Bell Creek Loop, the Groundhog Day of Hiking

During the last few hikes on the Larch Mountain trail, I've passed signs for the Bell Creek Loop hike. The name is somewhat misleading in that it is not a real loop but is really a dog bone with the trail heading straight in, making a large loop, and returning to the original starting point. I suppose "Bell Creek Dog Bone" doesn't have the same ring to it. The total distance is approximately 15 miles.

I should have known when I started out and my iPod Shuffle wasn't working correctly that things were not going to end well. Never contemplate a hike without an abundance of Scottish fiddle music handy. However, being intent on exploring a new trail, I ignored the subtle warning and pressed on. The hike begins at the Oneonta trailhead, trail #424, but can also be accessed from trail #400, which is where I began.


That added half a mile to the trip, which seemed a mere triviality at the time but was something I would regret later.

This trail immediately ascends above the old Columbia River Highway and intersects with trail 424, which heads south as it leads to Triple Falls. The picture above shows the repair to the trail after a landslide last fall.

Even at this early hour there were people at the Triple Falls viewpoint. I wasted a few minutes in setting up the tripod and then decided there was no clear shot and continued on. The trail crosses the creek soon after the viewpoint and continues to wind its way upward. Finally, after a fair bit of climbing, the junction with the Bell Creek Loop was in sight. It is recommended to ford the creek in the summer months. I can imagine that after months of winter rains, it would not be a pleasant crossing before May or June. Getting across was actually quite simple, but finding the trail on the other side took a few moments. Of course, it went up. There was a junction marked by a log painted pink at one end that I had seen described by one hiker's online report as the marker for a shortcut trail. I am reasonably certain I saw the beginning of the shortcut trail earlier on, but I have no intention of discovering if I'm right for some time.

The trail continued it's climb up the mountain, and at times the trail was more of a miniature stream flowing down. There was what I will label a false summit about 3/4 of the way up. It was a clump of trees growing on an outcropping of rock, complete with a comfortable stone on which to sit back and look at the beautiful creation below. Then it was time to press on, with the trail passing under a towering mass of moss-covered rocks. There was no real view at what I think was the top, but rather just a large open area surrounded by trees. The trail changed to a dry creek bed, very rocky and requiring eyes on the ground to ensure no twisted ankles. Then it changed to marshy clumps and finally back to a normal trail; just as it ended at a fallen tree. After a bit of searching I found Robert Frosts' original model for the road less travelled and continued on. Things were going pretty well at this point and I successfully navigated the next trail junction. But my luck was about to run out. At the junction of trail 424 and the Larch Mountain trail I failed to see that there was an arrow pointing both straight and to the right for trail 424, and I also did not look at my printed instructions that said to turn right. I only remembered the bit that said to stay on trail 424. And so the trail continued up, causing several outbursts along the lines of "this is insane!" But there were some beautiful rhododendrons to see along the way; something I have not seen on previous hikes.

Finally, it was obvious the trail was ending. But instead of being at the junction I was expecting, I was at the break in the guardrail along Larch Mountain Road leading to the trail that takes hikers down to Multnomah Falls (after a quick seven miles or so). There was a couple ahead of me and I lamented that I knew where I was but it was not where I wanted to be. I sadly dragged myself to the beginning of the Larch Mountain trail and started down. My main complaint with this route is that it joins with the Multnomah Falls trail and thus is often packed with casual hikers in flip-flops. Then I remembered that the Franklin Ridge trail intersects with the Larch Mountain trail and decided I would explore that option as it would lead east to the Oneonta Gorge trail and my car.


After what seemed an eternity of going down rocky trails, I came to the Franklin Ridge trail and happily turned right, sure that my problems would be over in an hour or so. Hopes were dashed when the trail came to a Y with an ancient sign that at one time bore the words "Franklin Ridge" etched in it. I reasoned that going straight would continue to take me east and, since the other way was south, I should continue straight. Logic does not always enter into navigation. As I made my way down the steep trail, I sincerely hoped I was going the right way and would not have to go back up. The trail ended and there was no sign of any continuation to the Oneonta Gorge trail. Instead, I found myself at a lodge. Two teenage boys were sitting near a viewpoint and they told me this was the Nesika Lodge, which I had never heard of, and that it was possible the woman inside had a map and could point me in the right direction. I knocked on the door and a short, cheerful woman invited me in. She got out a handful of maps but did not have one with the right trails on it. She then drew a rough map on a sheet of paper and told me exactly where I needed to go. At this point I was quite annoyed at myself and I hope she knows how grateful I was for her help and was not frightened by my wild-eyed look of despair at the thought of returning up that hill. Back I went for what seemed an interminable time. I was on the verge of turning back to the Larch Mountain trail when two hikers came along from the other direction. They had come from the trail junction I was seeking and assured me it was "only" about another half mile. Meanwhile, I took the picture above at a viewpoint that I would otherwise have missed.

This picture was taken while I was making my way to the Oneonta junction. I figured I might as well take advantage of being where I didn't want to be. Besides that, I found some orange  peel on the ground and for some reason felt reassured to know that other humans had been there in the past six months. Once I found the right trail, I realized I had been on it before and thus was really going the right way. Unfortunately, it was another four miles or so and as I got closer to Triple Falls the trail was rockier and required more diligence to those of us who are prone to twisting ankles. Finally, I came to what I had labeled in my mind as "that bloody bridge" (too much British television), and then to Triple Falls. I came to the junction with trail 400 and was heartily wishing I had parked here instead of the half mile farther west. But once I was on the lovely asphalt, it was much smoother sailing. My heart skipped a beat when I arrived at the parking area and didn't see my car. As I got closer, its red spoiler could be seen peeking over the white car next to it. I refrained from bursting into song and instead said a hearty "Praise the Lord," tottered to the car and fell in. It's times like these I wish I had an automatic transmission, but suffice it to say I made it home and thoroughly enjoyed a shower and dinner, not to mention that I had shattered any previous mileage records I may have set before. The only thing is, I have no desire to try to break this one any time soon.

Tulips, Tulips, Tulips

After living in the Portland area for eight years, I decided it was high time to visit the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm in Woodburn. Each year the tulip festival is held from the end of March to the beginning of May. There are daily activities and huge fields of tulips to wander in. 

Woodburn is about 35 minutes south of Portland so it's not like it's a long way to go, but the two main reasons I've never gone are the entry fee of $10 a car and the crowds. Those who know me know that I have made saving money into a game, as in "what's the cheapest way to do X." The fee for bicycles and motorcycles was five dollars and that seemed more reasonable. I hate finding a parking place in crowded lots, so I found a shopping area about six miles from the festival and decided to combine exercise and photography. After an argument with my GPS (I won), I found the shopping area, parked the car, and set off. One of the other reasons I decided to walk (besides having grown fond of the money in m pocket) is there are always things to see along the way that would be missed while driving.

There were several old barns and vineyards that caught my eye, and even some bison. Except for the cars whizzing by seemingly not paying attention to the scenery, it was a nice walk.

This was a sign at a local farm, one that I could easily appreciate!

There was a long line of cars making its way to the farm and it didn't take me long to realize I was glad I was walking because at some point all those cars were going to be driving back and the thought of it made me claustrophobic. I made my way to the parking lot and asked the woman directing traffic if there was another place I could pay to get in. The idea of wading through all the traffic to the entry booth didn't appeal to me much. The woman directed me to the gift shop and I made my way there and asked how much it would be to get in. The woman behind the counter was a bit stumped and asked someone else what they thought. Apparently, no one else has ever walked in (or if they have, they didn't make their presence known). After a few seconds of deliberation, the woman said not to worry about it. That sounded like a good deal to me so I made my way to the tulip fields. Not ever having been there, I had no idea what to expect.

The fields looked like an enormous banner painted on the ground. Next to the splashes of muliple colored blooms, followed row upon row of red, yellow, purple, and white. Joseph and his coat of many colors would have disappeared in the swirling rainbow.

Part of the fun was taking a picture without including someone's head or hand. It rather resembled a game Atari might have come up with, except instead of shooting the space ships, the object was to shoot between them. 

There's something addictive about beauty. No matter how many pictures I had, I just had to take one more. The result of course was numerous shots of almost exactly the same thing. At least pictures aren't high in calories.

After about an hour, which went by in a surprisingly short time, I headed back to where I had left my car. By now, the two miles from the farm to the main road was a solid mass of cars. The trend continued after I turned onto the state highway and the train of cars snaked its way back for at least another three miles. Four different people asked me if I knew what was going on or where the wreck was. My favorite car contained a happy looking octogenarian who waved at me as I walked by. She didn't seem to mind the wait as she took in the slowly moving scenery. Before long, I was back to one of the barns I had passed earlier.

Surprisingly, things sometimes look different on the return trip. There's probably something philosophical in that statement, but since a picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words, I'll let it do the talking.

To Clackamas and Back

For reasons I won't dwell on, my car was recently in need of some plastic surgery. It was nothing major, but suffice it to say I was without it for a week. My dad very graciously (and bravely) allowed me the use of his truck to drive to work and dance. I grew up driving a truck, but after driving a sporty little red car these past 12 years,  I felt like someone who had gone to being a row boat captain to piloting a barge. Needless to say, when the car was fixed I was very eager to get it back. The shop that did the work was in Clackamas, Oregon, just under 16 miles away. I had asked a friend to take me, but after seeing the forecast for sunny and 63 I decided since I was going to want to spend the entire day outside anyway, why not walk to Clackamas and pick it up? 

I headed out about 7:15 and was soon at the trail that goes under I-5 and leads to a series of steps that spits (figuratively speaking, of course) pedestrians out at the base of Macadam and SW Taylors Ferry.   What I've never understood is why the trail under the freeway has a bench half-way down the steps. It's not like there's a view to enjoy and it certainly isn't quiet. 

By the way, I'm writing this on an iPad and the formatting is a bit more of a challenge than on a computer, but I digress. The sun was just starting to show behind the various flowers, both on the ground and in the trees. It felt so good to be outside I almost wished the walk were longer, almost.

Oh look, it's letting me type right next to the picture. Progress! Much of the journey was along a busy street so there wasn't a lot to take pictures of, unless you count the group of people helping a motorcycle guy get his bike back in an upright position. There didn't appear to have been an accident, just a prone bike in the middle of the turn lane. The route I chose did not include taking I-205, so I exited on the street right before. It was much quieter and had more to look at than the license plates of the cars going past. It was also apparent that the two-legged  residents of the town (don't ask, I don't know what the text is doing over here) weren't the only ones enjoying the sunshine. I had about two seconds to snap the shot below. He certainly wasn't the only dog I saw with his nose hanging out of the window during the course of the day. I made it to the repair shop in a little over four hours and was very glad to see my car looking much improved over the week before. As much as I enjoyed the walk, I hope the next time my car has to go anywhere it doesn't necessitate more than an oil change.

Last week I decided that it was time to take a Friday off work. After all, it had been over a whole month since the last time I'd taken a Friday off so I figured it was time. Besides, it had suddenly occurred to me that after next week the malls and stores were going to be clogged with shoppers. As much as I love shopping (and those of you who know me can attest to this), the week before Thanksgiving suddenly seemed like a good time to get the Christmas shopping that couldn't be done online over with. The fact that the sun would be shining never entered into the equation and turned out to be a bonus. Unfortunately, the wind was also blowing for two of the three days of the long weekend. I have a strong aversion to wind. It must be a leftover hangup from living in the southwest for so long and putting up with what amounted to a sandstorm every afternoon during the month of March. Now whenever I hear the wind howling outside, all I can think of is the blowing dirt and static electricity.

Up here, it's more likely for there to be blowing moss than sand, so I made several forays down the hill to see what there was to see in this unexpected sunlight. One of my favorite areas is not far from home and has old farmhouses alongside newer additions. This area was once an orchard and there is still a large parcel of land in the middle of the neighborhood that, by a covenant or code of some kind, must remain in its natural state. There are pear, plum, and apple trees tucked back here, although the blackberries make them rather difficult to get to. This picture is taken near that now wild orchard. Something else that is rare to see during this time of year is a good sunrise or sunset. The sky and cloud conditions have been nearly perfect these last few days and because my apartment has a southwestern exposure, I don't have to go far to see a great sunset. The biggest trick is not getting hit in the head by a hanging flowerpot.

Saturday was much like Friday as far as the weather was concerned. After a nice run, I decided to go for another walk while the sun was still high overhead. Because of all the tall evergreens, it doesn't take long for streets to be completely in the shade. The only problem was that my fingers (which have circulatory issues in the colder weather) had turned white and numb and taking pictures was a bit frustrating. It felt like I was really pressing the button hard on the camera and nothing would happen. It's amazing the difference a little constriction makes in finger strength. However, after a lot of blowing on my fingers and rubbing my hands together, I did get enough feeling in my hands to get a few pictures. There's a lovely path along the Willamette River but right now the water is low enough to walk right along the edge of it. That won't be the case by next month. Sunday was the perfect day. It was chilly in the shade, but in the full strength of the sun it was quite luxurious and there was only the vaguest hint of a breeze. I decided to do a longer version of  Saturday's walk and went back to the same southwest Portland neighborhood. This time though, I walked across the Sellwood bridge and into Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge. In the spring there's a purple haze of flowers along the floor of the park but this time of year it's just golds, reds, and browns. It's

easy to forget that downtown Portland is just a few miles away while walking through this area. If I didn't raise my eyes too high, I could almost pretend there were no high rises peeking over the reeds and bushes. On my way back, winding through the Sellwood neighborhood, I was struck by the number of flowers that were still in bloom. This was the perfect time of day and the sunlight shining through the red was eye-catching. I wish this weather could hang around for a bit longer, say until about June. But I suppose that's asking a bit much.

 This was taken on the way down to Macadam along a series of staircases that goes from the top of one Portland neighborhood to the foot of the hill. These blooms are going to get a rude awakening in a few weeks.

(Mis)Adventures in Boating

Several weeks ago, a couple who attend the same church that I do invited me to visit them at their house on Oswego Lake and go for a boat ride. Here's a little lake history, back in the day it was called Sucker Lake (charming name, isn't it?). There are different stories about how it's a man-made lake but also was formed during the Missoula Flood. Perhaps the truth is a combination of the two. The lake is joined to the Willamette River by Sucker Creek, and there is also at least one canal joining it to the Tualatin River. In the late 1800's it was used to transport iron from the local iron mine down to the smelter, which was several miles away at what is now George Rogers Park. Now, it's a private lake owned and maintained by those who live around it. There is public swimming access, but if the idea is staying above the water, that's another story.

When Leon invited me to come take pictures, I jumped at the chance. After living in Lake Oswego for eight years, the closest I'd gotten to the lake was the "Duck Pond" in downtown. The view from their house was captivating enough, and I couldn't wait to go for a boat ride. However, the matter of a large bit of a canvas barrier that was part of the remodel next door getting caught in the boat's propeller, prop, blade, etc., caused a bit of a delay. While Leon was busy untangling the cloth, Sharon got out the paddle boards and gave me a quick lesson on how to ride one without taking a nose dive. Ever since I've seen groups of kids gliding along the surface of the water, I've wanted to try this. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, and after a few minutes I was headed off for a quick tour. I knew all those years riding skateboards when I was a kid would come in handy.

After about 20 minutes, Leon drove the boat out, free of its slimy canvas entanglements. We then headed off under the little bridge on North Shore Drive and out into the "big lake." And it was certainly bigger than I realized. As many times as I've run, walked, or driven around it, I never realized how vast it really was.

The sun was not in the ideal spot on the way out, but I wasn't complaining. Leon told me about the history of the homes as we went by and stopped to let me take pictures of anything interesting, which was about every five feet.

Things were going swimmingly (no pun intended), when all of a sudden there was silence instead of boat motor noise. After numerous attempts to get the engine started and attempting to flag down the only blind boater on the lake, Leon got out the oar and paddled us to the nearest dock. We tied the boat up and went up the stairs to find out who our new best friends would be. Of course, I had to take a picture because it was a really nice view. Unfortunately, no one was home at

either of those homes, so we trooped next door and down more stairs. The lady of the house let Leon use her phone to call the lake patrol. They are a group of off-duty firemen who help rescue boaters and patrol the lake to make sure everyone is following the rules. Of course, this particular day, no one was on duty. So, back to the boat and into the lake to try and flag down a good Samaritan.

This time we were more successful, and some very nice people towed us all the way back home. It was a much slower ride back, but it gave me more chances to enjoy the scenery.  The house below is also known as Casablanca, and for good reason. It was once occupied by Humphrey Bogart and his wife Mayo Methot, the wife before Lauren Bacall. We soon

 were safely back and thanked our rescuers, who happened to live right across the bay from Leon and Sharon. They were both so apologetic, but there was no reason to be. I'm now assured of more visits out there to make up for all the mishaps that happened on this one.

To the Lighthouse

Yes, I know, Virginia Woolf already wrote that story. But in this instance I really was trying to get to a lighthouse, just without all the angst associated with the other story. One of my favorite spots in the area is Sauvie Island. It has a small lighthouse on an equally small outcropping of rock called Warrior Rock. The story goes that in the late 1700's a British Naval expedition landed on Sauvie Island and was greeted by warriors of the Multnomah tribe. There was some trading between the two groups, and the point where they met was called Warrior Rock to commemorate the occasion. The lighthouse, Oregon's smallest and one of only two Oregon lighthouses not on the Pacific Ocean, guides river traffic on the Columbia. I have had several past attempts at hiking out to the lighthouse and Friday's adventure was yet another failed attempt, but at least this time I actually caught a glimpse of it. With a little imagination, the lighthouse can be seen at the end of the line of trees on the left in the picture above. Well, with maybe more than just a little imagination.

I had decided that the first sunny Friday in October I would take a vacation day  to capture some fall colors. I was hoping it would be a little later in the month when there was more color, but when you live in such a temperamental state you take any sunny day you can get no matter when it comes along. So when this past Friday was predicted to be 70 and sunny, I put in my vacation request. When I left Portland around 9:30 in the morning it was almost clear. As I got closer and closer to Sauvie Island, it got cloudier and cloudier. I was not amused. I parked at one of the designated areas and started walking, looking for any sign of blue sky in the middle of all the gray. Finally, about noon, the skies started to clear. I sat on an old fallen tree eating carrots and humus and thoroughly enjoying the scene before me.

This particular part of the island has little traffic, especially this time of year, and each time I've been there it has the feeling of walking through a landscape painting or a picture in an old story book. This area has a trail that runs roughly parallel with the main road and then intersects it at a point where the other road turns to gravel. I was heading for this intersection and just happened to look over my shoulder to see a mountain peering at me over the canal.


Once the two roads intersect, it's a long straight walk to the trail head. There are numerous signs for Collins Beach along the way, which is a clothing optional spot. I was half tempted to jump out of the underbrush with my camera aimed at any unsuspecting sunbather just to see if I could get anyone to scurry away to take cover, but I decided I better not. After passing numerous cows and old barns, I finally found my way to the beach. I was going to take the trail out to the lighthouse and follow the coastline back but there was some trail construction going on so I decided to go out and back the same way.

 Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams (I just found out that the mountain I'd thought was Rainier all these years is actually Mt. Adams), and Mt. Hood were all out with their fresh layers of snow. I thought this time I would make it all the way for sure, but alas it was not to be. The beach soon became a sea of mud and the trail was almost as bad. I could feel my shoes being sucked off my feet and decided it would have to wait yet again. I'm sure the lighthouse isn't going anywhere soon and it will give me another excuse to drive back to the island next summer or spring.

Adventures in Bushwhacking

During all the walks and hikes I've taken in the Portland area, there have been a few times when I wished I had a machete in my back pocket, was lost, or just couldn't get there from here. Today was a bit of the former and a sprinkling of the latter. My initial goal was a hunk of what is called Waverly Heights Basalt in the Willamette River (I'm not sure if the basalt is named for the local golf course or the other way around), that is thought to have been formed by ancient lava flows. The current name for this hunk of rock is Elk Rock Island. The island is easily accessible at all times by boat but, unless a person feels like doing a bit of wading, the easiest time to get there on foot is during the summer when the water is low. In the early 1900's, a dance club was situated on the island, and in 1910 Portland businessman Peter Kerr bought the island from the Rock Island Club. In 1940 he donated it to the city with the requirement that it be kept in its natural state for, as he put it, all to enjoy. Kerr's own home was across from the island, resting on a cliff of the same basalt as the island. Now that the history has been laid out, here's what happened. I parked my car on the north side of Willamette Park, because traffic across the Sellwood Bridge has been hideous lately, and the journey is as much the point as the destination. I quickly got distracted in Willamette Park by a trail down to the river that in the spring is nothing more than a place to fall into the water, but at the end of the summer it's more like walking onto someone's lawn.

I continued along the riverbank intending to rejoin the trail later. But after about seven or eight minutes, it seemed simpler to keep going until I met with an unofficial trail back to the link between the park and a nearby marina and then the street to the bridge. The slight hiccup was that all the entrances to that link between the park and the marina had been blocked due to the construction going on at the Sellwood Bridge, and I do mean all entrances. I found myself below the wooden walkway that leads from the marina parking lot to the houseboats looking up at the imposing chainlink fences topped by razor wire and thinking maybe I should have turned around sooner. But never one to accept the obvious conclusion staring me in the face, I decided there had to be a way around this. And lo and behold there it was. The gate to the marina parking lot may have been topped by razor wire but that doesn't matter when it's not latched. I made my way through the gate thinking I was home free, only to be faced with a long gate across the entrance to the parking lot. It was the kind that residents have codes to, which did me absolutely no good. I walked around the inside of the lot looking for any kind of opening in the chainlink and, finding none, tried to figure out what part of me besides my arm, backpack, and camera would fit through the narrow gap between the wall and gate. I said a short prayer and right then, a resident returned home and unlocked the gate. He didn't seem distressed to see some potential criminal wandering around inside the area and I told him what happened and went on my way.

After that, getting to Elk Rock was easy. It was no problem getting on the island as the water from the spring was now no more than a few puddles. Trails criss-cross all through the island and around the perimeter. There were other people there enjoying the sun or the view, but at the same time it was easy to feel quite isolated.

As I headed back, I fell into step with a very nice couple who lived along the Columbia River in north Portland. They had come as far as the trail would let them before running into the island. We chatted until they turned to go a different direction and it struck me that if I hadn't taken so long to get to the island in the first place I would have missed out on their enjoyable conversation. The next time an apparent inconvenience comes my way, I'll have to remind myself that a momentary frustration can also lead to an enjoyable memory.

Wide Open Spaces

It struck me yesterday, as I realized that once again I had planned too long a walk to possibly fit into one day, that the ultimate goal shouldn't necessarily be getting to the planned destination, but rather enjoying what there is to see along the way. Sauvie Island is a good example of a place where it's easy to forget about the finish line and just enjoy the journey. Yesterday morning found me yet again on Highway 30 on the way to Sauvie Island. This has become one of my favorite places to visit, even more so than the Columbia River Gorge, for one simple reason: wide open spaces. When I drove across the bridge, I immediately pulled out of the car to snap this picture of Mt. St. Helens. And guess what? There were no trees to dodge, no hills in the way, just farmland and a few trees to decorate the foreground.

After wending along past mown fields of alfalfa and farmhouses, I came to the first of many parking areas on this island that is a combination of nature reserves and farmland. I should have checked the handy dandy GPS to see how far it was to Warrior Rock and the lighthouse but figured it hadn't looked that far when I checked the map earlier and probably wasn't more than five or six miles to the trail head, add another six-mile round trip to see the lighthouse and it equaled a decent walk for the day. Except that, as usual, there was a slight miscalculation and after about four miles I checked and saw that it was going to be at least seven more miles to the trail head. Eighteen to twenty miles is one thing, thirty is a (very) far distant goal. At that point, I decided to look for a loop that would take me back another way so I could check out different scenery. The lighthouse will have to wait until another day. It probably isn't going anywhere any time soon. A dirt road curved off the main drag just past the beach parking area and took me off the beaten path into fields of yellow flowers (probably weeds, but they look good in pictures) and along a dirt trail that ran alongside one of the many lakes on the island. Here, except for the wind whistling past, it was quiet and easy to forget that there was a bustling city about 10 miles away.

The road made its way up a gentle rise until Mt. St. Helens was again on the horizon. That sight alone made the day worth it and it, and made me realize how blessed I am to be a desert rat in the northwest.

North by Norhtwest

One of the things I've come to appreciate about the Portland area is its diversity, and I don't mean the politically correct version of the word that is so popular now. By diversity I mean all the different areas you can visit in one day within about a three-mile radius (in this case, forest, city, and island). This past week has been absolutely perfect as far as weather is concerned. Summer normally doesn't come until July 5, but at least for now it's here in full force. Since there was no reason to wait for the clouds to clear or the sun to come out, I headed to northwest Portland early on to begin an urban hike. I drove across the St. John's Bridge and parked in one of the neighborhoods across from Cathedral Park. Driving across bridges takes no time at all, but walking back across is another story. The St. John's Bridge is no exception, but at least it's got a pretty view on the way.

 From up here, it was very easy to see Mt. Hood wreathed in clouds behind the Steel Bridge, as if it just couldn't quite step out of its comfy white cloak. After crossing the bridge, I found the steps that lead up to the Ridge Trail, part of the Wildwood Trail system that makes an approximately 40-mile loop through Forest Park. There were glimpses of the bridge through the trees, and it didn't take long to be almost level with the Gothic spires. The trail wound its way up for some time (much farther and twistier than Google showed, how surprising!) until it joined Leif Erikson Drive. The word "drive" is misleading because really it's a wide dirt multi-use trail, as in bikers, runners, dads with strollers, probably even unicycles at times (the bagpiping Gandolph can't always be riding in downtown, right?) so there was plenty of traffic to keep one from feeling too lonely. There are also well-placed maps at different junctions to keep hikers from getting lost, well usually. There was one intersection where the signage was particularly unhelpful and it does no good to look for moss on the north side of a tree because moss grows on all sides and surfaces.

Enough sunlight does filter in to allow certain varieties of flowers to grow. I have no idea what the flowers on the left are, but they rather remind me of inflated turbans. Columbine also makes an occasional appearance, and it's almost always in this red and yellow combination. At times the trail had rather a Shire look to it. If it wasn't for the posts on the side of the bridge, you could almost imagine elves (and yes I know, elves aren't technically in the Shire) making their way over the stream and tripping lightly up the steps, as opposed to hobbits who don't do anything lightly with those hairy feet.

 I took a wrong turn here and went up the steps because I've learned in the past that when in doubt, go up. This time the "up" trail appears to have been a shortcut to the back side of one of the businesses along Highway 30. I retraced my steps and went along the trail that paralleled the stream. It was then less than a quarter of a mile back to the highway and along the raised sidewalks that are part of what used to be the community of Linnton. From what little research I've done, Linnton used to be a thriving town. That changed when the highway was widened and the roadside businesses became level asphalt. There are still some homes dotting the landscape and businesses along the east side of the highway but apparently it never recovered its past glory. One of the things left behind was a series of staircases and raised sidewalks that allowed the townsfolk easier access to bus stops and businesses. Those are on the agenda for a future hike.

It was at least a mile or so back to the car and on the way I explored the block-wide farmers market on the east side of the St. John's Bridge. There was everything from local berries to salsa and tamales and crepes. Good thing I didn't have any cash or I might have spent it.

Next it was off to Sauvies Island to pick berries. This past week, a co-worker mentioned that her daughter and boyfriend had picked berries at Sauvies Island Farms and that at $2 a pound, the berries were much cheaper than those at the farmers market. I'm not sure if the cheapness factor holds up when you calculate gas, time, and effort, but it was still a fun way to spend the afternoon. The island is connected to the highway by a bridge that crosses the Willamette River. Along the river are houseboats and the area is dotted with farms. I usually leave my car at the park and ride and walk along the road to whatever the destination is. It always feels like walking in a postcard, that is if you ignore the cars that whiz by on their way to the local beach. The clouds were just beginning to clear from the mountains and the fields of flowers made a great foreground. The sprinklers were an unfortunate distraction but you can't arrange real life very easily.

 After about a three-mile walk, I was at the farm. A lady at the entrance was directing people to the proper fields and giving out cardboard flats to hold berries. The road to the berry patch had a view of Mt. St. Helens and flower patches along the way. Lavender, daisies, hydrangeas, and lilies were growing side by side waiting to be picked and turned into a bouquet. After passing corn, cabbage, kale, and other veggies, I finally found the raspberry section. The berries were the size of medium strawberries and were growing in abundance. It was no time at all before my container was filled and it was off to the blueberry patch. Again, the berries were huge and picking berries in a civilized field was quite a pleasant switch from picking thorny blackberries on the side of the road.

On the way back, I was struck again by the beauty of Mt. Hood with the flowers in front of it. Ignoring the idea that I should put my cardboard flat loaded with three plastic containers of berries down before taking the picture, I tried holding the flat and taking the picture. Let's just say, it didn't work. I was down on my knees picking up blueberries when I looked up and realized this was actually the best angle for the picture. Someone on their hands and knees picking up blueberries and then taking pictures probably looked pretty crazy to those driving by, but if I ever see those people again they won't recognize me anyway so it doesn't matter.
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