To get to where we’re going this weekend we are going to travel through the Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge in southeastern Oregon, where I have not technically been. We were driving south on I-5 near Salem and I had anticipation.

I asked, “Do you think we’ll see ‘lopes?”
“Probably,” said David, “unlike bighorn sheep, which we won’t see.”
“Right, because they don’t exist,” we both said at once.
“The biggest biological hoax ever played on the American public,” swore David. No one ever sees Bighorn Sheep.
“I don’t know why I’m asking. I always see antelope when I go where we’re ultimately going.”
“Right, with their one long horn.”
“Yeah, and their…wings.”
“And the glitter they leave everywhere.”
“You can tell it’s them from the soft nickering sounds they make when they’re grazing in the fields of ambrosia.”

Tags: oregon, steens, Travel

A foundational book for those interested in the history of Portland, Ore., and its surroundings. “Early Portland: Stump-Town Triumphant” is a comfortable, conversational look at the first goings-on in “The Clearing” on the Willamette that slowly became Portland.

The chapters are a mix of biographical and economic history, with a strong thematic focus on the unfolding of local townsites’ navigational potential. Ultimately the winning town has to prove its mettle in terms of shipping, and a lot of the book is spent detailing the argument about just where the “head of navigation” is located. Snyder is, after all, educated as an economist.

My interests run more towards the individual stories of pioneers and the shape of the land they settled, so I found the waterway competition less fascinating. However, Snyder is an easygoing writer and steers clear of dry or overly-academic analysis, so even the sections less tailored to my passions were easy reads. Plus, he does not tell the shipping stories in isolation: there are pepperings of back-stories and interpersonal rivalries that keep things lively.

Local history buffs will come out of this book with some great anecdotes and facts. Snatch it up soon–I believe it may be out of print (originally published: 1970)

Tags: history, oregon, portland history

Oregon City, Ore., operates a public elevator that is technically a vertical street! From the Oregon City Municipal Elevator Public Art Project Blog (whew, that’s a mouthful):

The Oregon City Municipal Elevator continues to operate as one of only four municipal elevators in the world and “Elevator Street” remains the only “vertical street” in North America.

Tags: history, oregon, oregon city

Did you know that when Pettygrove et. al first planted their roots in “The Clearing” on the west bank of the Willamette River (later known as Portland, Ore.) that Portland wasn’t even technically in the United States? If politics in the following few years had veered differently, we could be living under the British flag.

Put another way: “Father of Oregon” John McLoughlin was born in Canada, and was a British citizen, working for the Hudson’s Bay Company. So our state’s father was not born American (though he did later switch his citizenship in the 1850’s, once settled down in Oregon City).

It wasn’t until 1846, a few years into Portland’s existence, that the American flag was run up the flagpole at Fort Vancouver (Washington) and the British were formally sent packing.

Also an interesting tidbit: one of the reasons for Vancouver’s failing to become the region’s primary metropolis* is that there was speculation that the Brits might get to keep the land north of the Columbia River (today’s Washington state). Foreseeing the 640 acres of free land the US was expected to give each settler, pioneers instead chose to stay south of the river, where things were more likely to end up in American hands**.

* There are others. But this is an interesting one.
** The bill to give the 640 acres to homesteaders, as well as increase the volubility of the American claim to Oregon Territory, was introduced by a Missouri senator named Lewis Linn. This was a popular move. Hence West Linn, Linnton and Linn County, Oregon.

Eugene Snyder’s book “Portland’s Early Days: Stump Town Triumphant” and the staff at the McLoughlin House in Oregon City provided sources for this entry.

Tags: history, oregon, PDX, portland

We meant to go camping but the camping wasn’t meant to be. Saturday, a comedy of errors.

Dithering meant a late disembarkation. We had to return to the house an unprecedented three times for forgotten items. Then there was driving, driving out east on Wash. SR-14. A failed foray towards a hot springs on the Wind River. Starvation turned us across the river to The Dalles. Time trailing away in an unremarkable Mexican restaurant with a surly waiter, instead of exploration.

A quick stop in the Columbia Hills Preserve and a stare at the view, but we couldn’t tarry; must be to Maryhill Winery before it closed and then find a camping spot. Harried tasting at Maryhill, rush off. Down to Maryhill State Park, where David wasn’t satisfied with the camping arrangements because it was RV-heavy and exposed, but agreed to stay.

We sat by the Columbia River and I sorted rocks. It should be illuminating that this was the best part of my day. So many rocks, all river-rounded, all complex. Where did they all come from? Flat, round rocks with veins of things and a shallow translucence like they had two skins. Perfect skipping rocks, though I am too graceless to skip them well. Rocks with green specks and red lines, rocks that looked better wet. It made me want to get a rock tumbler. It made me want to bone up on geology.

I stumbled back towards our campsite (foot-deep river rocks hard to walk through) and took a photo of a copse of unidentified trees. Strangely the only photograph I took on our “trip.”

At the campsite David had camp chairs set out and a beer. It was sunny and perfect, only the slightest suggestion of a breeze (no tortuous, typical Columbia Gorge squall-wind). We supposed now that the sun was getting low we should set up the tent we’d borrowed from our friend Carl (don’t get me wrong: there are multiple tents owned in our household, but none large enough for our new queen-sized air-bed–Carl’s was reputably huge).

We unfurled it on the grass, all dusty from its previous use at Burning Man, and suddenly David looked stricken.

“No poles,” he said.

We scrabbled frantically through its storage bag. No poles, anywhere. We sat back down in the camp chairs and stared at the opposite side of the river. A few trains went by. Finally, we packed everything back up, put the river-damp dog in the hatch, and drove towards home.

We detoured via Goldendale along the Klickitat river through its eponymous, creepy, dead-mill, polluted-weird town. Home by solid darkfall, but weary from being carbound and cooped on such a solitarily perfect spring day. David made a campfire in our yard. I came out and sat by it with the camping lantern for reading by but there was poisonous rhododendron ash raining into my glass of Syrah and it was hard to see my book (Lewis & Clark’s original journals). I went inside and felt headachy and read the first act of Julius Caesar and fell asleep.

I’ve had more productive days.

Tags: camping, oregon, spring