It was the best of times...

[Warning to the reader: Get a cup of coffee. This is a long one]

Oh. My. God.
What a day.
I barely know where to begin.

But before we start: you know how I pooh-poohed that notion that we regularly "pack it in" or that our days somehow demonstrate superhuman energy? Well, after this day, let's just say that my hat is delicious, if chewy.

Truly weird morning spent over breakfast at Cousin's Restaurant & Saloon in The Dalles, Oregon, where we heard they had some faboo cinnamon rolls. There was a live radio show being taped at the table next to us, and then a commotion as there were apparently 4 members of a rock band eating two tables over, their gargantuan red tour bus outside. I am SO old. The kids were lined up for autographs, and there was quite a buzz. I had no idea who they were, but I told Phoebe they were musicians. She wanted to know how I knew. You woulda had to see 'em. It was a hard thing to explain (or rather, another hard thing to explain). I settled on "no one but rock musicians look like that". She looked confused and said I didn't make any sense. Hey, it was the best I could do. (the band was Poison, by the way...am I hopelessly out of touch?). They are good cinnamon rolls, by the way--we took one "to go" and ate it later. Oh...and Susan, I'm quite sure this is what you had in mind when you encouraged us to get people to take our photo together...right?


We wanted to take in some local sites before we left town (we're on the Oregon Trail, remember?). So we visited Pulpit Rock, a huge rock where preachers would perch in the mid-1800's to deliver their sermons. We each climbed it with great authority, because, as you know, we have Important Things To Say (and don't you know it).

We stopped at the city park, where the claim to fame is this stone marker, which proclaims "The End of the Oregon Trail", a claim that rightly belongs (in one sense) to this place.

You see, up until 1846, the overland portion of the Oregon Trail did indeed end in The Dalles. From that point on, emigrants had to dissassemble their wagons, build or hire a raft (to hire one cost $100--in 1843..can you imagine??) and float (if you could call it that) and portage the rest of the way down the Columbia River to Oregon City, like this exhausted but intrepid pioneer family:


The trip down the Columbia was extremely hazardous--many drowned--but it was the only option. After 1846, there was a road (if you could call it that) that was an alternative, but more about that later.

[I know. You're done with the day already and ready for a nap. Wake up! It's only noon!!]

We moved on to the Columbia Gorge Discovery Center, to learn more about the river, Lewis & Clark in this region....WAIT! THERE'S MERIWETHER LEWIS NOW, ACCOMPANIED BY THEIR GUIDE, SACAJAWEA!



It was a wonderful museum, with a large children's activity area (YAY!) with crafts and a wide range of other activities, from collecting fossils to balancing the freight on a river barge without the ship tipping.

And, then, dear friends, we moved onward. Bravely onward. Foolishly onward. We couldn't float down the river, so we figured we'd better take the aforementioned road, which is called The Barlow Road (after the guy who built it and operated it as a toll road). As our guidebook suggested, we picked up a Forest Service map and a guide to the Barlow Road and took off. It is the Long Way Around, but it doesn't involve drowning or dying, so that's good. The road essentially goes around the base of Mount Hood, through what is now National Forest land. For most of the drive, it's breathtakingly beautiful. But....

Well, you know we have this thing about authenticity (to the best of our ability, right, VR?). From the start, we wanted to feel the experience, imagine the experience, walk in the emigrants' footsteps whenever possible. It's what led us to our moving experience at California Hill in Nebraska--remember? Well, today it meant following the advice of our guidebook and another brochure, and going offroad to try to drive a portion of the actual Barlow Road, rather than the approximate path provided by legitimate roadways. So when we saw a sign, we turned off. It was hairy. We tried to imagine what it would have been like in a covered wagon, which wasn't that hard in this case, as we were bumpily driving over roots and stumps, straddling deep ditches, and trying to stay on the upside of DEEP ruts. Now this route goes through the woods of the Mount Hood National Forest. Deep through the woods, winding, curving, taking multiple paths at many points. As we all know [courtesy of Ronald Reagan--I know you've been wondering when I'd work him in], "when you've seen one tree you've seen them all", so we bumped and twisted and we turned and we jostled and turned and we twisted and we made our way deep into the land where all trees look...ahem....alike.

(Note to Family Members: This is the time to skip ahead)

Okay. We got lost. Really lost. Completely lost. In the middle of the woods. Me cursing myself for not leaving breadcrumbs...er...keeping notes about the path we had been taking. Maybe even glancing at the forest service map or the car's compass would have been a good idea (there's a point). It's not like I'm a neophyte--I'm a backpacker and backcountry XC skier from way back, I know all about this stuff. But no. We are confident. We are intrepid. We are stupid.

But just so you'll be proud, a few helpful facts:

We both hyperventilated as required.
We both panicked (a wee bit) as required.
We both got a little teary and pretended that we weren't, so that the other one wouldn't see.
I can't speak for Phoebe's imagination, but I briefly had all the appropriate lost-in-the-woods thoughts (insert the ones you imagine here, you're probably right)
I breathed deeply and said "We're going to figure this out". Phoebe said "Okay" (unconvincing, but sweet)

And then we found our way out. It weren't easy.

We cheered, we cried, we threw our fists into the air and shouted "ADVENTURE GIRLS!!!" many times loudly. And we had a cookie. And we didn't tell any of you, including our nearest and dearest, until right at this very moment. SURPRISE!!! (confetti, streamers, horns)

So we got back on the road. The real road. We ignored all the rest of the signs that invited us to rejoin the Barlow Road. Been there, done that, ready to brag about it, would do it smarter next time.

And then, without having a good sense of where we were, we turned a bend in the road, and up ahead of us, this is what we saw:


Mt. Hood. We both felt blessed. It was so beautiful. We stopped, we gawked, we said "Wow", we forgot about being lost. We stopped again 100 yards later, and then again, always with awe. We both cursed me (especially Phoebe) for forgoing our camping equipment for this trip (long story, I'll spare you), as we both SO wanted to plunk down and stay right there.

We continued, closer and closer to Mount Hood, including a side trip to Timberline Lodge, right at treeline (thus the name, get it?) on the slope of the mountain (complete with chairlift and summer skiing!). Oh, I want to come back here.

We made another stop, deep in the woods (on the road this time) at the Pioneer Woman's Grave, an incredibly moving grave of an unknown woman who died just short of her Oregon Trail goal. It obviously holds deep meaning for a lot of people, as over the years, travelers have continued to pile up stones and leave flowers and memorials at this site. There is also a stone marker and inscription here, it's just not in the photo.

And we still weren't at our destination. I KNOW!

Sadly, reluctantly, we left the woods. We descended from the base of Mount Hood, we drove through the foothills, and we entered what was, in the 1850's, celebrated as "civilization", but which can now only be termed "urban sprawl". It was a rough transition, rougher than most, after a day that brought both the greatest challenge and arguably the most breathtaking beauty of the entire trip.

Tonight, we write to you from Vancouver, Washington, home of Fort Vancouver, the last stop on our trip before our arrival tomorrow in Oregon City, the end of the Oregon Trail. This is a big big place, with lots of highways, traffic, malls (mini and otherwise), buildings, and people.

Phoebe was SO right about the camping equipment. I offered my deepest apologies and made unwavering assurances that, like Joe in "Joe vs. the Volcano" (if you haven't seen it, you should...NOW), wherever we go, whatever we do, no matter what--we're taking it with us.

Maybe this is what "pining" means...?