With the summer season dwindling down and our energies more or less sapped from a trio of rallies, we installed ourselves at a quiet little campground at Crooked River Ranch. It’s not easy to describe Crooked River Ranch because there really isn’t any town but rather a sprawling community along the banks (and into the canyon) of the Crooked River. There’s a golf course and some light industry, some mini-mansions and summer cottages and a whole lot of rugged scenery with sand and sagebrush and the snow-topped Cascades off In the distance. On the opposite side of the highway is the incredible pile of geologic formations known as Smith Rocks. And, above all, there is a whole lot of quiet. And probably more than one rattlesnake.
Just north of the small town of Terrebonne is a scenic overlook which affords a fine view of the Crooked River Gorge. 
This photo was taken from the “old bridge” toward the “new bridge” and gives some idea just how deep (and narrow) this canyon is. It’s difficult to imagine that smallish looking river has managed to carve a 600’ deep slit in the earth. It is equally hard to imagine how many folks managed to ignore this sign! (Click on photo to enlarge the image. “Back” button returns to blog). There is a rock retaining (or should it be restraining?) wall along the canyon edge but it’s not all that tall.
From our location in CRR, we made several forays to surrounding towns. We took the back roads to Sisters to enjoy the scenery and it was there that we came upon this alpaca ranch. With their wide variety of colors and their oddly sheared bodies, these cute critters made for an arresting display. Many of the area farm markets sell alpaca yarn and the garments knit from it, all at some pretty darn fancy prices. But when you consider the hand-work involved in carding and spinning the fibers, it begins to look like a real bargain. And it feels soooo nice.
Leaving Terrebonne, we headed northwest to Troutdale. The route took us around Mt. Hood and down into the Columbia River Gorge where we hunkered down to wait out the heavy traffic that Labor Day usually brings. It has been a number of years since we’ve driven the Old Historic Columbia River Highway and we had hoped to make that tour this year but, alas, forest fires rendered the air hazy for most of our stay and so we contented ourselves with lesser forays. 
On previous visits we’d more or less explored everything there is to see and so we were just a bit bored….so, what better thing to do than to make a trip to Boring. And it was. No false advertising here! A little further up the road, in the town of Sandy, we came upon the Sandy Historical Museum and discovered this wonderful old photograph. If brains are that cheap, why don’t we buy up a whole bunch and pass them out gratis to those who appear to be in need of some?
And with Labor Day behind us, we took off for another visit to the Oregon coast with dear friends Gail and Ruthee. By the time we finished weaving our way over the river and through the woods, they had already made camp and had dinner on the stove so we settled in, chowed down and reveled in the cooler coast temperatures. Our campground is notorious for its collection of half-domesticated rabbits and they soon came out of hiding and began their I’m-so-cute mooching. Unlike the wild bunnies of the area, these are not gray but come in a wide range of gaudy colors that could not survive in the wild. One especially large and aggressive fellow was tricked out like a calico cat in shades of orange and black on a white background. It wasn’t long before a cute-as-button honey colored little charmer befriended Gail and began a routine of racing to greet him every time he emerged from the coach. The little beggar even went so far as to try to climb into Gail’s lap.
On a trip into Lincoln City we learned about a large bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln, donated by the sculptress when Lincoln City became a city (instead of the five little towns it once was). But like so many free things, this statue ended up costing the city coffers ‘way more than anticipated since they had to pay for transportation from the East Coast, a spot to display it and routine maintenance on the little park that holds it. It did give the newly-minted Lincoln City an identity in a way that a new sewer system would not – that was the other project option the city fathers faced. A sewer system would be inadequate and obsolete by now whereas Abe provides a perfectly fine perch for seagulls and something for tourists to gawk at.
It must have been Darwin Awards Day on the day we chose to visit Pacific City. We had hopes of seeing some of the fishing dories coming ashore full speed ahead. There’s no dock. The boats just come ashore like so many landing craft at Normandy. As we stood wiggling our toes into the hot soft sand, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sea breezes we were able to observe several instances of What-Were-They-Thinking. Driving on the beach is allowed at Pacific City and access is provided via a paved ramp. Private vehicles go to the left, tow vehicles for the dories go to the right. One fishing boat didn’t quite get far enough ashore but the pilot and passengers got out anyhow and were standing around chatting when a bit of rough surf began to haul the empty boat back out into the ocean. Like a rodeo rider trying to mount a bucking horse, the pilot attempted to climb aboard and very nearly lost the boat completely - not to mention his own life and/or limbs. Someone was finally able to get aboard, start the engine and take the boat back out into deeper water. It was later able to land safely in the prescribed dory manner.
As this was all taking place, the driver of a van loaded with senior citizens decided that a drive on the beach would be a lot of fun. But instead of driving to the hard-packed wet sand, he turned smack into the super soft stuff and promptly sank to the axles. The old folks with their wheelchairs, walkers and scooters were off-loaded while a tow truck was summoned and the van ingloriously hauled out to solid ground. We hope the excitement wasn’t too much for any of the passengers. Because both incidents turned out well, we can laugh about it now but both situations had plenty of potential for serious consequences.
Gail and Ruthee had to head back home after only a week so we were on our own for another few days. We spent one afternoon whale watching in Depoe Bay and were treated to the sight of several migrating whales close in to shore, spouting and diving and roiling the waters. Of course it’s nearly impossible to locate them and snap a picture before they’ve submerged, so most of the photos were of bits and pieces emerging from the rather rough surf. And to wrap up this visit to Oregon, we traveled north to Astoria for a tour of the Lewis and Clark campsite at Fort Clatsop. 
Frankly there’s not much to see…just a recreation of the fort and a small museum with replicas of various items associated with the Corps of Discovery. It never ceases to amaze us how Lewis and Clark managed to get where they were going and safely home again, facing all sorts of dangers, in unknown territory. Even with the GPS to guide us, we got lost trying to find the fort.
Also near Astoria is Fort Stevens State Park, situated on a peninsula at the mouth of the Columbia River. Built during the Civil War by the Union, the fort remained in service through WWII and was meant to protect the river and her valuable ports. The coastline near here was actually shelled by Japanese submarines toward the end of WWII. As you’ll recall, Oregon was also hit by balloon bombs at Bly making it the only state to be “wounded” by the Japanese during that conflict. Unfortunately most of the military installations at the fort are accessible only on foot and so that precluded much sightseeing on our part. Neither of us is in good enough shape for such exercise and so we had to content ourselves with the small but interesting museum on the grounds.
So with summer over it became time to begin our trek back to winter quarters in Arizona. The route chosen took us down I-5 and into California. Our first planned stop was at Weed, a small community very near Mt. Shasta. Just three days before our planned arrival, a wildfire ripped through the town, destroying over 100 homes and burning many acres of surrounding forest. The fire moved fast, spurred on by 40 mph winds. Ironically, Mr. Weed (for whom the town is named) established his lumber mill here to take advantage of the drying power of the nearly constant wind. Because of the proximity to the town, the fire was fought very aggressively and was under control in just a few days. We ascertained that our campground was not affected and by the time we arrived things were as much back to normal as can be expected when such a disaster hits.
Although the fire came within a block of the Weed Historic Lumber Town Museum its curator Harold Orcutt was open for business on the usual schedule. 
Typical of many small town museums, the main collection reflects the town’s major industry but there are also small displays of other things, usually donated by long-time residents of the area. Harold led us through the exhibits and pointed out some of the more interesting objects, including a gloriously restored American LaFrance fire truck and this nice display of lace collars and other ladies’ finery. The fur neck piece had a particularly mean expression. Most of the burned-out areas were not open to non-residents (nor would we wish them to be) but you can see some of the burned trees behind the Weed sign. Oh yes, and there are plenty of souvenir shops selling all sorts of—snicker, snicker… Weed-themed merchandise.
On a drive northward to visit the Living Memorial Sculpture Garden, we were able to see much more of the burned out area. The road, which is a pretty heavily traveled truck route, had just been reopened. There was a police car blocking the entrance to the town cemetery but it looked relatively unscathed. The perimeter trees were charred but the lawns were green and the gravestones appeared undamaged.
The sculpture garden is 13 miles northeast of Weed on Forest Service land and features larger-than-life sculptures by artist Dennis Smith. The garden is “dedicated to veterans of all conflicts”. Again, some walking was involved to get up close to the statues so I opted to wait near the car. (Need I mention that the high desert landscape looked like prime rattler territory to me.)
And that brings us to the Sacramento River Delta. It’s raining and I’m watching a neighbor trying to load a big Harley into a small truck. Stay tuned for the results. Right now it doesn’t look good.
