The Alvord Desert

Stepping out onto the Alvord Desert, the driest part of Oregon, all I heard was the buzzing of a yellow jacket and the intermittent howling of the wind. The surface was so very dry, with the occasional rock here and there (always bigger than a pebble, but usually not much). When the wind wasn’t blowing, I heard utter silence. Not a bird or mammal was in sight. Eventually, we came across bits of a partially eaten hare, which surprised me because I didn’t think a hare would want to go out on this flat, dry, plant-free surface. Another possibility is that a coyote or some other creature killed the hare elsewhere and took it to this dry place. Far, far in the distance were mountains on every side. To the right, I saw in the far distance, in front of the mountains, what looked like a stretch of shiny blue water and what was probably a mirage. It had to be a mirage. Behind us were the mountains we’d been seeing from the road over and over again. I kept walking, stopping to admire the strange patterns of the cracks in the surface of the earth—it was such dry, dry earth, such pale dirt (or sand?), and some of the cracks were quite big. Some of the cracks went around rocks. Eventually I saw—perhaps an optical illusion?—a section of the earth looked like it was bright yellow, in the near distance. I lost track of time and distance, swept up with the setting and dropping off into thoughts of a desert kingdom in my middle grade series The Rowanwick Chronicles. I decided I’d change the way I describe that land.

The Desert is Burning

Yesterday’s wildfire had meant following a slightly different route to reach the cabin. The forest rangers thought they had it under control, but another fire broke out this morning, after we set out.

Today we meant to climb to the summit of Steens Mountain, but after a very long drive (including about an hour on the gravel road), we came to some utility vehicles and a digital “Road Closed” sign when we weren’t far from our destination, and we had to turn around. Befuddled and perplexed, I stopped the car and simply sat there on the highway trying to figure out what to do next and where to go. I pretty much decided to drive up Diamond Lane, which was just to our left.

Diamond Lane led to the Diamond Craters, a 2500 year old site of volcanic rock. We saw a sign for it and saw some fascinating formations, but we had no idea where to park. We ended up parking on the side of the road, walking across it, and wandering around the strange rocks and crevices in the earth while taking photos.

We drove further, with the idea of visiting a place occupied by wild mustangs. We kept driving, till we reached the town of Diamond, which has a population of about five hundred. I spotted a derelict and partially destroyed brick building, so I pulled into what happened to be the parking lot of the Diamond Hotel, established 1898. We went inside—actually, only into the porch, which was semi-indoors because it was made of screen windows. The place was decorated with antiques and generally had a nineteenth-century feel. An elderly couple was on the porch and told us about the Kigar mustangs, that it involved driving for eleven miles on a gravel road, and because of the weather the horses would probably be sitting under trees. They had climbed Steens Mountain in the morning, before the barrier went up. We hadn't left the cabin until after 11 am.

Audrey pointed out that it was already four in the afternoon, and we’d better head back to the cabin. So we did so. However, as we were driving, I was distracted by the fire in the distance—the grey sky billowing with smoke and orange flames. We pulled over to the side of the road and got out to take pictures again. Audrey compared it to the apocalypse. It was a truly disturbing sight, with the constant smoke and flames and sunlight peeping out here and there, and the sun occasionally appearing and burning bright red. Something about the image made me think of Italian Renaissance paintings, or at least one Italian Renaissance painting, though I don’t remember which.

Wilderness fire in Steens; this was not caused by humans

We almost went to Steens Mountain, we saw a bit of the Diamond Craters, we almost visited the Kigar mustangs, and we almost visited the wildlife preserve. It was a day of mostly driving around and occasionally getting out to take pictures and then getting back in the car. At least we had the air conditioning on in the car; outdoors, it felt like an oven in the afternoon. Certainly, we did see a lot and get some idea of the way around.

Though it looks mostly yellow in the photos, the sun looked bright red in person.

The wildlife we’ve seen today includes probably every kind of bird that is in this area. We drove past a wetland and saw cranes, egrets, swans, ducks, and other creatures (including a reddish-brown bird with a very long and narrow beak that curved slightly downward). We also saw pronghorn and deer and plenty of hares, as we had last night. They come out at dusk. Yesterday Audrey saw three burrowing owls (as the driver, I didn’t spot them), and this evening she saw another one and I slowed down enough to see it, but from a distance.

Steens Mountain Wilderness, Oregon

We’re in the high desert of Oregon. Lots of sagebrush, a few trees here and there, mountains that come in many shapes and sizes. Some of the mountains are long and flat on top, like in New Mexico. Some are a pink or reddish tan and quite angular, in a big connected and elongated structure. Some are jagged, others blunt on top. They also come in different colors—the jagged mountains tend to be burgundy and dark brown, and blunter ones are often light green mixed with some darker green.

Cape Perpetua, Oregon Coast

At the Visitor's Center, we asked about the trail to Thor’s Well, since it strangely wasn’t on the map. A ranger explained that a photographer took a picture and called a collapsed underwater cave “Thor’s Well” and posted it on the Internet, so many people have lately been asking, “Where’s Thor’s Well?” She also said it’s on the trail with Spouting Horn, and that they’re very active today. It was only a half mile down a paved trail, and the trail conveniently started right next to the Visitor’s Center.

We set foot on the trail and delightful, fascinating plants immediately surrounded us. These included very tall trees—evergreens and bare-branched white trees, particularly covered with moss and with stark, stubby branches, jutting out. Bushes alongside the trail, some with blackberries and some with little white flowers that looked like bells, or little round red berries (I assumed poisonous), and vines with pale green curlicues.

The sun truly came out, and the sky was bright blue by the time we got down to the rocks in the ocean—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The trail to the ocean slanted downward at first, and we walked through a tunnel under Highway 101. In the tunnel, I yodeled like a ghost because of the echo. We came out from under the tunnel, and the path veered to the right and left, with a sign pointing out what was in which direction. Straight ahead was a fence, and beyond it was a cliff overlooking an inlet of the ocean. Wet sand with driftwood and some rocks, rocky cliffs on either side of that. Blue, blue water beyond.

We kept following the path—even the bushes on either side of the path were delightful, magical, like something out of a fantasy world (and yes, I’ll create a fantasy world that incorporates Cape Perpetua).

We gradually descended the left path leading to Spouting Horn. We came to an information board with images and explanations of some of the creatures we might see, such as starfish and anemones and peculiar but beautiful slugs that have white and red “hairs” sticking out all over. We kept walking, got to the end of the trail, and stepped down onto sand and dark rocks.

I didn’t hesitate to walk out onto the bumpy, rocky seaside. Pools contained small rocks, shells (mostly broken) and tiny dark brown tadpoles. I thought the tadpoles were delightful. I kept walking and absorbing the breathtaking scenery: the cliffs, the rocks, the ocean and the powerful, rolling waves coming toward us and crashing on the rocks. It was steady and continual, like breathing in and breathing out.

We headed back up the path and crossed a little wooden bridge and took the path toward Devil’s Churn and Thor’s Well. Delightful plants still surrounded the path, including bright yellow flowers and tiny daisies and flowers that were like one inch round pompoms. We descended the sand onto the rocks. The ocean met with rows of inland rocky areas, where the ocean waves rolled in and then leaped up into the air as they hit the big rocks. The waves spouted up high before backing away and starting the process all over again.

We came to a long, dramatic crevice in the dark rocks, where the ocean waves came splashing in and drifted back.

Some of the rocks were tricky to walk on; my phobia about falling made me overly cautious.

We saw a long crevice full of bright green anemones, but no starfish. I collected a few shells that weren’t broken. When I reached down to pick up one shell in shallow water, it moved slightly and held fast to the sand. I hastily let go of it. Probably a crab.

As did other visitors, we walked up close to the Spouting Horn and Thor’s Well  and watched, mesmerized. I could have stayed there for days—though I was aware of my cat Cheetah at home alone, when Audrey mentioned that her cats were anxiously waiting.

First Morning at Cape Perpetua, Oregon Coast

Last night it started raining after the sun completely set. Our neighbors had apparently gone to bed—I saw no more smoke coming from the next camp. As the rain transitioned to a steady shower—too much for having a book open outdoors—we ultimately decided to put out the fire and go to bed.

I was surprised at how much water I had to pour on the fire before it was completely out, with not so much as a single orange glowing dot. I kept returning to the faucet and getting more—it must have been six canteens full. But I enjoyed it, oddly enough. As I poured the water, the diminishing bonfire smoked a bit, in grey billows.

The rain poured steadily, more than a drizzle (well, by Oregon standards) by this time.

It rained all night. I woke up numerous times—I lay in my tent thinking I had to go pee really badly but I didn’t want to walk to the restroom in the rain. I lay listening to the roaring brook in the background and the steady tapping of rain on the tent. I fell asleep quickly each time I woke up, which must have been about five time. On a couple of these occasions, it was raining heavily.

Despite all that, I was perfectly dry in my tent. I had told Audrey about the Society for Creative Anachronisms (SCA) because my previous experience of camping was with the SCA. Technically, I’d done it twice, but on one of these occasions I didn’t have a tent and got in my car and drove off in the middle of the night.

On the other SCA camping occasion, I had a borrowed tent. I remember it was a similar night: temps in the 50s and steady, heavy rain. My tent leaked, and I woke up in the middle of the night shivering convulsively. I wasn’t dressed appropriately—just a tunic and cotton leggings—and didn’t know anything about fleece or not wearing cotton when you’re hiking/camping. My quilt (I didn’t even have a sleeping bag) got wet thanks to the leaky tent.

But on this occasion, at Cape Perpetua, I had a much better tent and remained dry and comfortable. The thermal pad in my sleeping bag was helpful—I made a point of staying on top of it so I wasn’t in contact with the cold, wet ground (through the tent floor and footprint, of course) while I lay in my sleeping bag.

The last time I woke was at dawn. Perhaps 4:30 am. It had stopped raining, so I went out to use the restroom at last. The sky was just light enough for me to walk to the restroom without a flashlight. This is the Pacific Northwest in summer—maybe it was closer to 4 am. I went back to my tent and lay meditating (with a lot of mind wandering) till I heard Audrey stirring. We sat at the picnic table and had tea (her jet boiler, a gas-powered device for boiling water, worked great now), and I munched on cherries and the wonderful granola I had impulsively picked up at the grocery store in Portland: it includes dark chocolate and dried strawberries and dried raspberries.

Cape Perpetua Campground

I’m sitting in front of a bonfire that I’ve successfully kept going for over an hour. Keeper of the flame. Brigid, Irish goddess of fire. Amataratsu, Japanese sun goddess. Fire Master—that one was Audrey’s idea. New PMV name.

At 5:30 am (exactly, by my alarm clock), I woke from a dream about going on a hiking and camping trip. It wasn’t only Audrey and me as we’re doing in real life, but a bunch of mutual friends/aquaintances. 

Snap, crackle, pop goes the bonfire.

The part of the dream that I vividly remembered (and this is common) was the last few minutes. Or was it more than one minute? Perhaps not. We were hiking in utter pitch darkness.

Cracking fire in front of me; babbling, roaring brook behind me.

In the dream, even the moon was nonexistent. You’d think we occupied a windowless room at night with the lights out and the door closed, or perhaps a room that had no door. That’s how dark it was. But we kept walking.

I sensed a forest edge forming a wall on our left. I had a crank flashlight in my right hand, and I pushed its button numerous times. With each second that the flashlight glowed, we saw the straight row of trees forming the edge of the forest. Sand was beneath our feet. Also, in the brief spurts of light, I saw an ocean straight ahead of us, with the water gently lapping, lapping, in small waves. I think I heard them, but that was more than twelve hours ago.

I just noticed lots of truly white ash underneath the burning logs. I forgot the ash can be so white. It’s reminiscent of the white ash that naked saddhus in Varanasi, India, smear all over their bodies. It makes them look pale. I wonder where they get the ash. Cremation grounds? Chai stand fires? The fires from restaurants or homes? Perhaps Hindus bring them. Perhaps they bring the ashes from home or from their restaurants and give them, like offerings, to the saddhus. Perhaps they place the ashes in terra cotta bowls or jugs and bring them to the ghats where the saddhus congregate. Perhaps it’s like merit in Tibetan Buddhism—giving things to monks and nuns (especially to high-ranking monks such as the Dalai Lama) and improving their karma thereby.

Birds are twittering in treetops from the other side of the road. The fire still crackles and pops. The brook still babbles.

After walking to the water faucet on a wooden pole by the road, and washing dishes there, and walking back to sit before the fire, I realized that camping is like living in a slum in India. You’ve got the public water pump that you share with neighbors; you’ve got a tent’ and you’ve got an open fire for cooking and for keeping warm. Wow. Americans do this for fun, and Indians do it out of necessity.

I remember, in India, people gathered around fires at night and in the early morning. They were wrapped in big shawls or blankets, and I thought they looked like Gypsies. Later, on the same pilgrimage, I overheard one of my fellow travelers saying that Gypsies came from India. For that matter, street musicians (especially with the harmonium) looked to me like Gypsies, too.

Foxglove: very long cup-like purple flower—many cups or cornucopias hanging together in a long, tall string. They grow wild… and in profusion here at the side of the road leading to our campground. Woods occupy one side of the road, and the camp sites the other.

It’s drizzling again for the second time—or at least it was for a moment.

it’s been very pleasant sitting by the fire listening to it and to the brook. Earlier we also heard birds singing and crows cawing. I hope we hear owls tonight; I’m pretty sure I did hear one earlier, well before it got dark. It was faint and far away.

We’ll fall asleep listening to the babbling brook. It reminds me of when I had an attic room at a Swiss inn, and I listened to a little waterfall on the mountain behind the inn; I kept the skylight open all night.

Tomorrow we’ll explore Cape Perpetua—hopefully we’ll find Thor’s Well and such. Wonderful, magical place.

Return from Canada & Seattle

My dad and I had a lovely time traveling up north, to Vancouver and Victoria in British Columbia, and then to Seattle. Ani DiFranco is right: you really do have a greater sense of freedom in Canada. Victoria is a particularly easy-going and friendly town. It’s also very beautiful, with the harbor and many Victorian houses with blooming flowers (rather like my neighborhood in Portland, Oregon), and with a late Victorian mansion called Craigdorrach Castle. Vancouver is brimming with art galleries and museums, and both cities have plenty of Native–or should I say Aborigine–art.

My dad is an extremely outgoing extrovert who talks constantly. After two weeks with him, I (an introvert) am indulging in solitude, silence, fasting, and meditation. Actually, a more accurate word than “indulging” is “nurturing.” Extroverts are energized by associating with humans; introverts are energized with solitude. The silence and solitude are therefore necessary for any introvert. Meditation is necessary for me, to keep me sane. Fasting is also a good idea, because we ate out so much, and my dad strangely believes you should always eat three meals a day, no matter how large your breakfast and/or lunch.

While I greatly enjoyed the trip, it’s great to be back home with my codependent one-person cat.