The Dog Days of Summer Come to an End

As a native Oregonian, I was shocked to realize recently that it had been more than nine entire months since I had set foot in my home state. Nine months! I could have gone through an entire pregnancy from conception to childbirth in that amount of time (please note I said could have; this in no way a reflection on what actually happened during the previous nine months)!

Fortunately, last weekend remedied this situation, as Michael, Lucy, and I drove to my parents' home late Friday night. Saturday was spent with my parents, dining (I use the word here with just a touch of the facetious) at Sheridan's lone Chinese restaurant - home of Michael's favorite General Tso's chicken, hiking out to the point of Cape Lookout on the coast for some fabulous views and woodland scenery, and letting the dogs loose on the beach, where a piece of kelp stood in quite nicely for a stick for Lucy to chase.

We had picked this last weekend of the summer for our trip as a wedding reception was held on Sunday for my cousin, Noah. The wedding had been in Mississippi, and the reception was a casual one, although the setting, in a beautifully landscaped home garden outside of Newberg, and the weather were gorgeous. The casual atmosphere was apparantly a good match for Noah - well, actually, even this setting was more formal than Noah's wedding attire, which he dutifully wore to the reception. While Rosalie, his bride, wore a lovely, simple white wedding gown, Noah had on a pair of dungarees, a striped Hickory shirt, and red lumberjack suspenders. I'm not sure how he convinced Roaslie that dressing like a logger was the way to go for the ceremony; perhaps the folks in Mississippi figured that this must just be how us Oregonians get gussied up. But hey, at least the clothes were clean.

We were on our way to Seattle following the reception, sadly with one of our family left behind. Lucy will spend the next month and a half as a farm dog with my parents, who have offered to dogsit while Michael and I vacation in Greece. But now that we're back home and still have almost two weeks until our trip, the house feels strangely lonely without our beloved pup. Nuisance though she may be at times, it is comforting to come home to someone who's always excited to see you, always eager to snuggle up next to you on the sofa, and who sleeps only an arm's distance away next to my bed each night.

But I have the feeling the next two weeks will be busy enough that we won't have too much of a chance to miss her. And when we get back, Lucy will be an bonafide Oregonian herself, fully integrated into her country dog ways. But don't worry, I'm sure she'll miss her Seattle sofa, at least a little bit.

Dog Trick

When a picture is worth a thousand words:

A Golden Afternoon

This year's barbecue at Golden Gardens was, like last year, a small gathering. Still, we managed to light the charcoal grill without the use of lighter fluid or a chimney starter, and the evening bonfire provided a good opportunity for s'mores. All in all, it was a pleasant afternoon on the beach, but a sad reminder that summer will soon end.

Washington Whirlwind

A month or so ago, I got the inspired idea that we should visit Washington State's two most famous national parks - that would be Mount Rainier and Olympic - while Leonie, our German "exchange student" (actually a seventeen-year-old friend of a friend from Wiesbaden who stayed with us for ten days during her summer vacation) was visiting. After all, no visit to Washington would be complete without taking in some of the natural beauty and grandeur of our mountains, forests, beaches, and lakes. The catch was that we really only had two days in which to do this.

Now, I am here today to tell you that this can be done. With better planning, in fact, it could be done much more efficiently than our two day road trip bonanza turned out. This is not to say that we didn't enjoy ourselves, but after getting a late start and not leaving the house until 11am on Saturday morning, due partly to the fact that our entire household stayed up until 12:30 the night before locked into a game of Settlers that Michael had gleefully instigated, we were pretty much two hours behind schedule for the next two days.

First up: Mount Rainier. What better time than August, right? The wildflowers are in bloom, and the meadows at Paradise live up to their name. But as we left Seattle the blue sky turned to mostly cloudy, and the fog started in earnest right around the elevation of Paradise. After a four mile round trip hike to view Comet Falls looking mysteriously disembodied in the mist, we made our way up the road, where Leonie commented that it was hard to see even the trees ahead of us, let alone the giant mountain that was supposedly just beyond.

A late trip to Rainier led to a late arrival in Shelton, where I whipped up dinner for six at my friend Rebecca and her husband Chris's place in town rather than meet up with everyone at the Hartstine Island cabin as was the original plan. Heading out late once again, Michael, Leonie, and I made it to the cabin in time for a slightly earlier bedtime than the previous night, but not by much. At 10am the next morning, with just enough time for Leonie to observe the emaciated starfish that crowd the waterline at low tide, we were back on the road.

Just before two, we made it to our first official destination, Ruby Beach. Incredibly, the weather at Ruby made up for the disappointment at Rainier, with warm sun shining down above the trees that clung for dear life on the cliffs edging the shore, and piles of driftwood creating the perfect picnic spot from which to sit and watch the waves. We could have spent all afternoon exploring the nooks and crannies of the windswept rock formations, but after an hour we were on our way again, with so much more to see ahead.

Or so we thought. After making a decision to bypass the rain forest due to time constraints ("On a day like this, we can't miss Hurricane Ridge," I asserted. "It'll be more than worth it."), we drove on to Lake Crescent, stopping to marvel at the clear blue water and forested hills that plunged straight to the shore. It was also at Lake Crescent that we learned the fateful news: the road to Hurricane Ridge was closed, owing to an unforeseen landslide. Oh. Well, there's the rub. I guess we could have stopped by the rain forest after all.

But all was not lost. We decided to do a quick stop in Port Angeles, which gave Michael enough time to sneak away and buy a Butterfinger blizzard ("We don't have Dairy Queen in Seattle!" was his not unreasonable excuse). Driving into Kingston at about 7:15, we were making pretty good time, when I saw the sign; there was a two hour wait for the ferry to Edmonds, and we were stuck in line on the highway. Perfect.

But, as it turns out, it was perfect. After about fifteen minutes, the line moved and we were able to park the car in the ferry lanes at the port, get out, and treat ourselves to ice cream cones. Not only that, but we even made it on the ferry in only an hour, not the dreaded two hours as had been warned, and for the first time in her ten day visit Leonie was able to see not only the elusive Mount Rainier, but the stunning silhouette of the Olympic Range, back lit by a sunset that filled the sky with bands of pink that deepened and grew as the ferry sped across the Puget Sound. No trip across the water could have hoped for a more amazing display.

Not much later we were sitting, exhausted, back in Lake City, poring over the menu at Thai One On. A little Thai food hit the spot before going home to unpack and say our goodbyes to Leonie, who took the Greyhound back to Vancouver today before her flight back to Germany tomorrow. We hope she enjoyed her time in Seattle, and maybe even the whirlwind Washington tour despite the lengthy time in the car. And hey, now she can tell her friends, who've all seen Twilight, that she's seen Forks and it really is as boring as anything. But hopefully Seattle was a little more fun, and the bright spots in our weekend getaway made all the driving worth it.

Fear of Falling

I've always had a fear of heights, but it's never been enough to keep me from a good viewpoint. This morning, those tour members who wanted came along with us to take the funicular up to Monte Igueldo for the best view San Sebastian has to offer. For an even better view than the one from the top of the funicular, you can climb the tower that tops the hill, offering 360 degree views out over the ocean as well as the town. Why, I wondered as I inched my way to the edge of the tower, do I do this to myself? But one look at the ocean, and I remembered.

I had a similar experience climbing the tower in Barcelona's Sagrada Familia temple last week. As Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece, the Sagrada Familia offers two elevators that take visitors above for an up close look at the intricate stonework and a bird's eye view Barcelona. While the wait for the lift to the first tower was at least an hour, the line was nonexistent for the other. How could I resist?

It was worth it, no question about that. You could almost reach out and touch the stone doves that appeared about to take flight from a central pinnacle. The worst part, I discovered, was actually the climb back down, as the lift for this particular tower takes guests one way only and you have to make your own way to the ground. A narrow, seemingly unending spiral staircase was clausterphobicly tight, and worst of all there was no central column protecting me from the view below. Like a coil of ribbon, the stairs wound their way down to the main floor, which I greeted with knees shaking.

Over water, however, I feel much more at ease. Never mind that falling one hundred feet to the ocean below would feel like hitting solid concrete, there is something calming about its presence. With today's beautiful weather, everyone in San Sebastian seemed to agree, as people stolled the beach and took off their shoes to dip their feet into the Atlantic. A few brave souls were even swimming, although one little puppy was too frightened of the incoming surf, as gentle as it is along the protected Playa de la Concha, to retrieve his stick. Every time a wave would come lapping onto the shore, he would run back to avoid the rush of water. His owners, not giving up, threw the stick further down the beach and finally, timing his attempt exactly with the waves, the pup dashed out and ran back triumphantly, stick in mouth.

In thinking about it, I realized that I'm perhaps not so different from the puppy when it comes to heights. I may balk and I may take my time, but eventually I'll get to the edge and retrieve my reward.

Road Trip Day 3, October 4: I Remember Redwood Trees

Our day got off to a good start with breakfast in Bandon at the Minute Cafe. I got the giant cinnamon roll I'd been craving and proceeded to slather it with butter (hey, I was on vacation - time to go all out, right?), while Michael enjoyed a plate of corned beef hash, hashbrowns, and a buttermilk biscuit. I took the fall and ate the eggs that came with his meal - incomprehensibly, that boy just doesn't like eggs.

Our ultimate goal for the day was to reach Redwood city, about 30 miles south of San Francisco, where we would spend the next two nights with Michael's godparents. In the meantime, we had a lot of driving to do and some real redwoods to explore. The coast was still shrouded in fog, but I was thrilled to see my first glimpses of the southern Oregon shore and northern California. Having grown up firmly ensconced in the northwest corner of our state, I'd actually never made it to this part of the country before. The 101 offered sweeping views of rugged sea stacks fighting a slowly losing battle with the elements around Cape Sebastian and the gorge-like drive around thickly forested Humbug Mountain offered just a glimpse of this incredible region.

Before long we were at the state border.

"Crap!" I exclaimed. "We have Oregon fruit in car, and I hear they ask if you have fruit when coming into California."

Sure enough, they really do ask if you have fruit. We lied. Actually, what Michael said, upon being asked, "Do you have any fruit?" by the border guard was, "Uh, not really, no." The guard looked momentarily confused but let us pass.

So there we were in California, winding through forests of massive redwoods, snacking on peanut butter pretzels and illegal Oregonian plums. We made a detour in Crescent City to pick up some hickory smoked dry jack cheese at the Rumiano Cheese Company store. We then stopped to say hello to my old childhood hero, Paul Bunyan. As a four-year-old, I was enamored of Paul and his blue ox, Babe. I was also under the mistaken impression that the logger's name was really Tall Bunyan, and when I discovered it was Paul my heart broke a little. Tall was the perfect name for this giant! What kind of a wimpy name was Paul, anyway?

I'm not sure what my four-year-old self would have thought of the enormous talking Paul Bunyan that guards the entrance to the Trees of Mystery. Thrilled, probably. I think this Paul was a bit disappointed that we didn't actually stay and pay the $14 per person entry fee to visit these mysterious trees. Maybe another time, Paul.

Determined to squeeze a short hike in, I scoured the little Best Short Hikes in Redwood National and State Parks book I had borrowed from the library. We chose to visit Fern Canyon in the Prairie Creek region of Redwoods State Park.

Perhaps the small lake that covered the road after we turned off the 101 should have been a warning. Turn back, before it's too late! But, inspired by the SUVs and pick-ups ahead of our little Pontiac Vibe, we took the plunge - quite literally - and waded through this small pond of a mud puddle. Oh, what the heck, we're in the land of tall tales, after all! This was a body of water so wide, we had to roll down the windows, grab hold of a passing branch and row ourselves across. And would you believe it, a fish jumped right into Michael's lap! But since he's only a fan of the kind that come battered and fried with tartar sauce on the side, he threw it right back.

After a few miles of winding through pristine redwoods, we reached a pay station for the Fern Canyon area. And although my little guidebook had been published in 2005 and claimed that the day use fee was a measly $2, it had evidently increased to a whopping six bucks! Whopping to us, that is, because we only had $3 in our posession. A thorough search of all pockets, wallets, backpacks, and car crevasses turned up an additional $2.91 in change, as well as a Canadian penny and 4 Croatian kunas. I thought about throwing these last two coins in to make up for our missing nine cents, but thought better of it when I saw that the little envelope stated "no foreign currency". Having already broken California law once that day we were trying to stay on the straight and narrow. "Sorry! This is all we had," I wrote in tiny letters at the bottom of the tiny envelope.

Our trials had only just begun, however. It was at this time that the grey skies decided to let loose and rain. We attempted to drive to the trailhead, but were blocked by another enormous puddle. This time we took the hint from other cars parked on our side of the pond, parked our car, and swam across on our own. After what felt like miles, we made it to the actual trailhead. The rain was pounding down like bowling balls, and this is the reason I took no photos on this hike. By the time we got back we were soaked to the bone through three layers of clothing and mushrooms were already sprouting from our shoulders.

Fern Canyon is gorgeous, though. If you can go on a day when the rain isn't strong enough to send knock over a herd of elk and if you can scrounge up six bucks ahead of time (although by the time you go it may well cost ten), I highly recommend it. The site of a former mining operation, the steep walls that were once scars of the mining industry are now covered with a thick, emerald green carpet of maiden hair ferns. Nearby is a windswept beach and meadows where you can frequently spot elk (we saw a couple of impressive bucks and a doe with her calf).

The rain stopped about the time we got back to the car and forded the lake in our path once more. Soon we were on the road again, winding our way back to 101 and crossing the majestic mud puddle to reach the highway. And although I can't be sure, I think I caught a glimpse of Babe the Blue Ox peering over the tops of the redwoods to see if the rain had really stopped.

If You Go:
For a hearty breakfast in Bandon with great service, go to the Minute Cafe:
145 2nd St.
Bandon, OR 97411

When in Crescent City and in need of some tasty cheese, try the Rumiano Cheese Comapny (unfortunately they don't sell their own cheese pre-sliced for picnicking, and the only bread they had were frozen loaves of La Brea to be baked at home): www.rumiano-cheese.com
511 9th Street
Crescent City, CA 95531

You, too, can visit Paul Bunyan (and even have a conversstion with the big guy) and other sights both tacky and awe-inspiring at the Trees of Mystery: www.treesofmystery.net

Find more information about Prairie Creek Redwood State Park online at: www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=415

Road Trip Day 2, October 3: Let the Feasting begin!

Now, you don't think I could possibly talk about one whole day of our trip without bringing up food, do you? No, I've decided that the food is SO important that it demands postings of its own, dedicated to the art of eating while on the road. Let's just say that Buy Nothing Month was now over with a vengeance!

Our first official stop after leaving my parents' place was the South Beach Fish Market. This place should never, ever be confused with South Beach, Florida, or the South Beach Diet (whatever that is, anyway). Ever. One look at this place, pictured here, should convince you that this is the real Oregon deal - fresh seafood, fresh seafood, and more fresh seafood.

I had read that the South Beach Fish Market had the best fish & chips on the Oregon coast. Unfortunately I haven't been able to sample nearly enough seaside fish & chips joints to agree that this statement is objectively true, but I can say what they serve is darn good. The batter is light, almost tempura-like, and the fish really shines. Michael ordered the halibut version, while I stuck with the less expensive traditional lingcod. While both options were good, we both agreed that it was work the extra three or four bucks for the halibut. This fish was so flaky and sweet, with not a hint of the "fishiness" that can plague all but the freshest catch. The fries were crinkle cut, not as good as house-made, but still not bad for all that.

Good as the battered fish was, it was a shame to leave without trying any of the other offerings, which ranged from crab and shrimp cocktails to whole crabs that were cooking in the giant kettles out front. I was simply to full to think about another helping of any kind, but I did buy some canned Oregon line-caught tuna that I'm eager to sample.

While lunch was good but basic, for dinner we splurged on fancier fare at the Wild Rose in Bandon. Only a short drive from Bullards Beach State Park and a few blocks off of 101, Michael and I both agreed that the Wild Rose was a step above any previous camping dinners we'd had. I admit I was a bit shocked when I saw the prices after we were presented with the menu; I hadn't expected cheap, but I had thought there would probably be entrees under $20; not so. However, unlike the Seattle restaurants that are currently our city's "It" eateries, entrees here included your choice of a house salad or soup of the day. This appeased me somewhat, and I reminded myself that Buy Nothing Month was over, after all, and it was OK to go a little crazy.

And once I tasted my soup, and then the sea scallops I chose for my entree, I had absolutely no regrets about the choice I'd made. The sea scallops, in particular, were amazing. Truly, I have never had better scallops in my life. Succulent, sweet, sauteed to perfection so that the outsides were crisp and seasoned while the insides melted in the mouth, I felt that I was in heaven. And the artfully arranged fennel, arugula, and grapefruit on the side were the perfect complement. The only bad thing I could say was that the seasoning on the scallops was just the tiniest bit on the salty side. Michael, meanwhile, enjoyed a lovely dish of gnocchi with blue cheese, bacon, and caramelized garlic and shallots.

But I can't forget our starters - the carrot soup that came with my meal was also wonderful. I had to offer Michael a taste. "Wow," he said. "Why is this soup so much better than the carrot soup you made last week?" Gee, thanks, dear. But I couldn't really argue - this thick, brilliant orange soup flecked with cracked pepper was far more flavorful than the soup I'd made at home the week before. Michael's salad was also particularly good. We each washed it all down with a glass of Oregon wine - pinots, of course - a pinot noir for him and pinot grigio for me.

Now, before you go thinking that this all sounds unbeatably delicious, but a little pretentious, let me assure you that the Wild Rose itself is a pretty humble joint. The food may be fine dining, but the atmosphere is Oregon coastal casual - staff in jeans, simple wood booths that look like they spent time under the open ocean spray, a sloping floor covered with industrial grey carpet, and framed photo prints of black and white nostalgia shots featuring bubble gum factories and beauty queen spaghetti feeds.

Unfortunately I have no photos to share of this meal, as the one nod that they make to a traditional haute cuisine dining atmosphere is to keep the lighting very low, so all my hand-held no flash shots are a bit blurry and dark. Well, we can't have it all; I'll just have to be content with having had perfect scallops once in this lifetime.

If You Go:
South Beach is located just south of Newport. When coming from the north, you'll see it on the right-hand side of 101 not long after you cross Newport's iconic bridge. For more information (and how to order their great products online) see: http://www.southbeachfishmarket.com/

Unfortunately the Wild Rose has no website. It is located at 130 Chicago Street in Bandon, phone number 541-347-4428.