Life On Blueberry Hill (Goes On)

Bunches of Blueberries grow thick on the
bushes, reaching up to half an inch in
some cases. They are delicious in pies

 -S. Kramer, Photo

Since I was young, I have memories of hopping in our '92 station wagon, and traveling out into the countryside to pick berries at Bl ueberry Hill Farm. Located off of Roy Rogers Road, at the foot of Bull Mountain, and the edge of the city, the farm has some of the best assortment of berries in town: blueberries nearly half an inch across, raspberries the size of my thumb. It was located right outside the urban growth boundary, as evidenced by the fence and houses lining up against the farm's eastern border silently standing, their open windows watching the berry farm like some sort of army, laying in wait to take the land and swallow it. But they were far away, and on every other side of the farm were orchards, grass fields, gardens, ponds, cattle pastures. It was countryside--never mind the houses. Besides, I was too young at the time to understand about urban growth boundaries.

A tradition continues: My mother picking
Marionberries toward the eastern end of
the property. Marionberries are a boysen-
berry-like fruit unique to Oregon.

-S. Kramer, Photo

The drive on Scholls Ferry Road changed as I grew older: wooded lots shrunk, and subdivisions popped up. On the farm, the rows of raspberries thinned out until there were fewer than ten. Yet that magical border remained, and once across Barrows Road, the houses stopped, and you were in the country. In the last couple of years the boundary expanded outward, ever so slightly to include the farm and its neighbors, and by the time we took our most recent trip to the farm, it was surrounded on all sides by development. Gone were the wilds, orchards and firs, pushed back a quarter mile and nearly out of sight from the road. A traffic light now guards the entrance to the farm, and where there were once cattle and country lanes, there were town houses. In spite of this, the farm still stood, a fact explicitly stated on their website. To paraphrase: 

'We have not sold our farm: we will be opening soon!' 

Customers with buckets full of
berries head downhill to purchase
their harvest. The brand-new traffic
 light and the subdivision serve
as a backdrop. -S. Kramer, photo

When they did open, I joined my parents like I had as a child for a trip down those country lanes, now lined with subdivisions, to the traffic-light. The berries are as big and juicy as ever. The pond was still there, though there were no cattle to drink from it. The smell of dust, and hay fill the air, as you walk the dirt roads out to the U-Pick fields of raspberry, and blueberry, and marionberry. It was different, but the farm was still the same. Driving by so many times leading up to this day, seeing the excavators working on neighboring plots, I had seen a favorite country farm, being choked off by the onslaught of development. In a way, I had already decided what I would say without even seeing my subject. But from the highest point on the property, the country side is still visible, just over the newly built rooftops. The dew-covered grass still soaks your sneakers as you dig around in the thorny bushes for the perfect raspberry. People still chatter quietly (or not so) in the rows of blueberries as you massage the bushes, removing buckets of the  ripe, denim-colored berries. Between the three of us, we collected a flat each of raspberries and marionberreis, and a bucket of blueberries, same as ever.

At checkout, I mentioned this to the worker, who stated that the farm had existed already for: it had done so for thirty-five years, no doubtseeing unimaginable changes to the city in that time. Some day the farm will likely be leveled and built upon. Maybe next year, maybe in ten. And I will walk down those streets, and remember the smell of dust, and the taste of blueberries, and the soft chatter in the bushes. Until then, the berries are still as big and juicy as ever. -KP

Beacon Rock: Centennial

Beacon Rock as seen from SR-14.
The rock is the core of an ancient
shield volcano. -S. Kramer, Photo

Beacon Rock has been featured in the Kramer Paper at least twice. So why write about it again? Beacon Rock is a distinctive landmark in the gorge, and the trail leading to its summit is unique, and clever all at once. Each time I climb it I feel a need to write about it, to share the experience with those who haven't. Second, while I was unaware when I set out on this journey, 2018 marks the Beacon Rock Trail's centennial!

Climbing Beacon Rock is usually a social activity: few people you meet on the trail are traveling alone. However with all of my friends at work and my family pre-occupied, I purchased a deli sandwich, packed a soda and trail-mix, and set out alone for Beacon Rock. The drive there was almost as noteworthy as the destination. Being an Oregonian, the usual route to the Gorge is a jaunt on I-84 on the Oregon Side. In order to reach the rock, I crossed on I-205, and headed East on SR-14 instead. The freeway ends outside of Vancouver where it becomes a country highway, and leaves the waterline heading into the hills, past groves of maple and fir, with wildflowers dotting the shoulders. Occasionally the trees open up and you get a good look at the Oregon side, scarred from the recent Eagle Creek Fire.

The trail up rocky butte. The route
is built from a combination of trail
sections blasted into the rock face,
 and bridges of wood and steel, 
allowing the trail to cross over itself

-S. Kramer, Photo

Beacon Rock is the centerpiece of its own State Park, and for an 800 foot monolith, finding it is surprisingly challenging. The first road you come to bears the parks name, and leads to nothing but a boat launch and a lonely campsite. The rock itself is a mile down the road, and well-marked as well, albeit with less hype. Upon arrival, it takes a bit of walking around to find the trailhead. You will also discover that the day use fee is ten dollars, not five. Of course, that is something easy to learn from research.

The rock walls are nearly sheer cliffs, and yet it is possible to take a paved trail to the top, without having to so much as scramble over a boulder--until the very top anyway. According to signposts at the park, the trail was built by Henry Biddle who purchased the rock, saving it from demolition for use in constructing a jetty. Another sign, this one titled 'A Rock is Born' quotes him as saying "My purpose in acquiring the property was simply that I might build a trail to the summit." And build a trail he did. It took three years and was completed in 1918-- one hundred years ago-- and still stands today. What possessed Mr. Biddle to build a trail to the top of a monolith isn't entirely clear to me. I assume it was the sheer challenge of a feat so difficult. Whatever his motive, I'm glad he did.

Looking down on the trail from near the top.
The trail was well travelled this day, but not
crowded. -S. Kramer, Photo

The trail up to Beacon Rock is unlike any other trail I have walked, though it wasn't my first time. The walls of Beacon Rock are sheer, and climbing it would be easy for a rock climber, but nearly impossible for, say, a family of four. Except they are often encountered on the trail.  The problem was solved by an intricate set of switchbacks bolted to the side of the rock, utilizing flat places on the rock's shoulders when possible. The switchbacks are made of steel and concrete and cross over each other, as they hug the basalt cliffs. Looking up or down the rock from these switchbacks, the trail looks like a set of scaffolding more than a trail. Since it clings to the side of the rock, it's easy to appreciate just how hard plants and animals work to survive with so little soil. Oak trees are nothing more than a couple of branches poking out from crevices, while wildflowers form makeshift gardens where possible. From the trail, there isa . constant view west, downstream along the river.

From the top of Beacon Rock, a traveller
gets a wonderful view across the Columbia
River. That's Pierce Island in the foreground.
damage from the Eagle Creek fire can be seen
in the hills on the Oregon Side of the Gorge.

-S. Kramer, photo

Near the top, the monolith levels out, and the trail leaves the scaffolding, and reverts to a normal trail through the thin forests that line the top of the rock, and up a staircase to a basalt lump, worn smooth by millions of visitors: the summit. Here, people break out snacks or meals, and enjoy the view of the gorge. Stellar's jays beg food from visitors while falcons ride the thermals above the rock, barely visible. From here, you can also see just how expansive the Eagle Fire's damage was, a fact concealed by cliffs and trees on the Oregon Side. The view from the top is similar to the view you might get from any mountaintop in the gorge, and the feeling of accomplishment is not unlike any other mountain as well. So what makes Beacon Rock so special isn't either of these things. It's like the old saying goes: it's the journey, not the destination. There are very few hikes that allow you to take a casual stroll up the side of the cliff. It's the engineering that went into the trail, the scaffolding-like construction, the privilege of seeing up close how determined the plants and animals have to be to survive on a cliff face: this is what makes Beacon Rock unique.-KP

A Rocky Butte Sunset

Looking west through the oak trees toward
 the sunset. The rock wall surrounding the
park is clearly visible. -S. Kramer, Photo

 Rocky Butte is hard to miss, though easy to ignore. It towers over Portland airport, and at night, the beacon on its summit flashes like some sort of flying lighthouse. I had been there before, but not for many years, so midway through a 7-day workweek, I decided to pay this old friend a visit. I had been working for several months within a mile of this mountain and had yet to return. Stressed and on the verge of tears: this seemed like as good a time as any.

 Rocky Butte, like many of the hills in Portland, is volcanic in origin, part of the Boring Lava Field. The volcano is long since-extinct, and it has in the past housed a prison. Today the mountain’s main attraction is a rather unique park on the summit. That was my ultimate destination.

In order to climb the mountain as
 efficiently as possible, Rocky Butte
 Road crosses under itself in this
classy tunnel. The rock wall the
tunnel is built into supports the
upper roadbed. -S. Kramer, Photo

After leaving work, I took 82nd avenue to Fremont, then along a residential street to Rocky Butte Road. The road clung to the side of the hill passing through forests of maple and fir, even tunneling under itself.

At the top, parking spaces were scarce. It seems that Rocky Butte is the place to be at sunset. In hindsight, this makes sense what with the unobstructed views and its elevation, but parking was something I had failed to consider. I did find a spot, but only barely got in, cutting off a white car who had followed me from the turn on to Rocky Butte Road. The driver of the white car shot me a dirty look as I casually stole his space: first come first served. I felt bad ripping off a guy who had travelled with me for such a distance, but I later noticed a number of white cars parked up on top, and wondered to myself if the white car had found a spot after all.

The castle-like James Wood Hill Park. This
picture looks up the ramp leading into the
southern gate of the park. Note the lamps
guarding the gate. -S. Kramer, Photo

The summit itself is a castle-like walled enclosure called James Wood Hill Park. There is an entrance on either side, the south entrance is a gravel path, while the north entrance is a complex staircase. The ramparts are made, appropriately, of basalt, the same volcanic rock produced by the boring lava field. Lamp posts are positioned every twenty feet or so, and two guard each entrance. Walking up the gravel ramp from the street feels like approaching a medieval castle somewhere in England. Stone paths of red lava rock crisscross the grassy knoll enclosed by the walls, with a couple of young oak trees guarding the southern end. Benches line the wall in many places, and the rotating beacon, originally intended to guide aircraft, sits in the center of the enclosure. The beacon is guarded by a peculiar assortment of currents thorn bushes and roses, as if the barbed wire fence weren’t enough to protect the tower from trespassers.

This bassalt pedestal provides
information on mountains and
landmarks visible from James
Wood Hill Park -S. Kramer, Photo

The rock walls lining the castle seemed like a comfortable place to sit, and they were. However I found myself much more hesitant to try it after noticing an unexplained memorial on one of the rock walls. That didn’t stop most people though: posing for family pictures, leaning up to get a better view at the surroundings, one was even doing a formal photo shoot.

From the summit, the city spread out, save for sections blocked by trees, and the mountainous countryside beyond. The Glen Jackson bridge carrying I-205, snaked across the Columbia, with Mt. St. Hellens and its foothills rising behind it like an ancient being, watching the scene. Facing another direction, the hills and neighborhoods of Gresham and Troutdale, with Mt. Hood looming behind it. Between these two: Larch Mountain and the Columbia River Gorge. These scenes were massive in scale, dwarfing the planes landing at PDX. The entire scene was bathed the golden glow of evening reflecting on tin roofs and rivers.

As sunset approached, I moved to the castle’s western face and fixed my attention on the sun, which continued to drift toward the horizon, the atmosphere  it a color reminiscent of orange soda. A pleasant cool wind blew over the summit, and next to me, a woman had closed her eyes to bathe in the orange glow. I took a few moments to do the same.

Looking east toward the Columbia River
Gorge just after sunset. The river runs 
through the middle of the photo. Larch 
Mountain can be seen just right of center

-S. Kramer, Photo

people continued to hang around, even as the park prepared for the night ahead. The lamps lining the palisades came on, and the beacon woke up and began to rotate, growing brighter with each turn. No one seemed ready to leave. I wasn’t either, it was inviting, and I could see myself staying there all night, watching the city lights come on, traffic on the freeway, and then the sunrise. I could call out. But only a few minutes later, the crowds had thinned and I knew it was time to leave. So I joined the groups now heading back down to the street. As I left the castle, and walked back to my car, I noticed that the stress I had felt was all but gone. My long workweek had left me drained and on the verge of tears, but now it was as if that workweek had never happened.

“We’ll come back next week.” Someone said as I left the park for the evening. Another one hooked, I thought, like me. I think I might too: come back and sit once more in that orange glow. And this time, I’ll bring a picnic. -KP