Spring Visit

Spring Visit

Jim's plane landed April 17 at 10:19 a.m.  He had gotten up about 3 a.m. to catch the flight and had eaten a banana; by 11:30 we were at Wong's King eating dim sum; he was ready; we all were.  On the way home via the high rent district off S.W. Terwilliger, we stopped at the Bishop's Close to visit Elk Rock Garden, touted as one of the most spectacular private gardens in Portland, which Deb had visited several years ago but I had never seen. 

 

It was too early for some of the flowers but still a stop worth making, with views of the Willamette, 

early blooms, and no one there but us and a Mallard pair.

Sunday, crêpes, then off to Newport and lighthouses.  At Yaquina Head, an adult eagle and several adolescents posed for snapshots.

Some camera fiends ignored the "Stay off the grass" signs to get closer but I relied on the Leica 240 zoom.

From Yaquina Head we drove to Yaquina Bay State Park and explored the lighthouse, three stories of rooms filled with artifacts that might have been used by keepers, but the light tower itself was off limits.

We walked the sand and out on the North Jetty.  Since the tide was rising and spray was crossing the rocks, we let the boulders set to discourage hikers dissuade us from exploring further.

  We lunched at South Beach Deli, the best fish and chips on the coast.  Yum.  Then on to Oregon Coast Aquarium where the jelly fish are always fascinating.

We caught otters eating,

were entranced by Japanese Spider crabs,

and enjoyed "Passages of the Deep," where the fish seemed almost interested in the visitors.

Except for the sharks, who seemed above everything.

Then back to the ranch to feast on fresh Dungeness.  Next morning, popovers, and a discussion about taking Bogie to Silver Creek Falls. Bogie prevailed.  He loves to drive.

Times have changed: although allowed in the picnic area above the falls, signs warned that pets and bicycles are no longer allowed on trails.  The canyon has changed little, South falls still drops 177 feet, trails are now graveled instead of chipped, and it is still easier going down than up.

We walked down Canyon Trail and climbed back on Maple Ridge Trail, perhaps a couple of miles but far enough.

The only real change that I found was the old growth stump on the trail.

 It seems to have shrunk somewhat since I photographed it in '79.

German pancakes for breakfast Tuesday, then north:  wine tasting at Eola Hills winery, chocolate tasting at Brigittine Priory at Amity, and our primary goal, the Evergreen Air and Space Museum in McMinnville, home of the Spruce Goose.

The plane is bigger than you can imagine, the wingspan 320 feet, the tail eight stories tall, built to carry a crew of 18 and 750 troops or two Sherman tanks.  Although it dominates the museum, other planes are as interesting:

a full size model of the Wright brothers' flyer, a Sopwith Camel F.1 (replica),

a model of the Spruce Goose used in the movie The Aviator, 

 

any number of other planes, a few vehicles, a gun collection, and wine tasting from the Evergreen vineyards.

Then on to Nick's, our second goal for the day: house bread with olive oil, whole leaf Caesar, gnocchi with gorgonzola cream, spinach ravioli with sage butter, Dungeness and pine nut lasagne, and the pièce de résistance, Bistecca di Manzo (grilled thick cut rib steak), enough for all, washed down with a nice Chianti.  Yum.

Wednesday, a leisurely morning, a light breakfast, then to Portland to wander a bit, including Pioneer Square, Todai for a Japanese buffet lunch, and then the airport.  Jim reached Boulder about 1 a.m.  A nice spring break before the rains returned.

 

Spring 2010

Spring 2010

Since the Willamette Valley has a marine climate, spring does not suddenly one morning appear as a surprise: crocuses arise in January, pussy willow blooms in February, then daffodils, tulips, the crab apple by the deck, apple in the orchard, and plum, cherry, fruit, ornamentals.  And throughout, rain, clouds and rain.  In one seven day stretch last month, four feet of snow fell in the mountains.  In the valley, rain.  A good friend, transplanted from Texas 60 years in the valley, has never acclimated, is moving to Arizona.  We will miss him.  I like Oregon rain.  When a touch of seasonal affective disorder hits, I dose it with single malt, an antidote distilled in a similar marine climate.  And then, one day, a few days ago, I step out to feed the animals and discover the sun: spring is here.

Bees are burrowing in the crab apple blossoms.  Some years ago, bees were so thick I could hear them across the yard but colony collapse disorder has so reduced their numbers that I am moved to record their efforts.

Their snuggling into the deepest organs of flowers brings to mind Georgia O'Keefe.  They make photography difficult, mostly I get the butt end; now and then one cooperates.

I would worry more about the bees except for the example of the frogs.  Thirty or so years ago, the spring frog songs were so loud they would wake me at 2 or 3 in the morning.  I don't know how frogs survived summers here; in August the ground is like concrete: digging fencepost holes is almost impossible.  When the rains return and the ground is so mushy walking is difficult and horses sink to their hocks, the frogs returned.  And then twenty or so years ago they didn't.  The nights were quiet.  All over the world, frogs disappeared.  Frog experts offered many possible explanations.  Then in February a few years ago, I heard them sing again.  Not so loud, perhaps, but after years of silence, even a quiet chorus was a delight.  I have hope too for the bees.

Behind the barn, spring puddles attract a Mallard pair.  This morning I see the drake among the geese and try to sneak a photo.

He's sly, pretends not to notice me as he moves toward the water and after I snap the first photo I see the hen.

In the pasture, camas is blooming.  Once, it covered the bottom lands.  Native Americans ate the tubers; it nourished Lewis and Clark as they wintered over.

Baked, it is supposed to be tastier than sweet potato, but I've never tried it.  It is rarer now as most of the swampland in the valley, that is, most of the valley, has been tiled, drained, and given over to domesticated crops, especially grass seed for suburban lawns.  But now that I no longer run horses or cattle, it has returned.

In the yard, daffodils have already gone but the tulips are in full glory.

 Bogie guards them.