19. Oregon Coast

I grew up in the mountains, so it’s no surprise that I love them. And probably no surprise that I love water since I grew up on a river.  But I also love the ocean.  I can’t say I’m particularly fond of being out on the open sea anymore than I like being on the open plains, but I do love the crashing of the surf, tide pools and all the amazing sea life.  So my love of the Oregon coast seems obvious. There are the mountains smack dab against the sea, sometimes almost violently crashing together. It’s absolutely beautiful.

            The Oregon coast is also very rural.  You remember all those small American towns I spoke of in an earlier entry?  That’s all there are on the Oregon coast.  True, they can be a bit touristy, but why not when you’re in such a beautiful setting?  The heavy forests of the Pacific Northwest meet the icy Pacific waters to form misty days.  Summer is almost always cool on the coast because the heat east of the Coast Range causes the icy waters of the Pacific to steam up creating fog and rain on the west slopes of those coastal mountains.  Winter is winter here, so it’s damp, wet and cold but not freezing like inland, again because of the tempering of the Pacific.  If you just want beautiful, warm sunny days on the beach your best bet is the autumn when the chill starts gripping the interior landscapes and the winter rains haven’t yet hit.  Spring can also have some beautiful sunny days, but spring in the Northwest can never really decide if winter has gone.  I’ve been in Newport in March and that’s when I’ve seen snow frosting that Coast Range even as the sun shone brightly on the beach.

            I love the Oregon coast. It’s beautiful, not usually my preferred weather… but I’m so thankful for it.  Just thinking about it makes me want to go on a run through the woods pretending the breeze is coming off the surf.  But right now I’m several hundred miles inland…

Blossoming

Blossoming

Watering from the sky gradually decreases

As summer waxes itself into existence.

And here I am looking at the flowers before me

Knowing, as I do, that now I have to depend

Upon that reservoir of water to keep them

Blossoming.

Even sunshine can be relentless without clouds

And clouds heavy and gray can bring a revival.

Is it paradoxical that we need them both?

Is it ironic that when the sun shines I crave

Rain with its heavy, chill that oppresses the soul’s

Blossoming?

Stored away like some mushroom in a dark chamber

Or sitting at a picnic table in sunshine

I ponder these seasons within myself, yearning

Never to be alone in darkness or the light

And paradoxically it is glimmering,

Blossoming.

Running with Age

As I get older I find I have to repurpose my running. When I was younger I used it primarily to compete. It was the one thing I really felt competitive at and I almost didn’t know what to do with it because I was good at it. I also relished the fact that people thought I was crazy to just go out and run six miles. I would enter road races to improve my times and maybe come away with hardware. I would also go out and run to clear my head.

            Now my running is anything but competitive. I find that I actually have to roust myself to run most of the time. Now I run to escape the effects of aging and to compete against the downfall of my own body. I run to avoid excessive weight gain. And yes, I still run to clear my head, to run away from those negative thoughts of time slipping away.

            But sometimes I still just want to be that crazy guy who runs endlessly, and plenty of people think I am crazy but there are plenty more who run now compared to those old days when I stood out as a crazy. I still want to compete, though now I don’t consider people under 50 fair competition. I consider it competitive to maintain times and occasionally beat some older times. My competitive nature is not gone and sometimes that frustrates me because I am slower. And that is the part of my running that I am working on repurposing. That is the part of my running that sometimes makes it so I don’t want to go out running as much as I used to, the part that now notices more than ignores aches and pains. But even so, I still run and with each step I remind myself that I run to live as I always have. And living isn’t really a competition, is it?

18. Boise, Idaho

            I love Idaho with all its majestic scenery and variety of people, so it’s no surprise that, in spite of all the grumbling I may say about its growth and constant oblivion to the rest of the state, I also love Boise, the capital city. Boise is rich in history, specifically the history of Idaho. This is where all the repositories of the state are accessed, even while the many resources are scattered throughout the state. It is Idaho’s largest city and center of wealth. It rests on the edge of the Rocky Mountains where they meet the western edge of the Snake River Plain just before the Snake River descends into Hell’s Canyon.  Access to a variety of outdoor activities are right there from hunting, hiking, fishing, skiing, white water rafting and a zillion other possibilities. Since I am from the mountains of northern Idaho and used to the comfortable enclosures of trees and canyons, the open plain takes some getting used to.  But exploring the vast open spaces around Boise has gradually taught me a new beauty of sunsets, approaching storms, and the big sky.

            The Boise River flows through the city and the founders of the city had great foresight in encompassing those river banks with beautiful parks and a green belt for running, biking, or just moseying through the city without noticing city. I love the museums and the library and fish (both real and artistically rendered) in this Boise River Greenbelt space. The foothills are a pleasant place to rise above the crowds and traffic and look over the city. At night it sparkles like a jewel in the desert. Boise State University campus blends from the busy buildings and traffic into athletic fields and stadium just above the beautiful riverbank parks. The capital area is at the center of downtown and historical buildings from the city center to the geo-thermal wonders of Warm Springs Avenue seem to flow from the steps of the capital itself. It’s a wonderful place to explore and the sun shines there most of the time. I love it.

Toppenish

17.  Toppenish, Washington 
There are certain landscapes that I grew up with a prejudice against because I came from timber country. The irrigated desert landscapes of southwest Idaho and central Washington are among those types of landscapes. I don't like the smell of cattle and sugar factories. I don't like the idea that Mexicans are exploited for their cheap labor by wealthy conservative farmers. I don't usually like the lack of trees and the open feeling of vulnerability from the plains.
     So having presented a glimpse of my dislike of such landscapes it will surprise you to know that one of the places I am thankful for is a small town in the Yakima Valley of central Washington. I have actually grown to love Toppenish, Washington.  It has all those things about irrigated landscapes that I mentioned above, but in their own quirky ways those very things have caused me to really love Toppenish.
     First of all, Toppenish is on the Yakima Indian reservation. It is home to all kinds of farming of fresh produce – asparagus, corn, melons, apples, pears, cherries, peaches, etc. It is also home to beautiful hop farms and vineyards and that means wine and beer. You can't go wrong with wine and beer.
      The town itself shows signs of tensions from a combination of ethnicities. Many stores have bars over their windows and you will always be able to find graffiti tagged onto walls. Mexican food abounds – and I mean authentic Mexican food. You can buy authentic tacos and burritos and… at small restaurants or street vendors. The new thing over the past 20 years has been the abundance of murals painted on buildings everywhere chronicling the history of the Yakima valley.  In Toppenish cultures come together on a collision course that splatters itself into the barren Yakima Valley in an explosion of beautiful colors and flavors and that makes me forgive any stench of a dairy farm.  Toppenish really is where the West still lives and thrives in a beautiful throbbing heartbeat.

Bloomsday

            On Sunday I ran Bloomsday with my oldest son. It is a 12K (7.46 miles) and I hadn’t run anything further than four miles in the last month (mostly because of having hernia surgery in March). I thought I would be sore, but instead my legs just feel a little heavy and sluggish. I convinced my son, Forrest, to run it with me because I didn’t feel I could possibly sustain such a distance mentally without some help. I knew I would have to walk. I also knew I didn’t want to run that far alone because I would undoubtedly walk more than I would need to.

            When the body takes so much pounding the mind says, “You’re going to be sore. Don’t you want to take it easy?”

            And the body says, “While you’re not all wrong in the head, I can handle quite a bit. What’s seven and a half miles compared to all those marathons we’ve done together.”

            And then I tell them both, “Look guys, I don’t want to get injured. I’m just coming back from hernia surgery.”

            And both my mind and body respond, “Take a friend.” So I did. I took my oldest son, Forrest, and we ran it in an hour and 18 minutes all with a compromising plan. Walk breaks.

            We decided to walk after every two miles. And we pretty much walked all of Doomsday (counting it as our walk after mile 4). When we got to mile six I didn’t feel such a need to walk so I said we could keep going. But Forrest wanted to walk. The last straight stretch before the final turn began to feel eternal. The sunshine, even though the temperature was cool, seemed relentless. Literally running stoplights seemed like some nightmare of hell. That’s when I started noticing my legs aching. That’s when I started noticing hot spots on my feet. I was ready to walk. And that’s when I heard the theme from “Chariots of Fire.” And that’s when I knew we had made it.

We ran through the finish line. We saw friends from Potlatch. We felt the mist from Spokane Falls. It was elating. Neither of us knew whether we could make it so easily. But we did. It felt good.

My body said, “That wasn’t too bad.”

My mind said “You did it. Good job!”

Riggins

16. The things that make Riggins, Idaho unique from any other place in the world are probably its isolation and canyon setting. The Salmon River Canyon is probably the second deepest canyon in North America since it converges with Hell’s Canyon (which is considered the deepest).  Having grown up there it’s hard getting my head around the idea that it is unique, but in reality there is no other place like it in the world. The fact that it is such a tiny little place also sets it apart (not even 500 people). Each person throughout the history of the town has their own individual view of the world as do I. I always think of Riggins as a little timber town resting at the confluence of two rivers in a spot (ironically) where very few trees grow. Now people think of it as a haven for outdoorsmen and white water rafters but when I was growing up those things were definitely secondary. Timber was king, and ranching was a close second. Yes, I grew up hunting and fishing and hiking and floating down the river but those were mostly just part of life and having them be destination vacation sorts of things seemed, and still seems, slightly ludicrous.

            But the genius of life may very well be its absurdity. For instance, think of how easy it would be to merely view the Salmon River Canyon as a dry and barren place isolated from civilization—the cup pretty much dry type of place. You can certainly think of it as a desert place with prickly pear cactus, black widow spiders, scorpions, and rattle snakes. Yet I grew up believing and still believe that it is pretty much the center of the universe over-flowing with eternal springs of life giving water. And that sort of idea about the place has turned it into a destination vacation spot for sportsmen in spite of the fact that the timber industry took a big nose dive in the early 1980’s. That’s crazy isn’t it?

            So I’m really thankful for that little spot on the map and the foundation it gave me to take all the lemons of life and make them into lemonade. Our very lives are a paradox. We shouldn’t be here, yet here we are. Riggins should have dried up when the mill closed, yet there it is. Give thanks for all the absurdities of life.