The End of the Trail

“The Pacific is my home ocean; I knew it first, grew up along its shore, collected marine animals along the coast. I knew its moods, its color, its nature. It was very far inland that I caught the first smell of the Pacific.”---Steinbeck

The Pacific is NOT my home Ocean, born in England and crossing the North Atlantic as a boy, but it is by far the ocean I know the best, having seen it for 5 years living in Hawaii, and having flown over it countless times. And as you travel through Oregon, especially along the wide slash known as the Columbia River Gorge, you do sense very early that you are nearing it. First the flora changes to what you think it should be in the Pacific Northwest, with dense dark pines covering steep hill sides. The the width of the river grows and the vessels upon it grow as well. When we pulled off into Portland, it is surprising that there remain two long, wide bends before the water turns brackish and too wide for bridges and spills into the ocean 50 miles Northwest.

The day's drive began with West Idaho, through farms and vineyards, although I have never met an Idaho wine. At Ontario we pass into Oregon, and the speed limit drops to 65 and the composite of the roadbed turns measurably rougher than anywhere in the previous 3500 miles. As we climb the Blue Mountains out of Baker City, the 65 mile an hour limit seems very sensible as the turns, climbs and dips are not as dramatic as others we have seen, but they would make an exciting ride at 75. In South Dakota and Wyoming I saw many a Minnesota license plate and a couple of Michigan ones. Now I see nothing from East of the Plains. I think this could be gas prices, but we have also now pushed beyond the scope of the Great American Roadtrip Vacation. The people on the road here seem to be of here. There is a mist on the Blue Mountains that I don't really know. I couldn't tell if it were fog, or low cloud or pollution, although I doubt the latter out here, where the only industry we passed was a lone cement plant.

We were ready for a break and we hit Pendleton. A struggling place that didn't share what it may have once been. But on the cut through road, I hit the first of the treasures that I-84 delivered. Hal's Hamburger Drive-In. An odd little building painted the shade of green common to old municipal water tanks. Here you pulled up, either in line, or to one of the speakers that looked to have been taken from the drive-in movie. I was in line, so the lively young carhop jogged out to us. I ordered a bacon cheeseburger. She said, "and a slice of bacon for your dog?" Despite her vegetarian mother and diet devoid of people food, I thought it was the treat Luci deserved. "Sure," I replied, "that would be nice." I tore the bacon into dog treat size pieces to hide its human-food nature, and fed them, most of them, to Luci, who enjoyed each appropriately, but not greedily.

I have tried to avoid hyperbole in my writing. But the bacon cheeseburger that arrived about 4 minutes after I ordered it was the best in the world, or at least the best I have ever encountered. The meat the right portion and quality, the bacon the thickness served in a good diner. The condiments classic and not sloppy, and a bun with great body, perhaps of potato bread. So say it is worth the drive may be stretching it, but certainly worth the choice of routing if ever you head to the Northwest. In town, across the tracks and past some sad housing we found a school, where she ran off her bacon chasing her frisbee, while I got little exercise, but basked in the afterglow of my sandwich experience.

Before getting on the highway we got gas, and Oregon, I believe along with New Jersey, remains a place where they insist on pumping it for you. "Minimum Service" the sign proudly proclaimed, and they delivered on the promise.

Soon after Pendleton you enter the Gorge, and spend the next 150 miles with Washington across the Columbia to the right of us and Mount Hood growing in front. The gorge is always wide, but variable, and we climb from riverside to hill tops as we gently curve along. As when you get to Portland, a view of Mount Hood is weather dependent, and our weather was poor there, this was the only time I got to see the mountain, and that is why I again thank I-84 for coming through for me. It is a classically shaped mountain, and seemed to be snowy from the point where it pushed above the surrounding range. Here the sky was still clear, except for one small cloud, that sat like a chinaman's cap atop Hood, and didn't vary for the two hours I held the view.

The drive continued past several dams as the river grew into recreational lakes again and again, and then we dipped south and hit Portland at evening rush. It is a big city, and despite its green reputation, it is a car heavy city. We hadn't seen this type of traffic across the country, and hadn't missed it. We got a little lost, got our bearings at the MacAdams Grill on the west side of the Willamette, and crossed back to find our hotel on the east side. The next 40 hours wrap up the road adventure and put us on an airplane, but there was a nice twist along the way. I will get us to the airport in my next post.