Words About Oregon
Reconnecting with Nature in Portland
I had an awful plane ride to Portland. Not from the usual aerodynamic bad luck, but because it was a modern, robust plane. One where every headrest has a TV flashing satellite programming by default, a miniature Times Square in the sky.
The tension lingered with me after I arrived, so as soon as I got settled I headed for Washington Park, the big green landmass on the map.
The park immediately pacified me. Not only because it eased the anxiety from the plane ride, but it was my first time in nature for months.
Before Portland I visited a string of huge cities, where parks were only urban planning projects to appease city-dwellers. Places like Central Park and Griffith Park can’t fully do the trick. The skyscraper skylines are still in view. The paths are populated with people uploading selfies. Parks like these offer little escape but from sidewalks.
By comparison, Portland's Washington Park is 413 acres of land. It still houses infrastructure and strangers, but the relationships are different. People greet each other on the trail, offering a simple acknowledgment of Oh, you’re here too. Most trees are just there, not a result of urban design. It’s special. Even though it shouldn’t be.
The Young and Old in Corvallis
Corvallis is a college town, and I stayed with some friends right on campus. I’d often work at the main library, and I rarely needed to leave the campus perimeter. Other than my friends, nearly everyone I saw each day was a college student. They look like children to me now.
This didn’t make me mournful for my youth or panic shop for anti-aging cream and a flat brim hat. Being around younger people doesn’t make me feel old. Change does. And I noticed little of it.
Mainly, college sounds the same as when I graduated over eight years ago. Student drivers still roll up to stoplights blaring ska music. Campus events still play MGMT on portable loudspeakers. I even overheard student theories on the differences between chugging and shotgunning beer, that old collegiate debate.
Maybe at that age we’re all susceptible to the same things. I remember playing newly-acquired Bridge Over Troubled Water and What’s Goin’ On CDs (Google them) during college-era family road trips. My father commenting that these albums came out when he was in college. I look forward repeating the cycle.
Someday I'll brag that Fleet Foxes came out when I was in college as my kids stream it on Spotify in our self-driving minivan. No, nothing really changes at all.
I did feel old when I took shelter from the rain in a local bakery, the type of place where typical conversations cover joint pain or the Broadway shows touring town.
I ordered a cup of coffee and Raspberry Cream Cheese Croissant Coffeecake, an item practically begging to be said in elderly tones. They served my items on a maroon tray and I carried it over to a comfortable booth. I felt like my 80-year-old self time traveled into my present body.
I understand why people go out for breakfast so often in old age. There comes a point when you’re not so sure of the days ahead, so you might as well start this one with a nice meal. Nobody wants to eat oatmeal for their last breakfast, and if they do, they deserve to die. (OK, a bit harsh.)
My grandfather’s usual spots were Bob Evans and Steak 'n Shake. They knew him by name and what he liked to order. I can see how these pleasant consistencies become more valuable over time. Don’t be surprised if an IHOP server ends up in my will.
Crater Lake and Our Dumb Brains
We arrived just in time to get a few clear photos of Crater Lake, but didn’t know it. Then my friend and I headed up a short trail for a better view. Less than fifteen minutes passed before a grey blanket of fog rolled in and covered everything in sight.
Fog is surprisingly scary, even when there’s nothing to fear. It jostles that instinctual part of us that likes to know. The logical part of my brain reasoned that there was nothing dangerous about the fog: We weren’t going to fall off a cliff or get hit by a car or swooped up by a hungry dragon. But the deeper, animalistic part couldn’t stop screaming "What’s out there?!" until the fog cleared.
Crater Lake is huge, but small enough to see all at once. It’s 4.97 miles across, but from above it looks easy enough to span by rowboat. It seems like a drive around the rim would be a short trip, but it takes about two hours. It’s in a sweet spot that baffles the brain.
Viewing it is akin to gazing at an ocean or the night sky, but fundamentally different. For the ocean and sky, the horizon and the stars are the limits of what we can see. We know there’s more beyond, but we need to imagine it.
With Crater Lake, the large and small are both in view. Imagination doesn’t come into play. Instead, a strange sort of compression applies, like a zipped format of understanding. We’re given everything in a manageable package, but know that there’s so much more than what we perceive.
