A New Angle on the WIllamette

The Willamette River, looking upstream
 towards Willamette Falls. The falls are hidden
 behind a cloud of mist. Now-closed paper plants
 line the riverbanks. Plans exist to re-design 
those on the left side in the near future
--S. Kramer, Photo.

The first trip in a boating season is always upriver, which based on our usual plan is a Portland to Oregon City run, via Lake Oswego. The reason for this is safety (going against the current guarantees that you will be carried back to port in the event of engine failure). It has another, often overlooked perk as well: after this first run, we usually travel north instead, past downtown, but this policy guarantees that we get at least one view of the upper Willamette per season.

This first trip is more challenging than most: the trip is early enough in the season that debris, picked up by the Willamette's tributaries during the spring melt, litter the river. Most of these are small sticks, but some are several inches in diameter and sturdy enough to damage a fiberglass hull, or bend a propeller blade. On top of this, the spring salmon run is in full swing and makeshift fishing fleets anchor in the channel, blocking passage. The keen observer will begin to notice more foam in the water, and a distant white noise filling the air.

Oregon City from the water is different than seeing it from land. The river is largely hidden from all but pedestrians in town, and by the same obstacles, the town is hidden from view for those travels on the river. But on the other side of the coin, this allows a boater to see a side of Oregon city that is different from the street view. The aging industry in Oregon City still stands for now, and it is visible from the street, but to a lesser degree.

Sea Lions sunbathe on a dock in Oregon city.
The ocean-dwelling animals come up the rivers
 to eat salmon. They prove a burden on salmon
conservation, but make for good wildlife viewing.
--S. Kramer, photo

On both sides of the river, paper companies still stand, their concrete walls back up to the river's edge, smoke stacks dead and quiet, windows dark, riverfront pathways no longer crawling with forklifts hauling boxes of paper. Trees have begun to grow among these ruins, and blackberries overgrow walls, and rusty machinery. Lamps missing their bulbs line the sides of buildings, and power lines still hang from aging steel towers into the once strong industries they were strung to serve. Further north, the Willamette Locks still stand as well, fully functional though boats no longer travel among them. 

While exploring this area, on land or by water, you may hear a strange barking, a familiar sound among the docks of ocean bays perhaps, though not expected this far upstream. The source gradually reveals itself, as the sound gives way to brief sightings of brown backs, or the occasional flipper, often mistaken for logs...those legendary logs with flippers. The Sea Lions like to hang out under the 205 bridge...at least, they did when we were there.

The bridge carrying OR 43, Pacific Highway,
over the Willamette River, viewed from the
river.  --S. Kramer, Photo

And beyond this, like some sort of mythological object, cloaked in its own mist, is Willamette Falls. The waterfall once harnessed as a hydro-electric power source for the now-silent industries. Its spillways and turbine houses still stand as well, but to my knowledge, these are no longer in use either. The waterfall seems unreal: seeing it there, amid what most Portlanders know as a calm sluggish river through downtown. You don't picture a river like the Willamette to appear like this. Seeing this reminds you of how powerful the river really is: God's way of keeping you from taking the peaceful river in downtown Portland for granted, forcing you to see nature's true potential. Many waterfalls like this once existed on the Columbia as well, though they are now drowned below the dam system on many rivers. Yet Willamette rolls on, a show of power of its own, even if this waterfall no longer generates electricity. In fact, the entire industrial district seems oddly quiet, save for barking of sea lions, road noise, and of course, the waterfall.

While the clanking of heavy industry, steam plumes and chugging of machinery may be gone, plans exist to retain certain historical structures, while redesigning others. Soon businesses and perhaps even condos will replace some of the heavy industry built in among the historic structures in the paper plant. So in a way, while the sun has set on these old paper plants, their story is far from over.
Seeing the falls from below is a humbling experience. While the waterfall is exciting from the higher viewpoints, seeing it as a misty wall of white water is entirely different. The mist prevents you from getting a good perspective, and it may seem bigger than it really is. And of course, the sea lions are a treat, unless you work for fish and wildlife. the heavy industries along the river will likely be seeing new life in years to come. 

An Unabridged Search for a Bridge

It seemed time for a walk

The trillium season long out-lasts
 the festival which it inspired. Two
 of the aptly-named flowers made
 an appearance in the park, in varying 
states of repair.

Having missed the Trillium Festival thanks to my new job, I decided a trip to Tryon Creek State Park was in order. One of Portland’s many parklands, Tryon Creek is the only State Park I am aware of located in Portland. I picked a warm day in April to visit Tryon Creek, which was wise, and the time of day I chose meant it was quiet around the park for the most party. In the gift shop perhaps a bit too quiet…anyway. However due to the time of day, I thought it pertinent to pick a fairly short, and manageable hike. I had recollections of a suspension bridge somewhere in the park. I had been impressed with it in my last visit, and decided to seek it out again. With my goal set, I locked the car, and headed out away from the nature park, northbound, then west, following signs to the High Bridge. After all, a suspension bridge was high off the ground right?

The High Bridge was impressive and well built,
 but not at all what I was looking for.  Still 
worth taking a few moments to admire the creek.

The park was cool and quiet, as I had expected. The festival may have been over, but the namesake flowers were still out and alive to varying degrees. The sun glowed in the moss lining the trunks of the nearly bare Bigleaf Maples, shining a olivine-like color. The trail passed glens of cedars, mats of sword fern, and decaying stumps, before taking a nosedive and descending to the crossing with Tryon Creek. I continued to seek reassurance from the signs pointing me straight ahead to High Bridge.

That's the wrong bridge...

I didn’t realize I had confused myself until I reached the banks of Tryon Creek and gazed across a flat, wooden bridge proudly bearing the label “High Bridge.” Now don’t get me wrong, High Bridge was very nice, well built, and a great platform to view the salmon-bearing stream from which the park takes its name. But a suspension bridge it was not. I had had confidence in my ability to find a landmark in a park. My knowledge of the park was so extensive in fact that I had confidently followed signs to the wrong bridge, over the wrong creek, about 200 feet lower than my destination. But hey, if getting lost is inevitable, being lost in a park in the middle of Oregon’s biggest city isn’t as threatening as it was in the 1800s. At least the mountain lions have left town...I hope.

From High Bridge, looking back toward the nature
center. The scenery along the creek is incredible,
but navigation can be a bit tricky with no map. Step
right up folks, pick a trial! Any Trail!

The area looked familiar, so I took one of the four available trails and headed back uphill, into a grove of older firs, with trunks two or three feet in diameter. The maple and fir cut out much of the sunlight, and the air was cool. I got so caught up in the light and shadows, that the suspension bridge nearly caught me off guard.

It was painted green, with its name written on it: “The Terry Riley Bridge” it spread over a small emerald ravine, with cables and chicken wire keeping the hiker from falling into the forest forty feet below. It is a secluded place in the park, and a peaceful location with a creative solution to bridging the gap. While I had originally concluded that it must have been an eagle scout, it turns out that he was a student at Lewis and Clark who died, and had the bridge built in his honor. The story is touching, and for a bridge that has stood for twenty years, the bridge is in excellent shape.

Finding Terry's Bridge

The Terry Riley Bridge straddles a
secluded verdant ravine and the brook
which carved it. The ravine is lined with
towering firs and cedars. Walking
across this bridge once is not enough

I won’t tell you where I ended up finding it, lest I rob you of the possible adventure I had. Then again, if you actually use the tools available to you, you can find it…easily. However you have to use the right tool. Relying on signposts proved my fault, but even if I had, I would never have found the bridge. A signpost twenty feet away cheerfully directed me back to High Bridge, making no mention of the Terry Riley less than 100 feet away! Even gift shop exhibits made no mention of it, and the bridge is so unique, I would expect that they would want to make it known. Then again, had I just picked up a trail map and asked for directions, my tale would be a wee bit less exciting. My quest was short, and there are many more bridges to be conquered in Tryon Creek. Will I write about this park again in the near future: it’s a fair bet. Of course, I recommend any visitor pick up a trail map, and let it be their pride, which is best left in the car.

A Tale of a Plum Tree

A different tree

When I first noticed the tree, I didn't realize what it was. It was nothing but a pink cloud up the hill from my house, like a tarp lit up by a searchlight, however as the hours of the early morning passed, and the light remained on, I began to re-think my theory. Yet my curiosity remained: I had never noticed this pink cloud before, and it seemed so out of place that I couldn’t contain myself. I took advantage of a late night trip to the bank (it’s a long story) and took the long way home, driving straight past the strange pink cloud to discover its identity. It was a tree--a plum tree lit up by a single streetlight. 

I was enchanted by the tree. It may sound odd, and while I can’t say I had ever really looked, I had never seen a sight quite like this before. I walked up the hill to stand under the tree, and gazed up at the tree as the white LEDs of the streetlamp lit up the petals of each individual blossom. I stood there for several minutes, taking in the cool night air, and gazing at the blossoms, glowing under the street light, like millions of tiny Chinese lanterns. After getting home from my walk, I looked up the hill again to glance at the strange pink cloud--now identified.

Two days later, I awoke early to the sound of a mulcher running: the tree dying, I’m sure of it, though I can’t prove it. I didn’t become aware that the tree was even gone until that night when I noticed that same pink cloud-like form was missing. When I walked up the hill to find out why, I made the sad discovery. Was I devastated? No...disappointed is a better word. I now have memories... the cool night air, dim lighting, and the glow of the flower’s pink petals. None of that would ever repeated, and the site was cleaned up so well, that if I hadn’t been able to collect a few blossoms, I could have been convinced that it was a dream.

After I got gathered and pressed a handful of blossoms, I went out for a walk around the neighborhood to see if I could find another tree in a similar situation. Street lights cast halos of light not unlike the full moon, scattering their light over everything, but no fruit trees were basking in the spotlight. I did find other trees with blossoms, but they were just out of the reach of the streetlights as if they were hiding away: as if the one tree I managed to observe had been the only one bold enough to stand under the streetlight and be seen.

I am disappointed by the loss of this tree, especially since I had so little time to enjoy it. I had been hoping to make my evening walks into a bit of a tradition. Had I known it would be cut down, I would have taken some pictures, perhaps just one. It may seem pathetic that I focus so much on a single tree, but it just serves to illustrate a fact of life. Things that we see one day, may be gone the next. Dams are built, subdivisions constructed, trees become diseased and fall every minute, trees bearing initials of lovers, or trees that the elderly climbed as children. Every bit of nature that we treasure, from the majesty of the grand canyon, to sprouts in the garden are temporary to one degree or another. So I suppose I leave this adventure of mine with two thoughts: it’s important to not get too attached to our world, or take those scenes in nature for granted...nothing lasts forever. So don’t get too attached to this temporary world of ours, but when you find something that stands out, even something as insignificant as a small tree on a hillside, don’t take it for granted.