Sunday
I arrived at the Philadelphia International Airport very early Sunday morning to embark on my first plane flight of any tangible duration in 12 years. (A one-way, 45-minute flight to Long Island does not count.) Although the TSA line at the airport was quite lengthy, and prayers were uttered in hopes of not having a sudden need to go to the bathroom, the agents were efficient and courteous and, unlike the overzealous TSA agent I dealt with for the aforementioned flight to Long Island, I was not sexually molested. After passing thru, I enjoyed a well-balanced breakfast of a plain Auntie Anne's pretzel and a bottle of chocolate milk and boarded my flight.
After a brief layover in Denver, where I continued my healthy eating habits by purchasing a lukewarm Pizza Hut Personal Pan cheese pizza, a brief flight took me to my destination of Redmond Municipal Airport, just north of Bend, Oregon, where my friend John lives with his wife Melissa. John picked me up and explained a bit about Bend as we were driving. We went to Trader Joe's and to a similar, more local version of a healthy grocery store (where, for some reason, an attractive woman bizarrely kept passing us back and forth down the same aisle as I was making the crucial decision of what nutrition bars to purchase), and then headed to his house. After unpacking, I went on a six-mile run. I was warned about the hot temperatures, but the dry heat was child's play for this mid-Atlantic runner quite used to thick humidity. For supper, John's wife was kind enough to boil some of the whole wheat pasta I had bought and offered to warm up sauce she had made. I was a bit reticent because what is delicious and healthy for most is usually not delicious for me, but said to myself, "Why not? Learn to trust," or some other optimistic variation of that and the sauce was DELICIOUS!!! In fact, my taste buds can still taste it as I type this.
We then all went for a walk where I was shown a bit of the surrounding areas of this quasi-resort town. Many others were walking around, enjoying the twilight. I went to bed and got a good night's sleep.
Monday
Monday morning, John and I and my stepson Seymour (who was well-behaved and caused no commotion at the TSA line) went for a hike up Lava Butte, which the US Forest website tells me is a "cinder cone rising 500 feet above Lava Lands Visitor Center." The walk itself takes 1.45 miles to get to the top, which John and I completed with no issues. After the walk back down, only interrupted by Seymour escaping my backpack in an attempt to chase one of the many mouse squirrels we saw, I got the itch to run, not merely walk up the hill. John was kind enough to wait and I ran up and back down the hill without stopping (a fact not believed at the time by John), indeed staying under a 9:30/mile pace overall, encouraged in part by a group of people that included a very attractive woman who gave me the thumbs-up sign as I passed.
John and I then hightailed it to the High Desert Museum, whose name suggested probable boredom. However, I was quite surprised at how much I liked this museum. The exhibits told the story of the High Desert Basin region, which spans several states and covers the region roughly from the Cascade Mountains to the Rocky Mountains, since the beginning of time through today. More appealing, I got to see multiple species native to the region, including turtles of various sizes, fish, insects, livestock, otters frolicking in the water, birds-of-prey, snakes, etc. While eating lunch, I fed a mouse squirrel some of my French fries, not noticing until later the sign discouraging patrons from doing so. The squirrel certainly seemed pleased I was not initially observant.
Incidentally, it was during my visit to this museum when I first realized just how in-shape women in Oregon were and that the two women referenced above were not the exceptions they would be if they resided in every state in which I ever lived. Age, number of kids with them, pushing a baby stroller- it didn't matter, 95% of them were in shape. I later saw a video that stated Oregon was the fifth healthiest state in the nation and my only doubt was whether there really were four allegedly healthier states.
Later on, I did a quick run in Bend where I made two observations: 1) in general, fellow runners and walkers in Oregon are far less friendly than where I live and 2) the drivers are far more courteous towards runners, always stopping for runners and pedestrians in crosswalks.
Tuesday
On a bright sunny day, I drove to Crater Lake National Park, perhaps the most visited tourist attraction in Oregon, armed with a cooler full of nutritious beverages, including a watermelon juice Melissa had made. While traveling south on Route 97, I noticed for the first time in Oregon more depressed regions as I passed the outskirts of towns such as La Pine, Gilchrist, and Chenault. Trump banners decorated some of the beaten trailers I saw, not different in spirit from Obama banners decorating other poor residences in a prior decade.
Making good time and knowing absolutely nothing about the layout of the park, only that there was a pristine, breathtaking lake to see, I had Google Maps direct me to the park's North entrance, which turned out to be the correct decision. I was in a long queue of cars waiting to pay to enter the park. I noticed multiple cars making U-turns at the entrance and did not know what to make of it. Finally, I reached the entrance, where I encountered quite a perky, energetic young woman wearing a small nose ring who showed me a live cell phone shot of Crater Lake itself. Explaining that smoke from wildfires in California was making the lake hardly visible, the young woman asked if I still wanted to pay the $30.00 to enter the park. Knowing that I would probably never again be at Crater Lake, I decided I'd make the best of it and paid to enter the park. I must commend this woman for maintaining a consistent level of friendliness and energy when speaking to me even after having to give her presentation probably 100s of times that day. Either that, or my essential friendliness and naivete won her over. Let's go with that.
I entered the park and drove approximately nine miles past some forests and the Pumice Desert and headed down West Rim Drive before reaching the first observation point for the lake, got out of my car, and could only see about 20 percent of Crater Lake, with the rest being just a haze. Other observation points on my way to Rim Village did not provide any better views of this famous lake, which is approximately 6 miles wide from its furthest points and 1,943 feet deep at its deepest point.
Rim Village is located at the southwest section of the park and is where most tourists visiting the park gather to gaze in awe at Crater Lake. Rim Village includes a visitor center, a lodge, a café, a gift shop, and Sinnott Memorial Overlook, a nice shady place from which to see the lake. However, as wonderful as all this was, Rim Village did not afford me any vantage point from which to avoid seeing virtually nothing but haze while seeing the lake.
Still determined to make the best of it, I decided to explore the rest of the park. I drove further south to Mazama Village, which by itself held no interest unless you were there to stay at their campgrounds. I decided to drive back north towards East Rim Drive to finish the park loop and head home. I stopped to do a one-mile hike on a trail called Godfrey Glen, which was first evidence that this park held charms beyond Crater Lake. While walking through its woods, I got to see the quite impressive Annie Creek Canyon and got to hear but not see what I later learned was Munson Creek tumbling over Duwee Falls, quite idyllic.
Encouraged and emboldened, I headed towards East Rim Drive and stopped at one more observation point, still unable to see much of the Lake. Driving north on East Rim Drive, I passed an electric sign that said something along the lines of Cloudsomething, Road Closed 1.5 miles. Not able to fully read the sign as it flashed from one part of its message to the other, I figured the road would be closed just 1.5 miles ahead because smoke made further driving dangerous and would then be obliged to turn around.
Driving far longer than 1.5 miles, I thought the electric sign was merely not updated and eventually reached Mount Scott, the highest peak of the park. If it was a bit earlier in the day, I would have attempted to complete what the park map called a strenuous 5-mile hike. Instead, I was content to take some photos, stare in awe, and then continue my drive north. I then passed Cloudcap Overlook as I got closer to the end of the park loop. Suddenly, I saw that the road was blocked for further travel due to road repairs and I finally realized the message the electric sign was conveying. "Aw, shucks," I said, or something similar and was mentally prepared to drive back from whence I came. I passed Rim Village and then stopped at an observation point on West Rim Drive to get one last look at this unfortunately hazy view of the lake before heading back, still in an okay mood.
And then I saw it. THE LAKE, in its most pristine view, so blue because "other colors of the spectrum are absorbed. Blue wavelengths (scatter and are) seen by human eyes," or so the park map tells me. I spoke with a gentleman from Virginia (not Thomas Jefferson) standing next to me, who told me he was at the park all day as well, monitoring the smoke situation and learned there was about a three-hour window when Crater Lake would be clear. I could see clear across the Lake and observed the lake from multiple vantage points, including a return trip to Rim Village, blessed to have had a road closed obliging me to turn around. I thanked God, took in all the views I wanted, and then headed back to Bend.
Wednesday
Waking up, I felt listless and nauseous. As it turned out, I drove through some areas on my way back from Crater Lake where the smoke from the California wildfires had settled, including Bend itself, and had slept in a room where one of the windows was microscopically open. The smoke had gotten to me. As I had plans to enjoy trips to Eugene on Thursday and somewhere out of town on Friday, I was really worried I would not feel better.
The day was spent watching documentaries with John, including one on Mister Rogers that moved a bit slow for my taste and one on Reggie Jackson I felt was a bit uneven. John and I also went food shopping at a wonderful store named Market of Choice. As we locked his vehicle, John made it a point to hide my black backpack, explaining as he did at Trader Joe's on Sunday and at Lava Butte on Monday that Bend had a problem with people "smashing (windows) and grabbing" after seeing possible items of interest in cars, which surprised me after becoming aware of the median (re: a lot) price of homes in Bend.
The wildfire smoke was becoming an uncontrollable variable in planning the rest of my stay in Oregon and I had to check every day to see what part of Oregon was forecast to have a low Air Quality Index and head for that area the following day.
Thursday
Drove to relatively smoke-free Eugene in part to run Pre's Trail, named in honor of Steve Prefontaine, a legendary American record-setting runner who attended nearby University of Oregon and died tragically from an automobile accident at a young age. There are two main ways to get to Eugene and John encouraged me to head down Rte. 97 and eventually make my way back up north via Route 58, and I was glad I did, driving past beautiful Crescent Lake and other natural wonders of the Willamette National Forest on wonderful mountainous roads winding up and down and around.
Prior to reaching Eugene, I stopped in Springfield, Oregon, the city for which the Springfield of The Simpsons fame is based, to have a hastily arranged lunch with a friend I met online years ago, who brought her teenage grandson, a very talented entertainer from the few clips of him she posts on social media. My notoriously picky eating habits led, by a process of tragic elimination, to a (of all things) Five Guys restaurant where I had French fries and (for the first time in probably 5-7 years) a chocolate shake. The regrettably short lunch went very well and afterwards my friend told me that of all the people she encountered through social media, I was the most normal. I later told her, quoting Jim Cornette, that this was like being told I was the nicest guy in prison. Other observations of note: later that day, I was told by her that her grandson was "fascinated" by my accent, which is a conglomeration of living on Long Island raised by an Italian father and a Mainer mother and my basic politeness of tone. I was also told by her that I smelled really good and, perhaps, it was the laundry detergent I use?! As I have never before been the recipient of such a compliment when cologne wasn't involved, even while using the Tide pods I use to wash my clothes, I made a mental note to purchase some Everyone 3-in-1 Soap, Citrus & Mint fragrance that my hosts had for the guest shower.
Using Google Maps, I headed to Alton Baker Park to run Pre's Trail. Expecting a pastoral run with my running shoes gracing bark chips on the ground with beautiful trees to my left and right, I was first surprised at just how awful the park's port-a-potty was (the most disgusting I have encountered in a long, long time), how out in the open the trail itself was, and how nondescript the scenery was, unless you count the homeless man pushing his belongings in a shopping cart about two miles into my run. The air seemed damp with no hint of sun. I passed the University of Oregon football stadium and started improvising on what direction to go as I was trying to stretch the run out to eight miles to burn those empty calories I had consumed earlier. Eventually, I timed my run so I would be at the stadium at eight miles. When done, I took a few selfies and then headed back to take a .7 mile walk back to my car. On my way, I saw the greenest snake I had ever seen in the grass to my right with its fangs sticking out. I went, "Awww!!!," and wish Seymour had been with me. Seymour was too scared to make the trip, reading about some of the crime in Eugene as told by my online friend and hearing some of the negative comments about the city from John.
I took an alternate, shorter "scenic" route back to Bend on the recommendation of John's wife, taking Route 126 through some nice forestry obscured a bit by thick smoke that obliged me to wear a KN-95 mask WHILE DRIVING, eventually passing through the interesting town of Sisters. whose main strip had an Old West feel. Along the way, I did a lot of thinking.
Friday
The day's journey to avoid the smoke of the wildfires took me to Mt. Hood, a place I had visited with John back in 2011. Making the trip north on Rt. 97 and first passing through desert lands with an Old West feel and then beautiful forests as I approached the mountain, I realized that the appeal of Oregon for me was not necessarily the tourist attractions but the ambience I felt driving towards them.
I reached historic Timberline Lodge with Seymour in tow, prepared to enjoy the outdoors and hike somewhere. Having made no preparations prior, I simply decided to climb up Mt. Hood as high as possible without having a specific trail to guide me. I tried to follow what seemed like somewhat of a beaten path, trying not to slip as I was wearing running shoes that did not have the sturdiest traction and with Seymour continuously trying to wriggle out of my backpack in an attempt to hunt native wildlife. Eventually, I made Seymour pose for a selfie with me near the building for the mountain's Magic Mile Chair Lift and, as I felt myself slipping down the mountain while trying to take our picture, I was startled by someone above me on the ski lift asking if the snake was real. "No," I lied, took the selfie, and continued my trek upward, eventually climbing well past the end of the ski lift, meaning I was well past 7000' in elevation. About 1.5 miles into my climb, I could no longer see a clear beaten path forward. Looking down at just how I far had climbed, not having the most appropriate footwear, remembering how steep parts of this journey was and having a legit fear of climbing down things, I saw no one had gone higher than me, proved whatever stupid point I was trying to prove to myself, and decided to descend. Hardly tired and hardly thirsty, I nonetheless descended very slowly, as if I was gently stepping on glass at times because of my trepidation. I eventually made it down to the base, took a brief 1.5 mile walk on the Pacific Coast Trail, and then explored Timberline Lodge, gladdened to have found Huckleberry Jam at a gift shop. I do not even like jelly, but I love Mark Twain and so bought a jar.
On the way back, I stopped at a Chevron in Redmond, Oregon to fill my tank. Regular fuel was $4.79 a gallon, easily a $1.00/gallon more than in Delaware.
Saturday
I no longer had my rental car, John had to work, so I spent the morning with John's wife Melissa, walking to a local farmer's market. We got in line to get fruits and vegetables from a popular local vendor, and I was glad to serve a purpose by carrying a portion of Melissa's purchases. I was worried about being a burden, but Melissa seemed to enjoy walking with me to the various vendors as I enjoyed the ambience of a true farmer's market. Organic goods? Check. Craftspeople with soaps, art, and candles? Check. The stereotypical angelic female singing in a lilting voice while playing an acoustic guitar? Check. Delicious homemade slices of pie? Well, there was pie to be had and I bought two slices, but...
Melissa and I walked back to the house and while she made various salads with her purchases, I went for a 9.4 mile run at a location she recommended, not quite following the paths suggested, but instead finding some nice dirt trails and climbing some nice hills.
After running and showering, Melissa offered to take me around the main part of Bend, knowing I was on a quest to buy a green shirt that said Oregon and to shop for souvenirs. We went window shopping in many stores and, when entering one that I would never have entered myself, felt a bit like a husband who was about to lose a lot of money as his wife goes on a spending spree. When strategically appropriate, I indicated to the various sales ladies at the various stores that I was just the best friend of her husband and would implicitly not be involved in any $500.00 art purchases to be contemplated.
There were some very nice things to buy (re: expensive) in other stores such as coo-coo clocks made in Germany and athletic gear from a Swedish manufacturer, but I made no purchases and, as we headed back to the car, asked if we had time for me to see what, if any, chess books were in the nearby Deschutes Public Library. We did. The geek in me dashed upstairs and was stunned to learn that this library did NOT follow the conventions of the Dewey Decimal System, instead confusingly clustering books by subject! Eventually, after a search that took too long, I found what books they had, and we left.
Shortly after we reached the house, John came home and the three of us took a walk to a local pizzeria. The slices I ate, despite having a bit too much garlic in the sauce, were quite passable as non-New York slices go. We sat outside the restaurant, had a nice conversation on a pleasant evening, and headed home.
Sunday
John and I drove in the morning to hike Tumalo Mountain. One thing I learned from beginning this hike, as well as earlier climbs up Lava Butte and Mount Hood is that I get tired at the beginning and talk as if I am trying to catch my breath and then, as I become accustomed to the hike, start to get stronger. Halfway through the hike I was walking with vigor and carrying on a conversation without a hint of fatigue. Even John, an experienced hiker, was starting to betray a bit of breathing as he verbally responded to whatever stupidity I was saying. At this point, I had earned John's buy-in that, yes, I did run up Lava Butte on Monday without stopping. Eventually, we reached the top of Tumalo Mountain, joined about five minutes later by two women who we had earlier passed. The brunette of the two was quite fetching, easily the second most attractive woman I saw during my entire Oregon trip. We took pictures of them with their cell phones and vice versa.
Fears of the descent followed, and I was tip toeing down at various points until the mountain started to plateau and, about a mile down, it happened. A large contingent of young women in the same sports uniforms were climbing up the wooded path we were headed down, first a group of ten or so and then 15 yards or so away, another ten or so, and then another group of ten or so, and finally the adults who must have organized what some rudimentary research showed was a local school volleyball team on a team building exercise. More than one of them were bemoaning the difficulty of the walk. This entire scene was so out-of-place, so bizarre, and it paradoxically reminded me of the movie Gettysburg when the 15th Alabama climbs the wooded hills from nowhere attempting to storm the position of the 20th Maine on the left flank of the Union Army on Little Round Top. In fact, I would have been barely more surprised if it WAS the 15th Alabama that had approached us.
We made it to the bottom, and I took pictures of scenery that interested me before driving to Mt. Bachelor, the mountain I had really wanted to hike. John and I spent some time there, then drove back to Bend first to walk around the Deschutes River, and then to get some ice cream. We watched some MST3K shorts, then went for a run. John stopped after running about a mile and I continued, which turned out to be a terrible mistake. I did not realize that the air quality had taken a drastic turn for the worse in the hour or so I was inside until I was about three plus miles or so from the house. I put my COVID mask on and headed back but felt really off after I finished. The middle of my chest was hurting, and I was feeling nauseous and a bit woozy. I ate some dinner and then watched a movie titled Jesus Revolution (starring Kelsey Grammar) with John and Melissa, which I did not realize was based on a true story until the end.
The chest discomfiture did not subside during the night. I woke up after roughly 200 minutes of sleep, then tossed and turned in a vain attempt to find the optimal position for comfort, never resuming my sleep.
Monday:
Plans to see the Lava Cave were cancelled by me because I was still feeling out-of-sorts, although the chest pain was starting to subside. John and I continued a nearly four-decade tradition of audio skits that I hope will never see the light-of-day in my lifetime. Unfortunately, I was not able to deliver my parts with the over-the-top verve needed. The rest of the day was spent recovering.
Seymour and I arrived at Redmond Airport to begin my flight home quite early, feeling somewhat better but concerned how my nausea and chest would fare even on the brief first leg of my flight to Seattle. The first leg went well, with Seymour and I having two seats all to ourselves and I having no issues. However, we had a three-hour layover in Seattle. I was concerned about the lack of food options as I strolled down what I thought was the entire corridor of the airport. Worried I'd be starving, I went to a small store, bought a Betty Lou's Cherry Fruit Bar, which the packaging promised "Tastes Like a Piece of Pie," and a pack of Justin's Peanut Butter Cups for at least some nourishment, and asked the woman at the register if there was any place in this complex to get pizza. She told me to try Pellino's and gave me walking directions, which I followed. After making a right turn down a corridor I had overlooked, I suddenly saw plenty of dining options, souvenir and convenience stores, and plenty of room to sit in a two-story wing brightly lit by the sun. It was as if the heavens had opened. I found Pellino's and had the best Margherita pizza I've had in a long time. The crust was perfectly crisp, and the ingredients were fine. I spent some time eating, charging my phone, and reading a biography on Nathaniel Greene, the American Revolutionary War general for whom the city of Greensboro, NC is rightfully named, and headed to the waiting area for my flight. When the call for the flight came, we got in line, scanned my ticket, walked past, said a brief prayer, and got on my flight.
One of the stewardesses gave the presentation on safety and then requested that no passengers eat anything with peanuts because one passenger had a "severe" peanut allergy. Recalling my Justin's Peanut Butter Cups purchase, I muttered, "aw, shucks," or words to that effect, with only the "piece of pie" and some Cheez-Its John had packed for me for the trip. The flight to Philadelphia itself was a red-eye where I was supposed to arrive at 6:15 AM Eastern time. I slept most of the way, diligently keeping my cell phone and wallet secured. We landed on time, got off of the plane, was prepared to eat my peanut butter cups waiting for my luggage, remembered that the allergic passenger might be in my vicinity, and held out. Thankfully, there were no passengers allergic to mouse squirrels, so Seymour was just fine.
