Soup de Jour-Humble Pie

Soup de Jour- Humble Pie

      I’d been giddy about the trip since early Spring.  It was called simply “The King’s Sheep”.  The route was named appropriately by intrepid back country adventurists Forest McCarthy and Brad Meiklejohn and it begins in Chickaloon.

    It was a grand plan;  We left on foot up the Permanente trail, ascending 20 miles up the King River valley on foot.  The trail was a tidy four wheeler trail that we abandoned when we crossed into the West channel of the King.  

Nap on the Permanente

From there we made our way along the gravel bars, crossed the river plenty of times and had to bushwhack quite a bit too.  Once we made it to the the headwaters of the King we picked our way up into it’s Northeastern pass past the watchful eye of a bull caribou.  In the saddle we punched through knee deep snow and then stood in awe at the expanse on the other side.  It would be our next obstacle; The Talkeetna Glacier.

Brian on the divide

   Descending the pass and picking our way onto the glacier around obvious crevasses was delightful.  An easy two mile walk down the glacier had us below  firn line and although we walked on solid ice, it was littered with every manner of silt, sand and gravel;  boot traction couldn’t have been better.  Bigger rocks and boulders were also present and grew in number as we approached the terminus.  All during our glacier travel we followed countless glacial run-off streams of various sizes.  Once crystal clear, the water grew murkier the lower we got.  “Brian look.”  We were near the terminus of the glacier and the streams had gathered into well-worn ice trenches.  The water here was now a milky/tan color.  Rolling and boiling in the mix were dark rocks of all sizes and they were caught-up in a gravel conveyor belt.  “It looks like chocolate chip cookie dough.” I told him.  The streams joined each other in a gnarly water park slide that spiraled down a moulin that disappeared into the bowels of the glacier.   

strolling around a well defined crevasse

    Carefully we picked our way over the medial moraine dividing the Talkeetna and Sheep Glaciers eventually making our way down and eventually off of the glacier.  Glaciers are always tricky to get off of and this one was no different.  As we passed under the giant toe of the Sheep Glacier it’s many veins of cookie dough run-off  spat it’s rocks down upon us as we scrambled quickly underneath.  The raging Sheep River roaring next to us was so loud that we had to shout to communicate.  “Keep your head up for rocks.  We need to move quickly.”  We scrambled over the rocks that varied in size from beach balls to refrigerators.  Many of them had been deposited in their current position recently and were not particularly stable.  Some would move, roll and settle underneath our feet whereas others didn’t budge.  It was hard to judge which was which.  After a few near misses with wayward overhead rocks, we made it passed the fall zone, took off our packs, and took a break.  

Talkeetna Glacier

Meltwater draining into moulin on left

   Over the course of the next several hours we would continue our journey over, around and through the terminal moraine of the glacier traveling adjacent to the Sheep River that was an amazing spectacle in itself.  

       First decentest Andrew Embick, in his book “Cold and Fast” calls the Sheep River a class IV run with a mandatory portage around a class VI gorge below the glacier.  This seemed about right to me as we hiked our way as far downstream as possible.  Often our path took us to river’s edge where, again, we were impressed by the power of the river.  McCarthy and Meiklejohn by contrast, found the float to be mostly class 3.  We found out later after comparing photos taken from similar locations, that they had completed their trip in much lower water, which Brian and I both agreed would have been much easier.  McCarthy’s blog post video shows a leisurely float and is set to Canned Heat’s “Going up the country"   Although I jokingly sang this cute little  jingle throughout the trip, this was not the song  that would set the tone to our own float. I’m thinking more along the lines of Metallica’s " Through the Never " More on that later.

Mars

    We camped in the valley of an old lake bed that had drained in dramatic  event that geologists call Jokulhlaup.  There was no doubt in our minds that such a powerful event could have happened in this place.  Immense power of erosion was not only evident all around us but was actually happening right before our eyes and ears.  At night in the tent we could hear the deep rumble of boulders being rolled down the Sheep River.  We were passing through ground-zero of glacial erosion and it was quite austere. We found a lone sandy oasis situated in the dry lake bottom.  There wasn’t anything green besides our tent visible in any direction and and it felt very much like Mars.  The next day we descended the valley into the bushy lowlands where I exclaimed, “It’s good to be off of Mars.”

     After carefully negotiating our way around a lone brown bear that was making his way up the valley, we continued hiking downstream as far as we could.  We wanted to get as far downstream where we hoped the river would “settle-down”.  

I pushed this boulder in.  It was fun.  I cheered.

The Sheep was still a raging torrent and we weren’t ready to begin floating in such fast water.  

Brian demonstrating textbook form on a
small tributary of the mighty Sheep.

There were several times that we had to climb up-and-over spots where the river was pinned-in by canyon walls.  One such traverse require a bit of technical climbing to scale a rock face covered by loose moss and alders that were by-and-large dead, brittle, and of no use.

Brian topping out after a good scramble.

Finally after hiking as far as we could, it was time to camp, collect ourselves and prepare for our first day of pack rafting.  We launched into the Sheep River the next morning.

    The first half of the day was amazing.  The water was fast and decisions had to be made quickly.  There were several large wave trains that we negotiated brilliantly and things were looking up.  As we got lower in the valley the river spread out into multiple channels.  The water was still fast but the volume in each channel was  smaller than when the river was all together but now we were into the wood.

    Suddenly as if we were in slow motion, we got tangled up into a sweeper.  Thinking that we had plenty of time to stop ourselves and get to shore, the swiftness of the Sheep kept us under it’s power and we could not stop.  After grabbing a volleyball sized rock on shore, I finally came to a halt with twenty feet to spare but Brian was having the same trouble as I was.  As he came barreling by I attempted to grab him with my other hand.  When I did it dislodged the rock I had a hold of and we spun into the sweeper hide, guts,  feathers and all.

    Brian had the presence of mind to work his way on top of the tree that sucked us in.  In the fracas, we swapped boats, lost a paddle, and Brian went for a cold, cold swim.  Up shit creek with out a paddle...literally.  

      After weighing all options we decided to utilize my newly acquired Delorme inreach.  With it I messaged my wife who was on-point and got us the help we needed.  Within a couple of hours our friend Bill Starr was flying overhead and was able to drop us a spare paddle.  In the meantime I whittled a spruce-pole insert that fit into half of my kayak paddle in case Bill couldn’t make it.  That way, I figured we could each at least have a canoe paddle.  Looking back I’m glad we didn’t have to make-do with such a set up because as it turned out, we weren’t out of the woods yet.  A single paddle wouldn’t have been enough to maneuver us well enough in the swift waters to come.  We made the right decision.

     Soon we were back in action floating our way down the valley.  The water was still swift and braided but we proceeded with caution and pulled-over to scout anything questionable.  That night we camped on a sandbar and prepared for what we thought would be an easy float out to the Talkeetna River and then on to Talkeetna.

    As it turned out the Sheep wasn’t done with us and although the river was mellow to start, it didn’t last long.  We were floating side-by-side telling jokes and stories when Brian cut me off.  “What’s that?”   I turned to look and I could hear the upcoming roar and I could see the dancing water dropping away from view.  We got our game faces on and prepared ourselves mentally for what was to come.  

   At this point we had learned to become exceptionally cautious and we pulled over several times to scout corners that we could not see around.  On the third scouting stop we hiked a half a mile on an island so we could check out any obstacles.  When we got the the end of the island we decided that it looked good as far as we could see down river.  We hiked back up stream, dragged our rafts a bit and then set off once again into the mighty Sheep.  

    I led and negotiated around an overhanging birch and a boulder mid-stream.  Just as I was about to join the larger channel, I noticed a whole 60 foot spruce tree coming down stream essentially cutting me off.  It was coming from the other channel upstream. “Whoa”, I thought. I let it pass and then turned my boat upstream and paddled to give myself some room.  After it passed and I saw Brian coming down behind me and I turned myself downstream.  After a moment, I turned to check on Brian and suddenly and quite unexpectedly he had flipped; his raft was upside down.  Although we had negotiated what we thought were much trickier sections thus far on the trip, the seam of the two channels traveling at different speeds sucked his leading edge under catching him off-guard.

    Although the water was still moving quite fast we were luckily at the top of a fairly straight section without obstacle.  Brian fought to flip his raft back over without success.  His forty pound pack was strapped to the top of the pack making it cumbersome and awkward to flip.  I threw him one end of a throw bag and I held on to the other.  I grabbed his paddle and tried to tow him.  This didn’t work.  He let out a bunch of line on the throw bag and I tried to tow again. This too was not going to work.  I found it hard to bare down on my paddle while trying not to lose his.  Finally he let go of the rope and his raft and made for shore.

     It was a sickly feeling when I lost sight of him and I tried to focus.  I had floated to the bottom of the straight stretch of the river now and it was decision time for me.  I wanted to grab his raft but I didn’t want to get flushed down the channel to my left that I discovered later was littered with four spruce sweepers that spanned the whole channel.  I kept my eye on Brian’s raft and was glad that it seemed to be following me.  I decided to paddle quickly to the island between the two channels, ditch my own raft on shore and catch Brian’s raft.  

    I grounded my rafted, ripped myself from the confines of my spray skirt and threw my raft up onto the beach.  I sprinted down the beach and jumped into the water only to discover that Brian’s raft had taken a different flush of the current and was way out in the middle.  I floundered up past my waist and soon realized that there was no way on God’s green Earth that I was going to grab his raft unless I swam for it.  Since I wasn’t even sure of Brian’s well being I decided against it.   

    I ran back up to my boat, crossed the swift channel above the sweepers and crawled onto the bank that I hoped to find Brian on.  I ran down the bank and finally I found him standing safely on the bank, wet and cold but alive!  Words cannot describe how glad I was to see him there.  And it was at this point that we both realized that we were in a bit over our heads.  We started a fire.  

       Few words were exchanged as the gravity of the situation began to seep into our bones and it wasn’t long before we set into motion the destiny of the completion of our trip.

   Although we were about 20 miles from Talkeetna as the crow flies.  We both knew that it would be a serious undertaking to bushwhack our way over land through some of the wildest country on earth.  If we had to, and if we wanted to burn up another four or five more days of our summer we could have hiked out. But as it was we had no need to prove ourselves in this way and it wasn’t long before I sent another message to Tamra.  Within an hour and a half we heard the whump whump whump of the chopper blades making way up the valley towards us.

    “Hey Paul.”  It was Paul Roderick.  Paul is owner and operator of Talkeetna Air Taxi and as a matter of coincidence he flew Brian and I out to Denali base camp on our summit trip a few years ago in a fixed wing plane.  I did not know he was a helicopter pilot too but it was comforting to see someone that I knew.

     In the end I was just glad to have achieved my lifelong goal of staying out of the newspapers and we did not have to initiate the emergency response team.  A sweet chopper ride with Paul sounds much better.  For a fleeting moment I felt like Magnum P.I flying over the expanse below albeit not Hawaii.

    “Hey Paul, do you think we could see if we could locate Brian’s raft on the way back?”  I asked.  This was an option that I knew the Alaska State Troopers would not afford us. “Sure.”  We took off down river and finally about eight miles downriver there it was upside down at the front of a big log jam.  We landed on the skinny sandbar, jumped out and grabbed it.  And then it wasn't long before we were back in Talkeetna.

    

     RIP Stubbs.  Stubbs is dead.  Local news reported from ADN today tops the list of compelling news stories of late.  Apparently Stubbs, Talkeetna’s so-called Mayor was reported dead on his un-official face book page, at least for a while until someone reported that he was not dead, that he is actually still alive! Hallelujah! 
What is this Game of Thrones? Stubbs the cat, Mayor of Talkeetna apparently is alive and well and prowling the streets as frisky as any live cat should be.  
 Instead of spending his spare time crafting fiscal policy or planning for his next campaign, Stubbs can usually be found traipsing about in the West Rib pub and by 4:00 all bet’s are off because Stubbs, forsaking all other engagements can always be found on the bar enjoying his poison-of-choice; catnip.  Good copy.

Stubbs, taking full advantage of his position of power settles-in,
collecting on a few well-earned comforts.

   

Jackass

Jackass

    The electric pulse of the alarm clock wasn’t much of a surprise on this morning;  I was already awake.  I made my way to the shower and like most every morning I found myself center stage of my very own concert.  Sweet. Random songs always pop into my brain in the morning.  I repeated a few verses of today’s song as I scrub-a-dub dubbed.  

Unlike my lovely wife, I am a morning person.  After a good night’s sleep it never takes me long to shake off the cob-webs and suddenly I am up and Adam.  Jumping-jacks anybody?

Morning time is my most productive.  After feeding the dogs and making coffee, I usually make breakfast and lunch for Tamra and the kids.  If there is anything else that needs to be done, I’m more likely to get it done in the morning.

     When I came out of the bathroom I noticed that Tamra had overslept a bit, and so I did what any loving husband would do.  I proceeded to wake her up....with song, of course.  

Home, home on the range

Where the deer and the cantaloupe play-eee!

     At this point I noticed that she was rolling up into the blankets, cringing a bit, but I am not the kind of man who is discouraged of such things.  Call it tough love, call it what you will; I wasn’t stopping.

Where seldom is heard

a discouraging word

and the skies are not cloudy all day-eeeeeeeeeeeee!

I’d like to think that I really poured-it-on at the ending and truth be told my gym voice suffered a little that day because of it, but I figured that it’s worth it, after all she is my wife.

     By now she had grabbed a nearby pillow and covered her head with it.

“Hun, it’s 6:37.” I said.

The covers flew back and then finally I got a response out of her but it wasn't the response I was expecting.

“You do know that I’m not going to work today don’t you?” she said sternly.

It all came flooding back;  she was taking Hazelee into a doctor’s appointment later in the day and she was trying to sleep in.  Oops.

Recognizing an Unintended Yet Authentic Compliment

     It was Sunday and Tamra had been busy all morning cleaning the kitchen and living room.  The house was looking nice.  Anyone with kids knows how difficult it can be to maintain a tidy house.  I was doing my part clearing snow from the driveway.   

    This was the last day of our Spring Break and we had awoken to a foot of fresh new snow.  After a couple of hours of snow blowing and shoveling I unloaded our snow machines off of the trailer and lined them up neatly in the driveway.  We would go riding later.   I was kinda proud of my neat and tidy snow removal job.

    “See you later, I’m going to go see Jojo.”  Tamra’s aunt was recovering from a knee replacement surgery.  

    “Okay, see you later, have fun.”  

    So there I was in the kitchen holding-down-the-fort.  The kids were upstairs and I had just began cooking some chowder.  I had a few packages of Kirby’s razor clams thawed and the moose- bacon was already sizzling on the stove.  I dumped in the diced red onions, carrots, and celery.  The aroma was filling the room. This is going to be good, I thought.

      Although there wasn’t even so much as a knock, suddenly the front door swung open.  Was Tamra back already, I thought?

    In walked a couple of Japanese girls.  They looked to be mid twenties and were now standing in the arctic-entryway apparently making themselves at home.  They were wearing trendy clothes and had carry-on bags in their hands. My mind raced.  Are we expecting company? I thought.

    “Hello.” I said.

    A smile overcame me as figured it out.  Our next door neighbors run a fairly busy bed and breakfast.  Often throughout the summer, rental cars will come wheeling up into our driveway asking directions and wondering if this is the right spot.  It doesn’t bother me, in fact I find it complimentary that so many folks mistake our home for a fancy bed and breakfast worthy of rental.  

    I have had conversations with wayward travelers from England, Australia, Germany and after today, Japan. “Next one down” I tell them and although they are really close to their destination, for some reason they always seem to pull into our driveway.  

    “Check-in?” The first girl said.  It might very well have been the only words of English that she knew.  The strong Japanese accent was unmistakable.  Although she was attempting to communicate with her limited English, her eyes were looking up and into the greatroom.  Both of them were checking out the place.  Eye-contact was lacking as per Japanese culture.  It was obvious that they just wanted to be welcomed-in and shown their room!

    We have a lot of cool Alaska “stuff” hanging on our walls and banister.  Under the high arch leading out of the arctic entry is a large caribou rack.  I’ve got a bunch of furs hanging on the wall from trapping and hunting, and the two giant spruce burls are centered on the living room.  Our open kitchen is tucked into the back and can be seen beyond the river rock bar.  Our walls are covered with paintings of local artists.  

      I was amused at the situation and I tried to let them down gently.  “I’m sorry you’ve got the wrong place.” I said, “Next house down”.  I pointed in the right direction but there was still confusion in their eyes.  After another minute or so of confusing and somewhat pantomimed communication there was suddenly understanding.  It was like a light bulb was turned-on and suddenly they seemed to understand.  I picked up on a slight change of demeanor though and I got the distinct feeling that they were in fact let-down.  

  Walking backwards, they backed their way out of the house still looking around at all there was to see in our home and still avoiding eye-contact.  

    When the door shut close and I had a chance to reflect on the moment I headed back to the kitchen. I might have been walking just a little bit taller than I was before.

Harrison B&B???

     

     

Shamrock Race Review and Keeping Portland Weird (one pub at a time)

Shamrock Half Marathon Race Review

Nice weather.  Let's go run 13 miles with 3000 of my closest friends.

    The word of the day was rain. Not drizzle, sprinkle or mist.  Solid, steady, unfaltering rain.  It was the Portland Shamrock run so I had to wear green but I was beginning to doubt my choice of clothing.   I thought that my green Alaska Moose shirt would be a good idea but it wasn’t; it’s cotton.  Oh well.  I pulled it on and carefully slid it over my band-aids that were strategically covering my nips.  I had a bad experience a couple of years ago in the Mayor’s marathon in Anchorage.  I had felt a little rubbing half way through the race and by the end I had blood stains running down my chest on both sides.  Fun. This time I would rock the bandaids.  

    It was almost start time so I began to peel off my outer clothing.  Tamra was there with my backpack and I stuffed my coat(s), and pants in there.  It was cold and I wanted to stay bundled-up until the last moment.  “The race begins in one minute!”  The announcer was on-point entertaining and informing the crowd in between songs of energetic music that was pounding through the loudspeakers.  A couple of girls stood atop a scaffolding dancing and singing with colorful outfits high above the crowd.   30,000 runners would brave the weather today. I was running with 3000 of them in the half marathon.

    “Have fun babe.” She told me as the crowd moved closer to the starting line.  Tamra was my support team and had planned-out her cheering spots along the course.  

   “Ten, nine, eight....” Finally a big siren went off and the big pack of green runners lurched forward and suddenly we were off.  

    Within the first half mile we passed under a bridge where a guy was playing the bagpipes.  This is cool, I thought. It was a good spot to be out of the rain.  Portland is known for its bridges and there were many spectators that were finding refuge underneath them.  

    There would be about ten more bands that played upbeat music along the course.  Some were school bands, others were local musicians volunteering their skills adding much to the good cheer.  

     The race followed an industrial frontage road alongside the Willamette River.  I was holding my own comfortably behind all of the speedboat runners but in front of the tug boats.  I was more like a cruise ship making my way and flowing along.

    Observation:  There is no one body style that is prevalent at these things.  You would think that distance running would be dominated by tall, thin, runner types. This is not the case; tall, small, big boned and even chubby runners share the road and as it turns out anyone with the persistence and dedication to train can prepare themselves for a given distance.  

    I was impressed when I was passed by a guy that fit the Irishman stereotype.  He was a couple of inches shorter than me, a little stockier than me, and had a gnarly ginger beard to offset his bald head. Awesome. He cruised by me effortlessly wearing nothing but green shorts, and running shoes, pouring rain dripping off his orange beard.  I thought that maybe he could have been late for a power lifting contest.

    Next we came back into downtown Portland running through the streets passing pockets of cheering fans and before long I saw Tamra.  She was cheering and video taping me at the same time.  I ran over to her to drop off my fancy green gloves that I had bought that morning.  My hands were the only part of me that was warm now and it was time to get rid of them.

     In fact at this point I was very wet and cold and I was trying my best to enjoy the race.  My shirt, hat, shorts, running shoes, and socks were now wringing-wet as I ran through, around, and over the big puddles and streams that had overcome the streets.

     It is a practiced skill to be able to block-out the misery of such things and sometimes it’s hard to find something positive to embrace.  Since I’d never been to Portland before there was a lot of new stuff to see and this was the focus of my mental efforts.

  After slowly climbing upwards, out of the city and into the nearby hills I found myself running in a lush green forest.  “Hey this is just like Hawaii.” I heard a guy say behind me.  Visually he was right.  Big ferns lined the edges of the forest where they met neatly trimmed lawns alongside bike paths. There were beautiful flowering trees with pink blossoms interspersed in tidy little parks along the way.  I wanted to chime-in with something like; Yeah, just like Hawaii without all that pesky heat, but I was too tired for sarcasm.

     The hill I was running-up seemed to go on forever.  Far in the distance I could see runners still winding up and around the corner.  

    Finally we topped out and began the four mile descent back into downtown towards the finish line. I was glad to be running down hill; it’s my forte.  I realize that is a lot like saying I’m good at eating chocolate or I’m a really good sleeper,  but clearly you’ve got to go with what you are good at.  I probably passed over a hundred people on this stretch and I wondered if I would see the Irishman again.  No chance.  He was probably already at the pub clutching his second pint of Guinness.

    It felt good to have a strong finish.  At the finish line I was handed a medal, which had a beer opener built into it, and an official Shamrock finisher's towel.  It was a cool little hand towel with Shamrock screen printed on it but considering how wet and cold I was I was longing for something bigger like a beach towel.

    There was a bunch of other free stuff that I could have indulged in too like beer at the Widmer beer tent, and there were hot bowls of smoked salmon chowder somewhere as well.  “What do you want to do hun?” Tamra had found me and congratulated me on my efforts.  She had my backpack of warm clothes, her umbrella and a warm smile.

    I was cold and as I reached over to grab a chocolate milk from a friendly volunteer I felt my legs beginning to cramp. “I think I better go back to the hotel and take a shower.”

Keeping Portland Weird One Pub at a Time

     So here we were in Portland doing our best to celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary.  After tackling the half marathon in the pouring-rain it was time to our get boots-on-the-ground and check out all the hype.  Is Portland as weird as they say?  If so, how do you keep it weird?  Is weird a good thing?  I had questions.

  First things first.  There are a couple of Portland nicknames that kept rearing-their heads and I had to know more.  Bridgetown is one of them and it’s easy to see why; There are bridges everywhere.  I found out later that there are currently fifteen bridges that span the Willamette and Columbia Rivers.  Another nickname, Stumptown I had to look-up.  Wikipedia says this: “Stumptown was coined in a period of phenomenal growth in Portland after 1847. The city was growing so rapidly that the stumps of trees cut down to make way for roads were left behind until manpower could be spared to remove them. In some areas the stumps remained for so long that locals whitewashed them to make them more visible. They also used them to cross the street without sinking into the mud.”  

    There wasn’t a single stump in-sight as we left the hotel, so we were free to pursue other things...like beer.  If there’s one thing we love it’s beer and food and although that’s actually two things (hey that’s pretty weird!) they go hand in hand and we made a point of exploring as many local brew pubs as we could.   Portland was recently named beer capital of the world by Beer Connoisseur Magazine.  It is home to over 85 breweries and although we couldn’t possible get to them all it wasn’t for a lack of effort.

I very well could be......
the most interesting man in the world.  Best
Oyster bar ever.

    In the end we visited about ten brew pubs during our time in the Portland area including a few of my favorites like Deschutes and Full Sail.  They were all pretty darn good.  Below is an exclusive H-bomb’s review of our favorite stop. Party-on Portland!

    Ten Barrels brewing Co.  Score: 5 kegs+.  We stopped here for a pint and some grub located in the Pearl District.  Danielle Centoni of the Portland Eater calls the decor “renovated industrial.” And I have to agree.   On our way in we had to hold the door for an employee who was wheeling out a big trash can of spent grain. “Thanks dude.” He said.  The twenty something employees were rocking the flannel shirts, trucker hats and were super stoked to be working at such a sick hangout.  

Spent grain lined up right
outside the front door.

    Tamra was easily talked into trying what our waiter-dude called “the most refreshing drink you’ll ever have”  It was a sour beer infused with cucumber.

    “Well how is it?” I asked her after her first sip, “Is it that good?” I had to know.  

    “Yes. Here try it.”  Begrudgingly I took a sip and it tasted a lot like a sour beer infused with cucumber. Pretty refreshing. Huh, I thought as I reached for my own beer.

    

The simple graphics was
"weird"...yeah!

My beer was great too I had an American IPA and it had a smooth hoppy finish and was therefore delicious.  Although the beer was stellar, the best part of our Ten Barrel’s experience was probably the food.  We ordered this monstrosity of an appetizer simply called Gorgonzola steak nachos.  “Woah, I hope you’re hungry.”  Our waiter was impressed that we would order such a bold and burly plate of food.  

Hell yeah!

     It was a giant plate of seasoned fries and freshly cooked Cajun potato chips covered generously with grilled steak and bacon.  The whole damn thing was swimming in the most incredible Gorgonzola cheese sauce.  It was topped with fresh grilled jalapeño rings and diced green onions.  We didn’t come close to finishing it and the 14 dollar price tag was a bargain.  In the spirit of the super hip beer dudes at 10 Barrels I can truly say; it was totally amazeballs, and we weren’t even that hungry. Two thumbs up for Ten Barrels.

     

Tamra checking out a giant waterfall along the scenic Columbia Gorge.

    On the last day we ponied up for a rental and shoved off for the Columbia River Gorge.  It was well worth the drive.  Starting at the quaint little town of Troutdale, the old highway meanders along the foothills of the Cascades.  We stopped by a few incredible waterfalls and marveled at all of the hiking trail heads that took-off into the lush green hills.  “Look, there’s Sasquatch!” I declared.  Tamra didn’t even turn her head to look.  Her loss.

   We ended our drive when we discovered that the town of Hood River was the home of Full Sail Brewery.  There was no need to go any further. It didn’t dawn on me until I got there but Hood River is the unofficial wind-surfing capital of the World.  That’s why they named it Full Sail.  Apparently the wind is epic for some killer rides where the Hood River joins the mighty Columbia.  Inadvertently I noticed that there were several wind surf shops in town as we made our way over to the Full Sail Brewery.  We figured that we should probably cool-our-heels after such an intense day of exploring.  More and more I felt myself identifying with Lewis and Clark.  Too bad those boys couldn’t have pulled over for a pint of Session IPA back in the day; suckers!

    To end our trip we wheeled over to Canby to visit my long lost cousin Phil.  Phil had spent a couple of his summers with us during his adolescence and it was good to reconnect with him and his family.  Years ago I knew him to be “all elbows and knees” and by all means a nice yet goofy young man.  Phil has grown into a thoughtful, responsible man and it was nice to see how well he has done for himself and his beautiful young family.

After a great visit and home cooked spaghetti dinner we said our goodbyes and hit the road, back to Stumptown.  The next morning we would rise early and start the journey back home to our own family that we started fifteen years ago.  

Fifteen years and she still loves me. I am a lucky man.

    

    

We met up with Tamra's long lost friend Jen Maynard at Tugboat Brewery.

Strolling along the Willamette River

Two weird things here: 1) interesting way to off-load unwanted material from the
top of the building. 2) Interesting parking choice for the red truck.

You have to check out VooDoo Donuts don't you?

Weird

The Yardhouse

Banana Fritter at VooDoo.  Unreal.

The beauty of Oregon.