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.

Welcome the Tiger

Welcome the Tiger

The Chinese Year of the Tiger arrived February 14 this year.  We made reservations to celebrate at Wong's King Seafood (www.wongsking.com) in Portland, a restaurant we had learned about from Bonnie, whose cousin is the manager.  The flyer promised pastries and wine tasting, lion dance, cooking show, and nine course dinner.  We had been impressed by the dim sum and looked forward to a sumptuous feast.

We were greeted by uniformed wait staff, of course, and carved fruit promising marvels to come.

Musicians played while we talked with others at our table and after some delay, local club members in lion costumes danced through the hall to the beat of drums.

During the cooking show, Martin Yan (of the "Yan Can Cook" PBS TV show) demonstrated remarkable carving technique and explained pasta spinning, a skill I think I won't develop.

Entertaining as it was, we were ready for the first course, the Five Happiness Cold Cuts, smoking on dry ice: lotus root, vegetarian goose, marinated cucumbers and tomatoes. It was yummy, as was the Tai Chi pumpkin and spinach soup arranged as yin and yang in a single bowl.

Then came the Crispy Lucky Dragon Fruit Roll, a seafood and fruit paste deep fat fried with a dribbled fruit sauce.

Even better was the carved vegetable dragon--which looked delectable but which we did not get to taste.

Then came prawns, one each, alas, and absolutely yummy scallops atop an egg tofu custard, again, alas, one each.

After that came the Peking style steak folded into a steamed pancake-like bun, smoked sea bass from Chile, a mixed seafood fried rice in a stone wok, finishing with pastries.  

By this time, some diners had worn out and left, but Deb, convinced by the occasion and the food, purchased Martin Yan's China, the "companion volume to the Public Television series."  Yan inscribed the title page in almost illegible script, "To Debbie a most gracious [unreadable], wonderful lady, & a fabulous cook."

An evening to remember.

Coast Run 09

Monday after winter solstice dawned cold and foggy; understanding weather patterns in Oregon, we decided to see if any whales were close in and to warm up with the best fish and chips on the coast.

After the first hill in the coast range, the fog disappeared, the sun dried the pavement, and we had the road pretty much to ourselves.  An hour later we headed down the hill into Newport under a bright sun and balmy sky.

We headed north and turned into Yaquina Head, a high point of land jutting into the Pacific that we had not visited since a parking fee was instituted 20 some years ago.

Surprise, my Golden Age Passport got us in free.  We skipped the Informational Center and drove straight to the lighthouse.  Second surprise, unlike years ago the light house was open.  We climbed 114 cast iron steps to the light.

 The lookout at 93 feet is the tallest on the Oregon coast, the light can be seen 19 miles out to sea.

Once an oil light, it is now electric, some 130,000 candlepower, with a unique pattern: 2 seconds on, 2 seconds off, 2 seconds on, 14 seconds off.  The view through the windows at the top is sweet.

We wandered the headland, watched gulls, looked for spouts but were told by a docent that the whales were 20 miles out, probably enjoying the fine weather too.

We stopped at the visitor's center and looked at a model of the lighthouse.

Then on to South Beach Deli, scallops and chips.  Yum.

December Morning

The weather has been clear and cold in the Willamette valley, 20s at night with frosty mornings.  Unusual for Oregon, a pleasant change from the rain but it makes feeding and watering animals more time consuming.  This morning, an eagle circled some hundred yards overhead, higher than the eagle some years ago that soared thirty feet over the barn peak, then turned east toward the river.  Today's eagle stayed in a holding pattern over the pasture next to the barn long enough for me to get the Leica.

In Memoriam

Lilliputia
1992/3—2009

Prior to 1992, all the animals on the ranch were outdoor—cattle, horses, sometimes sheep, chickens, turkeys, geese, dogs, cats. There were shelters: barns, sheds, coops, dog houses. The yard and fields were fenced to keep home animals in, visitors out. The chickens stopped free ranging, however, after a vixen decimated the flock to feed her kits. Foxes climb trees and can jump some ten feet straight up to catch roosting birds. In two weeks she took every hen—first the larger, one each night, then the small until none were left. We caught an occasional glimpse, a tufted tail, a red flash of fur. I found feathers at the entrance to her lair in a blackberry bramble at the far end of one of the pastures. An enclosed yard—cinder blocks and wood around the bottom, chicken-wire walls and roof—has protected the flock since.

Kittens were born in the barn, in the loft in hay, sometimes in unused mangers, and when mother cat deemed them mature enough, she brought them to the back deck where we provided food beyond mother’s milk and mice, shrews, snakes and other bounty she provided. They grew and prospered, following the mother into the fields, learning the ways of free cats everywhere. When they were old enough, most were given away, a few stayed to keep the line alive. All were descended from an ur-mother, an orange tabby, a gift when I first moved in, who captured her first mouse before she was three months old, earning the name Mousetrap (Mouser or Mouse for short), who lived to old age outdoors, disappeared for a month or so and then reappeared to die and is now buried under the semidwarf apple tree beside the deck. In ’92 or ‘3, however, we moved a Neo mastiff pup into the yard who got along fine with all the resident adult cats—she chased off any strays who tried to move in—but who, for reasons I could never fathom, and whose attitude I never managed to change, would not tolerate kittens. After we found them cowering under the deck, to save their lives, we brought into the house Lilliputia and her brother, Buddy. In the years since, they left only to go to the vet’s, except once—Bud found his way outdoors and to escape the terrors spent the night hiding in the cottonwood as high as he could climb.

Lily thrived in the house, played with Bud and slept in the big bed. Whenever she felt especially affectionate or needy, she climbed onto a chest, usually 2 or 3 in the morning, and made dough on a neck or chin, purring furiously, a trick of her ur-mother, whom she greatly resembled.

A few years ago, the vet diagnosed a growth on her thyroid, suggested injecting radioactive iodine and sequestering her feces for three months to allow for the degradation of the radioactivity. Despite the fearful trip to the one of two vets in the state specializing in this procedure, she returned much as before except she acted older, no longer the kitten she had seemed for so long.
She slept more but was as affectionate as ever. She and Buddy often lay together in Deb’s chair or in the font. Then the vet found a mass in her lower abdomen.

Chemo followed, but over the months, the mass continued to grow. We discussed options. A biopsy was tried, twice, without success. She was not in pain, but she clearly was not doing well. Then one Sunday, this October, she began to stumble on her rear legs. The vet came to the house and we discussed quality of life while Lily lay on the big bed and we petted her. An injection of a tranquilizer hardly seemed needed, but the vet assured us it would help calm any fears Lily might have. Then an intravenous injection and Lily’s heart stopped.

Lilliputia is now in the raised bed by the pool. In the spring we will plant flowers.