dry bags into the gigantic cavern.
And what a fine cave it was! Its white-sand floor was dry and soft, sleeping
seven comfortably with ample room for fold-out kitchen tables, campfire, lawn
chairs and a regulation-length horseshoe pit. We quickly got into dry clothes,
watching the rain blow sideways just mere feet from our warm shelter, where we
would hunker down for the next 20 hours or so.
FOR some reason, we had been unable to convince any wives or girlfriends to come
with us.
Initially, a few had signed on to float the lower stretch of the Owyhee
(pronounced oh-WHY-hee), which has been called Oregon’s Grand Canyon, with mild
rapids, stunning vistas and riverside hot springs. But in the days before the
launch, they had backed out one by one, and simultaneously our itinerary
morphed, governed by the same unspoken power that steers a Ouija board.
By the time we’d driven 15 hours from Montana, across Idaho and into the Oregon
desert, we had scrapped the bucolic float and agreed to instead paddle the
middle stretch, with Class V rapids — the second most difficult in the
international rating system — notorious headwinds and a 20-foot waterfall.
We launched in May, during the first heat wave of the year, in a wide canyon
where the three forks of the Owyhee joined. This desert, where the corners of
Oregon and Idaho butt against northern Nevada, is some of the most rugged in the
country, with just a few outposts, many, like Jordan Valley, founded by
hardscrabble Basque homesteaders.
The dirt road wound down from the dry plains into the green canyon, where the
river meandered through lazy turns, soaking the willows and horsetails that
sprouted from the banks.
We shoved off, paddling five hard kayaks, two inflatable kayaks and one raft
with oars. As we floated, the canyon flanks were silvery green with sagebrush,
dotted with black chunks of volcanic rock and bursts of yellow where the
arrowleaf balsamroot bloomed like big daisies.
Within a mile, the walls steepened and we tied the boats onshore to scout the
first rapids, a series of ledges above a rock garden that continued around the
bend, out of our sight. We successfully paddled the first drop, but then in the
rock garden, Tiff flipped and came out of his boat.
I was trying to help him to shore in the pool below, when I noticed flotsam — a
jug of orange juice, a flyrod, an oar — and looked back upstream to see the raft
surfing in a hydraulic, a recircuclating hole, with its captain, Nate,
scrambling to the high side to keep it upright. After five minutes or so, the
river released him, and we regrouped in the calm water.
THE next morning, camped on a beach where wild hawthorn flowers blossomed, we
vowed to take the white water more seriously. The reason we’d lost gear the day
before was the lazy rigging job at the launch. Today’s first step would be to
tie things in more securely.
“Where are the rest of the straps?” I said.
“We left them in the truck,” someone replied.
So we rigged the raft with a spool of laundry line and hoped for the best. It
was then that I realized that we were about to paddle a Class V rapid, something
I had never done in a kayak. I had misread the brief description of the Owyhee
on the Internet, and thought we’d be portaging all the big rapids. So when we
arrived at the Half Mile rapid and hopped over the boulders and sprigs of poison
ivy to scout it, the water scared the hell out of me — all narrow slots and
chaotic holes and sharp pour-overs.
I decided not to tell anyone it was my first Class V. It might jinx me.
Had I thought carefully about the rapid’s name, I might have noticed that the
part we were looking at was no longer than a quarter of a mile — which left a
big unknown around the corner. But we could worry about that later.
So we returned to the boats and, keeping a careful formation, paddled the upper
drops. Everyone nailed their lines.
Confident now, we floated willy-nilly into the lower stretch and quickly
realized that the meat of this rapid was yet to come. We dodged rocks and
flipped in holes — pure combat boating. I braced on the paddle with all my
weight just to stay upright.
Then I noticed Mick standing on a rock in the middle of the river and figured he
had stopped to take photos, or something, only to realize that he had no boat.
His yellow kayak was cartwheeling downriver.
Stranded, Mick had no choice but to swim. He eased himself off his rock, and was
swept into the froth, arms and legs flailing as he pinballed through the rocks
and emerged sputtering in a pool below. On a sandy beach, we celebrated still
being alive by eating pastrami sandwiches and potato chips and drinking all the
cans of beer stored in a mesh bag hanging off the raft to keep cool. As we
lunched, the sky clouded and the wind picked up. I put on a wool hat.
Downstream, the canyon deepened. Sheer walls rose up both sides and buried the
river in shadow. Looking down into the foreboding narrows, I remembered the
thing I love and fear about running rivers: you have no choice. With more
options, I would probably try to find an escape. But in a walled canyon, the
only way is downriver.
It was in this giddy state amid pouring rain that we reached our savior cave. In
our exhaustion, no one had the energy for full-court horseshoes, but — thank God
for innovation — we improvised a game that allowed us to chuck the shoes from a
seated position in lawn chairs. I cooked a pot of chili con carne and we mashed
a bowl of guacamole.
When the rain finally stopped, we emerged from the cave into moist yellow
twilight, scrambled over the basalt boulders spongy with wet lichen, cast a few
flies into the current, listened to the river gurgle and boil.
By morning we were thoroughly refreshed, and despite being able to see the fog
of our own breath in the cold air, were more or less ready to paddle again.
“This cold front will blow right through,” someone said. “This is the desert.”
When we reached Widowmaker, the Class V+ falls, we shouldered our kayaks over
house-size rocks, and lowered them on the other side with a rope. Then with
ropes affixed to the raft’s stern and bow, we inched it down the rocky banks,
pivoting off rocks, then finally eased it over the drop into the safe pool
below.
Then it started to hail again.
The cold weather didn’t blow through, and after another afternoon of shivering
and fighting gales, we finally paid the price for our lax planning. The beach
camp we found wasn’t horrible, but it was a poor substitute for our cave.
We stayed up late that night, huddled low around a fire to keep the blowing sand
out of our teeth, wishing the rain would stop, killing the bourbon and the
tobacco.
But who really cared if we got wet and miserable? We were only a day’s paddle
from the car, and though we were sure it would be a long, cold, windy day, it
couldn’t be too bad.
We’d been out three nights and hadn’t seen another soul. I had watched an osprey
circle in the canyon updrafts. It was actually kind of fun, if you thought about
it.
We gathered more driftwood and the flames rose higher. Nate leaned closer to the
fire and pulled his collar over his ears.
“I’m wearing six cotton shirts,” he announced. “I left my jacket in the truck.”
THE WET SET
Unless you’re an expert paddler, you should hire a guide service to run the
Middle Owyhee. Two options are Momentum River Expeditions (866-663-5628;
www.momentumriverexpeditions.com ) and Kokopelli River Guides (866-723-8874;
www.kokopelliriverguides.com
).
Experienced do-it-yourselfers can run the Lower Owyhee without a guide. No
permit is required, but you need to have appropriate boats, gear and training
for Class III white water.
For more information, contact the Bureau of Land Management at (208) 373-4007 or
see
www.blm.gov/id/st/en/prog/recreation/rivers/owyhee_river.html .
The closest major airport to the area is in Boise, Idaho, about 120 miles away.
Taking the Plunge in
Oregon’s Grand Canyon, NYT, 27.7.2008,
http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/07/27/travel/27Explorer.html
Top 10 diners in Portland, Oregon
From downtown bistros serving local organic fare to simple
coffee and doughnuts,
Laura Barton finds the tastiest treats in town
Laura Barton Guardian Unlimited
Friday December 14 2007
http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2007/dec/14/portlandusa.restaurants
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