The Orange Trees of Titusville

Ever seen an orange tree?

Deceptively colorful oranges are
sliced and ready for juicing. Note
the difference in appearance from
their store-bought cousins. 

S. Kramer, Photo

I can’t speak for all Northwesterners, but for me, orange trees feel almost mythological. You know they must exist--oranges are a fruit after all and fruit grow on trees--but if you live in Portland, or Montana, or wherever, and never leave, you are almost certain to never see one in person. Our climate is not fit for growing citrus (yet palms survive here in small numbers, so go figure). The closest thing to an orange tree you ever see are the leaves still on the fruits when you buy them, or that line from CSN’s song Guiniverre, or romantic paintings of orchards in a museum. I guess what I’m getting at, is that unless you head south, you will never likely never walk up to a tree and pluck an orange. I admit that I tend to get excited about mundane things, but I was thrilled to see what I thought was an ordinary orange tree.

The trees are unavoidable around Titusville, Florida. I haven’t done extensive research as to why: perhaps they grew from seeds thrown over fences, perhaps the city is built on old orange groves. Whatever the reason, they’re everywhere, and they aren’t just restricted to gardens. That is, in fact, the place you are least likely to see them. If you want to find an Orange tree in Titusville, you need to look in the exact middle of a forest of live oaks, palms, and Spanish moss. Or try at the edge of a campground, or perimeter fences at airports. They are inescapable, popping up in what seem to be the most bizarre of places, holding out their delicious looking brilliant orange fruit like the tree in the Garden of Eden.

Of course the temptation to at least try one was great, but I am a nervous person, hesitant to eat fruit I am unfamiliar with. My Dad, however, was more confident, and it was he who suggested we juice a few of them. What could possibly go wrong? We rigged up an orange picker from a broomstick and spoon and managed to land about ten of them. Then came the moment of truth.

A few things should have tipped me off that something wasn’t quite right. The first clue was the local man walking his dog who warned us that they weren’t what they seemed. (We ignored him.) The second clue was the peculiar pale yellow center more like a grapefruit than an orange, and the third was the taste. 

It tasted...different. 

It still tasted like an orange to a certain degree: beneath the pucker-inducing bitterness, the flavor of orange juice could clearly be detected. The raw juice, however, made grapefruit taste like candy, and after adding enough sugar to keep a kindergartener awake for days, the juice was palatable... and tasty with rum, though friends say I should have tried Tequila. I may give that a shot next time. Either way, it made for a good cocktail, or without alcohol as some sort of strange lemonade. I would even tentatively recommend it, just be ready for the bellyaches.

All experimentation aside, the conclusion was inescapable: what we found were not the oranges of the store shelve: sweet and juicy, grafted clones of carefully bred to the tastes of their human masters. In Oregon, fruit grows wild too: pears, apples, cherries, plums. Most of these, however are quite palatable, or look vastly different from their grocery store cousins. The orange trees of Titusville are wild runaways, pungent and discolored. It’s bright rind masquerading to foolish visitors as the tree they think they knew. -KP

 28˚30' 11"N, 80˚46'57"W

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An Unforeseen Home: Two Perspectives

A collaboration. By Steven Kramer, and Thomas Overlund

Thomas:

Mt. Hood as seen from
Mountain View Orchard,
near Parkdale, OR.

-T. Overlund, Photo

On a wayward afternoon in the Autumn of Oregon I was asked by a friend to go on a trip to Hood River. I had not traveled for recreation for some time and it seemed like just the experience I needed to bring some relief to a repetitive work week. So I accepted the offer and took a risk. This risk led to one of the best days I had that fall. The trip was a genuine experience of personal growth, a journey that brought about a sense of accomplishment, adventure and enjoyable obstacles. 

When we started our journey I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn’t show it, but secretly I was thrilled. What transpired next was a combination of frustration and child like joy. We stopped at Apple stores, Lavender farms, Saturday markets and a good ol' small town lunch. Steven and I were exploring the world we were placed into. 

How we ended up at Mt View Orchards only God knows as the journey was full of uncertainty. Some choices could be considered wise but many were far from and that was the fun of it. I found the path to the orchard could be juxtaposed to our struggle as humans to find the goodness of God. His true spirit leads us to think about the bigger picture world and less about our survival.

A collection of vintage
license plates found out-
side the Apple Valley
Country Store.

T. Overlund, Photo

The Orchards lead a nineties kid to see what a world of farmers and the rural community they live in value. Who are these people and how do they see this world? In a generation more and more influenced by the internet and its grasp on us, the influence of a small town of farmers and small businesses can lead to a shift in our thinking, a place in our minds that seemed lost to the abyss. It is inspiring to find a connection between urban and rural communities. We feel so far apart but as I jumped into the scene of farm or small town store I see the connection. I could see myself in the shoes of these people if I was just born in a different location with a family with a different name. When I can see or feel a connection with someone else it allows me to respect them more, want to get to know them more. The more people we allow ourselves to do this with, the greater our connection to the holy spirit.

Steven:

A 2016 aerial photo of the
Hood River Valley around
Dee, OR.a few miles north
of our adventure.

S. Kramer, Photo

Each October for many years, my parents and I have spent a day in the Hood River Valley, visiting what is called the “Fruit Loop”, a tour of local orchards, farms, country stores and the like. With my parents out of town, and apple season upon us, I decided to make the trip again, but not alone. I grabbed a friend from church on a spur of the moment invitation, fueled up the truck and then we headed East.

Having Thomas along changed everything. It felt different traveling with a peer, and we discussed everything from music to our shared faith as the cliffs and forests of the Columbia Gorge rolled by outside. Together, we made the trip our own: some places we went I had been every year, others were new for both of us. 

In Hood River, we broke from tradition and had lunch at a pancake house, after which I took him to a favorite stop of my parents. The Apple Valley Country Store is a quaint little place on the banks of the Hood River, with a bakery and free jam samples. But gone was the clever gag about the crate full of “baby rattlers” (baby toys, not snakes) and they were sold out of their famous pear dumplings I had been eager to share. Disappointed as I was, I enjoyed seeing the shop again, and we left with some photos of antiques, and jam. Looking at the map, we decided to stop at a Lavender farm I had never been to. It was underwhelming: small, and lacking in the way of Lavender. 

I was enjoying our new destinations, but there was one place I was determined to revisit: Mountain View Orchards. My family stopped there every year. I knew the landmarks to look for, and I decided to try finding it from memory alone. Our stop at the lavender farm had turned me around though, and while I had been here before, I had never done this excursion in the driver’s seat.

A hand-painted sign at
Mountain-View Orchards.
While the sign would have
normally been inviting, it
felt like mockery after
our 30-minute quest to find
it. -S. Kramer, Photo

  We found Oregon 35 easily enough and headed East, getting off near Parkdale. Without using my GPS, I quickly proved just how disoriented my memory was, and our basic tourist map did us little good. We passed what I thought were familiar landmarks which I attempted to use to navigate, and the countryside was peppered with signs for the farm itself, but these proved difficult to follow. I don’t recall our exact route, but we must have circled the Parkdale area at least three times, with signs dropping a few cryptic hints. Lost and frustrated, Thomas cracked a joke to lighten the mood. I expected myself to lash out in embarrassment, as I normally do, but to my surprise, my face broke out in a smile. In the end, we somehow managed to decipher the signs, and ended up in front of the store, an hour before it closed. So late in the season, it was quieter than I was used to, and the day was long. We bought some apples and pears, marveled at the old farm equipment and a pear somehow stuffed in wine bottle, then headed home, using GPS this time. 

From start to finish, this trip was different than the ones before it. I was both a tour guide, and a traveling companion. And what is normally a run to grab apples for applesauce instead became more than that. It was a time of fellowship among friends. -KP

Thomas posing with Mt. Hood
at the Mountain-View Orchard.

Ghosts of the River

 Step Back in Time...

      Imagine, if you will, that you are standing at the banks of the Willamette River in the 1850s. Oregon is a frontier region full of rivers, and the familiar West Hills are patrolled by cougars. But at the moment getting your wagon across the river is your biggest worry. Yet where you see a problem, others see a business venture: you ring the bell, and wait for the ferry, run by Alphonso Boone to take you across. Bridges are expensive, and for the thousands of residents of what would become the Portland area, it wasn't worth it. 
     Ferries were a fact of life for 19th Century Oregonians: at one point, the state had over 500 of them. As the population grew, bridges were built at river crossings closing many routes and the survivors fell under control of local governments. Today, only three remain. Some were decommissioned before they could be photographed, or the photos are hard to find. But Boone's Ferry outside of what is today Wilsonville is well documented. Perhaps the name "Boones Ferry" sounds familiar. It should: it is the namesake for the road crossing southern Portland, founded in the late 1800s by a descendent of the fabled Daniel Boone. When I-5’s Boone Bridge opened over the Willamete, she was no longer needed, and made her final voyage in 1954. Pictures like this are haunting to me. The boat is frozen in time as she lands on the south bank of the Willamette, and one could just step into the picture and travel across the river to see a version of Portland long gone. Much had changed since it stopped running, but did anything remain of it? I could never ride the ferry myself, but perhaps I could find whatever artifacts time had left behind.

Finding Boones Ferry

     It’s been over sixty years since the ferry was decommissioned, and in that time the city has expanded outward. Driving southbound on Boones Ferry Road, it’s clear that it is no longer the country road that it once was. Neighborhoods and shopping centers line busy intersections, and in one place, I-5 replaced Boones Ferry Road entirely. The only way to follow the route is through a business park. Yet in between the suburban sprawl, the countryside remains: open fields lined with white picket fences, barns, and old churches. It’s not difficult to imagine an old ’52 pickup in high gear flying toward the ferry terminal. At last, the road heads into Wilsonville, running through old neighborhoods, before arriving at Boones Ferry Park.

The abandoned stretch of Boones
 Ferry Road, leading down to the
 ferry landing. Today, this is a
path in a public park, and
 the landing is long abandoned.
In the wikipedia picture, this
spot is in the upper left, near
the two fir trees.

     The December afternoon was humid and cool, and the earthy smell of wood smoke hung in the air. The park is a small plot of land with a network of paths and a playground. Amid the attractions sits an old house once owned by one of the ferry’s operators, and a grove of ancient fir trees they planted. Running through the middle of the property, a winding path heads downhill and out of sight. I followed the tattered asphalt as it curved downhill past basalt boulders mats of ivy and gnarled tree trunks to the waters edge, where it ended at a drop-off amid rubble of concrete blocks and boulders. Little remained from the scene in the pictures--the white picket fences lining the road’s shoulder, the well-kept road, and the pier where the ferry unloaded--all reduced to rubble, or gone entirely. I travelled up the road a bit into town to try to capture more of the scene, but when I starting shooting pictures of old houses and street signs, I was met by a few raised eyebrows so I decided to call it off. It was hopeless: sixty-years later, all you can do is imagine the scene. Imagination though can never replace the experience of actually boarding the ferry and crossing the river. 

The Canby Ferry M.J. Lee, and a single
 pickup approach the south bank of the
 Willamette River. The Canby Ferry is one
 of three left in operation on the
  Willamette, and the only one in the
 Portland area.

Thankfully, it doesn’t have to. 

     Fourteen miles downstream, the Canby Ferry is one of three Willamette ferries that has survived to the present day, a safe distance from any bridges that would render it obsolete (though the county is considering building one.) It first ran in 1914, and like the final version of the Boones Ferry, it is a cable ferry in a rural community. For any Portlander who wants to journey back in time to make a river crossing by ferry, this is your best bet. I got back in the truck and plugged Canby, Oregon into my GPS, which ironically took me over the very bridge that replaced Boones Ferry, on my way to ride on one of its surviving cousins.

A plaque onboard the ferry
commemorates the route's 
centennial.

     I spent the three-minute river crossing leaned against the railing, feeling the cool algae-scented air off of the river. The ride is slow, pleasant and relaxing. The only sound is the hydraulic motor holding tight to its cable, lest the sluggish current of the Willamette River drag her downstream. Unless you have business in Canby, the main reason to ride the ferries is for the experience. There is a certain romance in the trip, one you can’t get from a bridge. For the three minutes it takes, you don’t have to drive, and can just enjoy the ride, and on either side of the ferry, the country roads are breathtaking.

     After 100 years the Canby Ferry carries on its tradition, and may continue to run for many years, but it’s hard to say. The county is looking into possible alternatives including a toll bridge or free bridge, with or without an operational ferry. I suppose that in the future, the Canby Ferry might go the way of the Boones Ferry, and another young man may visit, and wonder what the ride was like. In the meantime though, the ferry will continue to do what she does best, and what her siblings have been doing for centuries. She’s a survivor of a way of life that is slowly fading away. -KP

Sources:
Canby Ferry Website, Clackamas County

"Hundreds of ferries once served Oregonians; now there are just three", by John Terry for Oregonlive. Oct. 15, 2011

Boones Ferry article from Interactive Oregon, Archived

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