Monday, November 12, 2007


We left for Eugene, Oregon Wednesday morning, driving through rain, fog, smoke, smog, and two-hours of standstill Portland traffic to get there. It just might have been worth it.

There is more vitality in downtown Eugene than in most Western cities of its size, supporting a variety of both quaint and urbane shops. Neighborhoods of classic houses are colorful yet well-maintained, interspersed with several parks--eight of them dog parks. The cost of living isn’t supposed to be too bad here either. Seems pretty ideal.

Yet, when considering Santa Fe’s cultural diversity and artistic plenty, all city’s we’ve seen to-date pale in comparison—even if they are more affordable. We may end up in Santa Fe after all.
The Monday morning ferry took us to Bainbridge Island, from which we departed into the Olympic National Park. The road through Port Angeles to Kalama Beach took us through lush forest and lakeside vistas. We arrived at our campground just after nightfall.

Olympic National Park contains our nation’s only rainforest, which receives 12 times more rain than New Mexico each year. It makes a difference. The air was perpetually cool and damp. Life is visible on everything, everywhere. Layer upon layer of life. Even in our developed campground, moss veiled undisturbed areas of pavement. In the forest, a green spectrum of mosses, ferns, salmonberry and blackberry bushes filled all space between the trees. The same green that carpeted every inch of the forest floor also cloaked 250-foot spruce and fir trees.

We stayed two nights in the park. One day it was clear, the next rainy; we managed to cook breakfast both mornings, as wave after wave crashed into the shore.
Its been said that once you’ve seen a part of the west, the rest looks just about the same. This is true. Most of the land is either mountain and pine, or grassy rolling hills dotted with shrubbery of some kind.

Upon closer inspection, however, we found the landscapes of each western state were subtly distinct. New Mexico, for instance, has less grass and more juniper and chamisa. West Texas grassland is dotted with prickly pear and mesquite. The grasses of South Dakota are generally uninterrupted, seamless. The gently rolling hills of Northeastern Wyoming are like this too, but clusters of deciduous trees also dot the landscape. We saw the same granite cliff faces shine from the sides of mountains that you’d expect to see in Colorado, but those of Wyoming were somehow unique. More colorful, more jagged, more or less made distinct by rivers of red and yellow trees. Western Montana’s waves of bald mountains were impressive, too.

Washington was unique as well. The hills rolled more gently; the grass, apparently, is not always golden but greens with summer. Some parts are very brushy. And after crossing the Columbia River, the land became increasingly more mountainous.

Eventually, we found ourselves staring upward at the snowy crests of the Cascades; then at the rushing water of Snoqualmie Falls. “How is it possible,” we wondered, “that Seattle is less than 60 miles from here?”

Seattle’s tree-lined streets were ablaze with autumn color, and its sky was clouded only some of the time. Yes, we actually saw Seattle with a blue sky! Meredith’s friend Charlie had invited us to stay with him in his downtown apartment. We gratefully accepted. Over the course of the weekend, he and his girlfriend, Ci Ci, led us on a walking tour of the city—to their favorite bar, a beer-tastic pub, to the shopping district, the REI flagship, and the nearby Pike’s Place Market. There, we ate pastries, shopped for fresh vegetables, and sipped hot coffee to warm us up in the cool of the day. Meredith also found almost-stylish and very comfortable walking shoes at the Nordstrom’s downtown. After all the walking we’ve done in city’s along the way, her feet were in dire need. Tyson is still on the lookout.
We chose to visit Missoula for the purpose of scoping out the University and getting a feel for the city. Meredith was considering attending graduate school here. We stayed at the swanky Bel Aire Motel on Broadway, near the drag of funky boutiques, bars and coffee shops. The days were grey and cold. Montana had certainly seen the arrival of autumn, and piles of leaves lined every sidewalk in town.

We celebrated Halloween here at the Iron Horse, a cozy bar downtown. College students flocked here by the dozens. Costumes galore. The guy dressed as a toilet was the most, in our opinion, should have won some kind of prize for Most Inventive Costume.

The city’s charming neighborhoods, tasty food, and stylish shops were impressive, as were the bald and rounded mountains that surrounded it. But Missoula lacked diversity. Diversity, we decided, is important.

After pastries and coffee at a local’s cafĂ©, errands were run. Meredith bought a new down sleeping bag. Tyson visited camera stores in search of sensor cleanser for his camera. And after buying these and other new items, we sent a big box back home full of things we may not of needed after all.

We left by noon, and headed west for Seattle.
We left the quaint town of Buffalo Monday afternoon, drove through Sheridan and turned west for Yellowstone. The route we chose required that we drive through the Big Horn Mountains.

This region appears as just one of many generic green spots on the map. In reality, these mountains are anything but generic. Rather, they are towering, imposing, ancient. They are crimson cliffs, foggy canyons, rushing waterfalls, undulating fields of gold, shades of purple, with passes that require second gear. They are part of the most inspiring drive yet.

We’ve been listening to Howard Zinn’s A People’s History since we left Austin. Upon finishing chapters on the history of the civil right’s movement, we happened to visit Central Little Rock High School, the first school to integrate. Very apropos.
We finished the entire reading upon our approach to Yellowstone, and were thus inspired to listen to Rage Against the Machine. Perhaps it wasn’t the romantic experience one might anticipate having as they approached the country’s first national park, but it seemed to be appropriate in its own way.

We arrived at night, just before the clouds, and set up our tent at one of the two campgrounds that were still open, Lewis Lake. It rained through the night, and snowed fluffy fat flakes through the next afternoon. We decided that at least Old Faithful should be visited, regardless of the weather, and went. Bundled up on the platform with hot chocolate in hand, we watched as sheets of water shot into the white sky. Impressed and inspired, we spent the remainder of the day driving around the park to visit other geyser attractions. Artist Paint Pots. Mud Volcano. Waterfalls. Ours were the first footprints in the snow.
We knew it must have gotten cold that night, because our waterbottles, our rainfly, the cloth pulls of our tent zippers were all frozen stiff. The temperature sunk to a low of 6 degrees that night. We ate breakfast in the car, packed up camp, and drove through the magnificent Tetons. The words to describe their beauty are difficult to find. Huge. Glacial. Vast. Humbling.

We enjoyed breakfast in Jackson, WY. Next stop: Missoula, MT.