Recollections: Slot Canyons of Wahweap

I didn’t give Glen Canyon enough credit

"Swallow Canyon" from the rim, looking downstream. 

Wahweap Bay and Lone Rock can be seen in the distance

I have been outspoken about my attitude toward living and working on the shores of Lake Powell, and the fabled Glen Canyon now buried beneath hundreds of feet of water. It wasn’t a good place for me—I am one who belongs among the trees. I was glad to come home. However, I don't regret my summer spent in the Southwest. In fact, I wish i had taken the time to explore more than I did. I may not have liked the climate, but I do have respect for just how colorful and impressive the landscape really is. For example, without traveling more than five miles from the resort, I made a discovery while walking along the lake shore one afternoon. From the entrance, the canyon appeared fairly small, and I imagined it to do what the others did: just vanish into the brush after a few hundred feet. I figured these canyons would be more of the same…dry, dead and barren.

But it wasn’t.

Half way up the canyon, I came to a large rock, overhanging the creek bed, fallen from the cliff face high above. The water beneath eh rock took me by surprise. The creek, hinted at by the dry wash that had been my trail had come to life in the form of a slowly creeping brook, kept alive by the humidity inside the canyon. The further up I went, the narrower the canyon became. Sand dunes piled twenty feet high, perhaps sediment left behind when Lake Powell retreated from this canyon blocked it in places. In others, a mesh of branches from a tree gathering its energy from sunlight high above. The canyon became narrower and narrower, going from ten feet wide to five, to, in places, three. Deep puddles required what little canyoneering skill I had to keep my shoes dry, and patches of quicksand blocked other spots on the canyon floor. By the end, the temperature and humidity inside was far more like what I see back home, than the desert outside providing a home for ferns, moss and algae. Names were carved into the rockat the end of the slot canyon, but one drew my attention in particular: "Haus, 3-18-1967." The lake had been filling for several years when that was carved, but it wasn’t full yet. I imagine it looked to him a lot like it looked to me. Perhaps he was one of those nostalgic wanderers who missed Glen Canyon, and wanted to have it back, exploring what was left of it. Or maybe he was a boater who just wanted to leave his mark. Most likely, I’ll never know.

A village of Swallow nests cling to the canyon wall

I visited the canyon with the swallow nests many times during the summer. The narrow part of the canyon changed little and thankfully I only ever saw a trickle of water flowing through it, despite sand dusting the walls five feet off the ground, placed there by the infamous and deadly flash floods the region is known for. 
While it remained largely the same, a few visits were unique. One afternoon I saw an owl take off into the brush on my arrival. On some days, carp would gather in the warm shallows at the mouth of the canyon to bask and hunt for bugs, scattering when I approached. The canyon walls were dotted in places with clusters of swallow nests, little mud adobe shells with an almost perfectly round hole in the middle to serve as an entrance, clinging to the cliff side like miniature pueblo buildings. 

Just a Remnant…

Inside the canyon, the air stays cool, and water 

flows year-round. In the cooler climate small

plants, moss, and even clusters of ferns can thrive

          I’m sure that people who saw Glen Canyon before the dam would claim that what I saw was not Glen Canyon at all—far rom it. I wouldn't argue with them. My canyon was likely a side wash that, were the lake not there, would receive no attention at all. But with the lake there, and my canyon starting right on the shoreline, it’s a unique place that became my own for the short time i was there. While Glen Canyon drowned, and gave in to the invasion of the infamous zebra mussels, places like this still exist. It lacks the archeological, cultural and geological value hidden beneath the reservoir perhaps. Those who knew the canyon will probably laugh at me for how sentimental I am towards a place like this, and to be honest, I envy the experience they got from the canyon before it was flooded. But parts of Glen Canyon were spared, and in these places Glen Canyon will live on, undisturbed and unchanged. Even if the reservoir never comes down as those river runners would like, these places will still offer a distinct flavor of what was. My canyon is just a shadow of Glen Canyon, but a shadow, nonetheless. -KP

Council Crest and the Sidewalk on Stilts

A radio tower stands guard over the summit
of Council Crest. This tower is visible from the
valley floor making the hill easy to locate from
most anywhere in Portland.

Best Laid Plans

When I revived the Kramer Paper online, I decided to call it an “adventure blog” instead of a travel blog. I realize that adventure blogs tend to bring images of steep cliffs, and backpacking. I have a few of those, but I mean adventure in a different way. I can’t speak for everyone else out there, but when I spend a day off travelling to a favorite part of town, I often set out to do one thing quite deliberately, and then either do something else entirely, or pile on side trips with unrelated destinations that I did not expect to see. Travels are generally better planned than most of my weekly side-trips. And in a city as diverse as Portland, this isn’t different. Ancient neighborhoods, pathways, and relics from the nineteenth century hide beneath the canopy of its urban forest. Among the many hidden treasures of Portland, are the parks and neighborhoods of the West Hills.

Portland's Highest Peak

The circular stone gathering area at the summit. The center serves
as an echo chamber, and the walls give the locations of major cascade
peaks. 

Most people in Portland have heard of Council Crest Park, and many more have been there. They have seen the echo chamber made of a circular stone enclosure, gazed at the city spread out beneath them, and of course seen the five volcanic peaks visible from this point. But this is only half the park. The commonly seen grassy knoll on top is the summit of the peak, but beneath this, the park continues, the hillsides dropping off into forests of indigenous plants, and neighborhoods dating back easily to the twenties.

There are several ways to explore these side trails, but I tend to prefer the more sneaky routes, those less travelled: walk past the three-tone-green water tower, and around the circle of street to the three-legged radio tower, and take the dirt path past the tower and into the woods. Once a hiker drops downgrade past the tower, the grassy knoll disappears from view: it may as well be another park entirely. Even if you haven’t been to the park, you have almost certainly seen it. The radio tower on top of council crest is clearly visible, the smaller of the two towers located away from the main clump of radio masts.

The forests of Council Crest, downhill from the grassy knoll
on the summit. This is a peaceful woodland, dominated by
the usual assortment of native trees.

Underneath the mantle of forest that covers Council crest, a network of unpaved trails wind to and fro across the mountainside. The forest is thick, and composed of big leaf maple and Douglas Fir with underbrush as well, though this is largely being overtaken by the invasive English Ivy and holly. A few rebellious violets add dots of yellow to the hillside as the paths descend among the trees.  During the springtime, the sun is still coming in at an angle, giving everything a somewhat hunting but beautiful look, and the temperatures are warm enough to be bearable and pleasantly cool. Signs designate various marked trails that crisscross the hill, including the fabled “4-T Trail” (I will get to you later, my friend.) All of these trails eventually emerge near the end of the park, along an alignment once home to a wagon road and trolley line, long since gone serving the amusement park once perched on the summit, also gone. And here is where the adventure starts. Most visitors to the park would turn around and return to the summit, but if a traveller continues downhill, they run into some rather interesting feats of Portland architecture.

A Neighborhood on Stilts

The neighborhood surrounding Council crest are equally intriguing. In some places, the streets cross at grade. In others, ancient-looking stone bridges carry the main drag downhill towards Portland, while another road, dug out of the mountain goes under the bridge to serve the slopes of Council crest. The twisting sidewalks and roadways give the area an Escher-esque design. Houses lined narrow alley is breaking off that sharp angles from the main streets.

The wooden "sidewalk on stilts" follows
the road heading downhill towards

The road is carved into the hillside, leaving little flat land for development. However, instead of leaving the area undeveloped, builders solved these problems in rather creative ways. The road’s shoulder ends about five feet off the ground, leaving no room for a sidewalk. The solution? Put the sidewalk on stilts! Even if you don’t realize that the pathway stands on its own wooden legs, the old style boardwalks with sandpaper on them to prevent slipping is likely to stand out as a bit odd. These sidewalks serve houses—also on stilts—at small alcoves with stairways leading down to front doors, or small bridges. The unique sidewalk and stairways seem to resemble a peculiar elevated railway, and give the area a local charm that cannot be found elsewhere in town easily.

It’s difficult to envision just how old this area is from what a visitor sees on a walkabout like mine. But if, just for a moment, you stop and close your eyes, you might be able to picture trolleys running too and fro, taking eager families to the amusement park that once topped Portland’s highest hill. It’s all gone now, but the unique ambiance is not. Nor will it likely be in the near future.

When Life Gives You Rain, Buy A Rain Barrel

           One thing that seems to define Oregon to outsiders is its rainy weather. Everyone thinks that once you cross into Oregon heading north on I-5, rain clouds form and it rains every day, making life dreary and miserable. (That’s what we want you to think anyway.) Truth is, May through September is actually rather lovely, and the parts of the Eastern half of the state is practically desert. But that’s a secret: you didn’t hear it from me. Like most stereotypes however, the talk about rain is largely true. To live in the Willamette Valley, you have to like rain: we get almost nine months where there is a good probability of it. We do have more wet months than dry, so learning to love the rain--or at least put up with it--is a must in Portland. And it can be miserable: camping in the rain, walking home on cold wet nights. However, it doesn’t have to be.

            Perhaps in my employment in the desert southwest, but I returned with a new-found love for the cool damp weather of the northwest. However, the typical hatred of rainy weather remains, a point that I find difficult to fully accept, though I understand it. Here are a few points that I find help make our climate bearable. Rain isn’t for everyone. Perhaps that’s a copout, but there are some people who simply do not like this sort of climate. That’s fine, but for those who want to embrace the inevitable, here are some observations I have made since returning to Portland.

A quick stroll after a rain shower rewarded me this rainbow
over a suburban park. The rain clouds contrast nicely with
 the glowing ground. Staying inside on rainy days results
 in missing scenes like this. -S. Kramer, photo

1) First and most importantly, the climate affords some wonderful things. 

Rain, I suppose, could be compared to working. Work isn’t always pleasant, but when the paycheck comes, the money can be spent on the blessings of modern society. In much the same way, rain can be depressing day after day, but the rainfall, humidity and cool climate in the winter buy a beautiful temperate ecosystem. In a climate like ours, one doesn’t need to travel far to see rich green forests, and the cool northern climate is suitable for conifers, so even in January, when the Midwest is brown and dead, our hills are still very green. Many  trees thrive in our climate (though good luck growing tropical fruit), the fields are green most of the year, and undeveloped land gives birth to forests and meadows full of life instead of rocky scrubland. Life is found in the desert too, (organisms that are arguably more impressive due to the harsh environment) but it lacks the verdant shades that we get to enjoy in the Northwest. So in the winter, when it rains, think of it as working for the paycheck that is the Douglas Fir woodlands.

2) On a similar note, think abut the well-kept secret of the Northwest: the summers. 

It's not ALL sunshine and butterflies: the Pacific Ocean still plays its games with us bringing in the marine layer for a few days here and there, but the broadleaf trees come out in full adding light green to the year-round dark green of the firs. The sun shines in July and August, and the temperatures are nicer. When the rains fall in January: that is what you have to look forward to. If you finally can’t take anymore, and you are ready to skip town, just remember that in a few months, the paycheck will arrive, and, if you share my love for the northwest in Summer, God WILL reward your patience with walks in the woods, boat rides and fresh berries.

3) Third, the weather doesn’t have to be depressing. 

Life is what you make of it. Just because it rains most of the year, does not mean that it POURS most of the year. Much of our cold dreary weather is merely high humidity, or a light rain or mist. Especially in late fall and early spring, the temperatures are bearable, and the rain actually feels rather nice: nice enough for a walk. Creation doesn’t take rainy days off: you don’t need to either. Only on rainy days will you find rainbows seeming to stretch over the entire city, or see a sunbeam glinting in a raindrop sitting on a rose leaf, or see the rings on pond surfaces, with the gentle buzzing created by the light rainfall. Robins don’t mind the rain, they love singing in it. In fact, I feel at least that the parks and suburbs are more alive after a rain shower: grab a fleece and umbrella and get out there. But finish reading this article first.

I admit, I am quite possibly crazy (aren’t we all) but I don’t think I’m the only one with fond memories of the rain. People are so quick to remember that YouTube ad that reminds you of how much you miss the sun while showing you hurricane footage. Rainfall isn’t always like that. Sure rainstorms turn umbrellas inside out, and drench your best suit, and leave you so cold a warm shower is in order. But set all that aside for a moment and think: rain can also make you happy. 

What about those raindrops that tap out a midnight dance on the roof as you fall asleep? Or taking walks in light rain, where the drops dust your coat, but don’t soak through, and the weather is cool, but not cold? Or the full arc rainbows that appear over hillsides? Or watching the rain fall while you sip tea and read? Life is exciting because of the little things.

4) Finally: if you must, take a break. 

I did just that…twice. And the experiences of those summers grace the pages of this blog.  If you are truly a northwesterner, but you are just weary, get out of dodge if you can. Go spend a week somewhere to get out of the rain. The aforementioned YouTube ad would not make any money if it weren’t accurate. One thing that helped me appreciate what I have in a northwestern winter was experiencing a southwestern summer. Now granted, a bad summer here can be just as intense, but visiting a different climate long enough will make you truly appreciate what we have here in our rainy winters. To me at least, the beauty of canyon country felt empty and alien, and if you are like me, you will feel refreshed returning to the forested hills of the Northwest. Scratch that: returning HOME. The scenery down south is beautiful, but it isn’t home, and my time down there is one of the reasons that I came back. And I returned with anew appreciation for cool, dank weather.

Traveling around is a wonderful experience, and one I would recommend. But it has the side effect, of truly making you appreciate home. The same force that drives me out of state always pulls me back eventually. I can’t speak for all people in the  Northwest, but this is where I belong. And if I have to sit through nine months of cold, dreary rain to see spring, I’ll do it. 

Adventures In Transit No.1: Trimet’s New Bus Lines

Transportation systems are never static:
changes are always inevitable, and when passengers ride these systems, the changes are often visible firsthand. Being present to witness this change has long interested me. Every time Trimet opened a new MAX line, starting with the Red Line to the airport, I rode it on the first day. I relish the stories among railroad enthusiasts who took frantic melancholy journeys in spring of 1971 in the week before most passenger trains would cease to exist under Amtrak. I am enchanted by these stories, and in search of my own nostalgia, I had been doing research on how TriMet changed since it was formed in the late 60s, so I was going through an odd obsession with Portland’s transit system.

           So naturally, after hearing two different newscasts mentioning the new TriMet routes, and having researched the schedules for myself, I decided that attempting to ride all the new routes in one day would be a perfect outing. It wasn’t a momentous change in the system, but it was a change. It would do. The news mentioned four routes, but I was only able to learn about three: one in Beaverton, and two in Gresham. I had it all figured out: ride Beaverton in the morning, and then travel east to Gresham to ride the other two. It was far-fetched at best, but worth a shot. I was a bit surprised by the outcome: one doesn’t expect to learn life lessons from riding city buses ad nauseum.

TriMet's new Line 42 waits at Beaverton Transit 
Center on March 5th, the first day of operation. I 
decided against riding this bus, deciding instead
 to travel east.

My journey began 
on Monday, March 5^th, the first day of operation for the new routes. I started my day by waking up late, and eating a meal of insufficient size. Off to a bad start, I grabbed a notebook, and travelled to Beaverton to begin my journey. A Line 42, the new Beaverton bus, was waiting when I arrived, but no one was on board. Across the way, I found a waiting MAX Red line. I bought a MAX ticket, and decided that I would hop the 42 later, and hit the new route, the 74, in Gresham first since it would be harder to reach. The Red Line departed at 1:38pm. I changed trains at Pioneer Square where I tried in vain to find bus schedules for the new routes I boarded a Blue Line and 2:12 and continued east. Due to poor planning on my part, it was another hour before I was on a Northbound 74, heading toward the Columbia River. Unlike the opening day for the MAX, there was no hype, confetti, or marching bands. Heck, the bus was practically empty.

A 200-series MAX car cruises down Burnside, 
approaching the station at 162nd Avenue, 
where it connects with Line 74

            The bus sped along its route bullet-like, sprinting past the relatively bland offices, and warehouses of Northeast Portland, and was quickly heading southbound again. I was impressed by this at the time, but looking back, perhaps I should have been concerned. The driver went under crossing gates still going up after a train and cut off a pedestrian: she may well have been speeding. I wasn’t too disappointed when I was curtly told to get off.

Nothing was set in stone
so I considered skipping lunch so that I could get back to Beaverton to ride the 42, but my hunger got the better of me. It seemed odd to me that I even considered forging a necessity for such an insignificant project. I briefly pondered self-discipline and willpower, and how being stuborn actually requires a great deal of self-control, just a mis-application of it, and if only we all had the will power to do what was right.... My duel with philosophy was cut off by a passing Line 82, TriMet’s other new route, and one I had pretty much decided I didn’t have time for. But when in Rome….

The original Line 82, on a 1997 Trimet system 
Map. The 82 was restored in March, 2018.

            Calling the 82 a “new route” is somewhat misleading. The line appears on a 1997-vintage TriMet map in exactly the same routing, but disappeared on subsequent maps. Now, 20 years later, the line is being re-instated. I took a rice bowl to go, and hopped the next 82. It was a slower, more pleasant ride through upper middle class Gresham suburbs. The route crossed the Springwater Corridor trail twice before entering and leaving downtown Gresham. The terrain was not near as remote as I had expected, and the wooded lots, unlike the concrete castles off the 74, were soothing, and welcoming. Once the bus re-entered the city, after about three hours of riding buses, I began to grow bored…very bored.

The 20 is not an express, MAX is.

I got off early at Gresham to hop a MAX… which departed just as we were arriving. I took what seemed like the next best option: a 20 to Beaverton Transit Center was boarding and, without thinking my options through, I boarded. Had I checked a schedule, I would have waited for the train. The “X” in MAX stands for “express.” The 20, is anything but, and I should have been clued in when the bus first went east to go west. I didn’t realize that my so-called “shortcut” had backfired until I had been riding the bus for an hour. If I got off, I would wait even longer, if I stayed on, I had an hour and a half to go: it was too late to transfer to a train. The best choice was clear. Again, a lesson was forced down my throat: patience this time. And another: always take the MAX out of Gresham! I did the only thing I could do: drew up a schedule from my phone and tracked our progress as the ultra-modern bus crawled along Stark toward the sunset—literally. I charted out a schedule and tracked the bus’s progress as homes and small businesses replaced the apartments. Finally, the bus crossed the Burnside Bridge, passed a hotel that felt oddly proud to have color TV, then it left downtown and began the grueling climb up the West hills, which were too dark to enjoy. I was home about six hours after I left.

The Suset over the West Hills as seen from a westbound Line 20

Closing thoughts?

While riding new bus routes may seem asinine, I was not the only one I met doing it, though one of the few. It wasn’t the hype of a new MAX line opening. From the ridership and attitude on board, the line might have been active for years. Perhaps I have been reading too many train stories, or perhaps I’m too romantic—maybe both. But I have no regrets. As long as TriMet keeps adding routes, I will keep riding them… with lower expectations of course. -KP

A Walk in the Woods (Natural Area)

Portlanders love their parks, and as a result they are prevalent in all parts of town. A quick look at most any map of Portland shows an assortment of green squares of varying sizes peppering the suburbs and downtown alike. Living in Southwest Portland, several of these are within easy reach. One of them, a forested woodland curiously named “Woods Memorial Natural Area” was a recent discovery of mine. I had intended to visit this park in the past, but had been unable to find parking, and so gave up in dismay. This time, I handled the logistics (and of course, snacks) before setting out. I would park off site, and then research the dilemma during my trip.

March seemed like a good time to make the trip. While winter maintains its chokehold on the region (as recent snows clearly demonstrate) blossoms dot fruit trees, and the temperatures are once more bearable. Because the snow level retreated to 4000 feet, the tops of the hills looking north across the Columbia are dusted in a mantle of white I mistook it for a cloud. More of these hills dot the horizon, and patches of clear-cut forest are revealed by squares of solid white on some of these hills.

These distinctive signs, inspired by older wooden signs in forest park, guide travelers along the trails in Woods Natural Area.

I had to be “creative” when solving the parking dilemma (*cough* TriMet park-and-ride *cough*), and after walking to the bus shelter and checking schedules to throw off  those TriMet security guards that obviously were not following me (just for good measure), I set out along Taylor’s Ferry Rd., following the signs for Southwest Trail 5, which leads to the entrance to the park on Southwest 43rd, which meets South West Trail 7, which goes into the park. The Southwest Trails are a community project designating routes that are safe for pedestrians to travel around town. Just because they are safe thought, doesn’t mean the trails are necessarily easy to follow. Signs for Route 5 are easy to find along Taylor’s ferry, but those for 7 are trickier. A traveler must always keep their eyes peeled: The sign for Trail 7 leading into the park caught me off guard.

A staircase leading up and out of the canyon. the staircase here made creative use of existing tree roots, incorporating them into the staircase in places.

I had intended to only use Route 7 to get into the park as part of my covert parking operation. When I noticed that it went all the way through the park and kept going however, curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to proceed. At the end of the street, I found a sign that Route 7 proceeded left. I did just that, and ended in a dead-end with a canyon wall dropping off in front of me. I assumed myself to be at the butt end of a joke by the organization to put these trails together. I could picture them chuckling while imagining people trying to make sense of this vanishing trail. I though surely I had fallen victim to a cunning form of vandalism. It turned out to be less of a joke and more of a riddle but instead: left does not always mean a hard left. It was only upon returning to the sign and trying to figure out if the signs had been switched, that I noticed it was not pointing left down the alley, but actually at an angle, toward a narrow corridor carved into the woods. Slightly frustrated by the confusing signage, I decided not to go far, for fear of getting hopelessly lost.

The hidden passage on SouthWest Trails 7. This cutoff is difficult to see from the road, but is a nice walk once you find it.

The Woods natural Area was just as enchanting as usual. The woods are filled with the police whistle-like calls of unseen Varied thrushes, and the chirping of sparrows. The entire ambience is finished by the white noise of nearby highways, and the soft muck formed by rain on unfinished dirt trails. The main trail follows a staircase built into the hillside partly using tree roots. After descending the staircase, the trail levels off and follows the creek in the bottom of the canyon, snaking along, following its every bend. About halfway along the creek there is a junction, with one trail leading out of the park to 45th Avenue, and another leading to the appropriately named "stairway trail,” so-called because about fifty percent of the trail is the aforementioned staircase leading directly up the side of the canyon, and up to the abandoned stretch of Wood Parkway. The stairs are strenuous, but offer a fabulous view of the canyon from the top. All of the staircases are very well engineered, and stumps offer many good resting places.

The namesake stairway of the stairway trail.

Perhaps there's nothing that makes Woods Natrual Area truly unique. There are many such wooded parks in Portland. But it's location in the middle of the southwest neighborhoods, and it's charming network of trails make it a nice place for an afternoon stroll. Or an evening stroll if you are a night owl. -KP