Today was supposed to be a rest day, but I ended up putting too many city miles on my chassis. At the Western Antique Aeronautic and Automotive Museum, W.A.A.A.M., I stood and strolled and chatted with three mature volunteers and a bit with the founder Terry.  I was there for human interest, leaving the nuts and bolts to JG to understand. JG loves antique planes, but the dozens of aircraft and motor cars looked alike to me. I am all over the difference between a yew and a hemlock, or a woodchuck and a hedgehog, or a biscuit and a scone. But good lord, the refinements of a Piper Cub, an American Eagle Eaglet, a Cessna Jenny or a Buhl Bullpup escape me. I enjoyed the stories the volunteers told me about daring flights, harrowing crashes, man in machine versus Nature. “Glacier Pilot”, by Beth Day, was recommended by Felix, in case anyone else prefers the adventure to the mechanics of aviation. 

The museum’s history is brief but singular. The founder, Terry Brandt, collected old planes and cars. In 2007 he opened a museum, recruited a board for his 501(c)3, and donated his collection to his exempt organization in a clever bit of generosity and tax planning. His father made his fortune in a uniquely California way. His father built a machine to shake almond trees at harvest, saving the labor to pick them. And thus the commercial almond groves from Fresno to Merced were born.

We looked at a stunning variety of old planes and cars, each one in flyable or drivable top condition. Alan:  “You’ll see drip pans under the planes and cars, but not under the volunteers.”   Felix: “You’ve heard of UFO’s? That’s short for Unidentified Flying Octogenarians. My biggest trouble is getting into the craft, so I leave the flying to the young pups… I came to Hood River thirty years ago from Los Angeles… I could’ve gone broke working my father’s lumber business, but instead I went into the Air Force, then worked as a commercial pilot for Continental Airlines, then retired to an apple orchard and hobby aviation. There’s always something to do.”

There will be a local car show of antique cars, the Concours d’Elegance, in August in Pebble Beach. I mention this for the contrast. We paid $17 each to see over a hundred antique aircraft and autos. Tickets to the Concours cost $425 each to admire parked old cars, no planes.  I remain an inveterate bargain hound.

We spent some time hiking in Deschutes National Forest near Sisters, OR. JG and Joulie found the Pacific Crest Trail trailhead from Highway 20.

JG hiked what he described as “a good workout,” which means the scenery was boring, to Square Lake.  He intended to write a blog post but got distracted watching TV with me instead. The Hearing on the insurrection of January 6 on CBS was absorbing. JG: “I felt glad that the hearing was presented so compellingly but worried that it will change few people’s minds.” As for me, I want to press charges. Mark Milley should at least get canned. 
So as to soothe any dyspepsia from politics, I offer a photo of pasture pets, alpacas grazing across the street from our hotel in Sisters.

The next day we headed back to one of our favorite rivers, the Metolius. The headwaters spring from a fault between lava cliffs. We chatted with two sporty mountain bikers — iron thighs in black Spandex — planning to bike from the Metolius headwaters to Round Lake, about a three hour round trip. JN: “That’s bad ass!“ Mountain Biker: “No, dumb ass!” I decided to count them as a Wildlife Sighting.
We hiked from Wizard Falls Fish Hatchery to Lower Canyon Creek Campground, then returned for a picnic, all in light to medium rain.  I saw a river bird, which I later identified as an ouzel. Abundant riverbank shrubs included mountain cherry, hazelnut, willow, strawberry, and vine maple. We about had the trail to ourselves, save for a badass muddy trail runner and his fearless badass leashed Goldendoodle. In 2018 we were here with Marco.  When lapping up a drink, he slipped and fell into the river. I hauled him out by the harness.  Also, I remembered taking his picture with JG in front of these springs feeding the Metolius. 
In 2022 we thought fondly of him, our companion on many hikes. Also different in 2022: Joulie, not the rig. Also different: almost no guidebooks, only Apps and internet. 

The next day we moved on to the Mount Hood National Forest. It is a temperate rain forest, not the dry pines and high desert of the Deschutes NF. We hiked the Tamanawas Falls Trail in medium to heavy rain with temperatures about 46 degrees. We had lots of young people for company. Our rocky, muddy path along Polallie Creek was bordered by mountain hemlock, vine maple, yew, cedar, fir, hazelnut, huckleberry, fern, and many kinds of wildflowers. This trail sees heavy use but still seemed wild and serene. “Strong medicine,” say the natives.

From the Willamette Valley we drove east through farmlands, then burn scars, and then the scenic Central Western Cascades.  In the former, fields were dotted with pasture pets like ponies, alpacas, and Pygmy goats as well as cows, sheep, and horses. The naming convention for roads here is wonderfully simple, if the streets aren’t numbered. Look for tree names, people names, and feature names.  Some street names I’ve loved: Goldfish Farm Road, Fish Hatchery Road, Mill Pond Road. We stopped at many of the empty Willamette National Forest campgrounds along the North Santiam River just to look around. Whispering Falls was our favorite.  I couldn’t imagine camping with little ones here, though. The river is too swift and treacherous, the bank too slippery. The kids couldn’t roam freely. After an overnight in a rustic fishing lodge on Detroit Lake, we continued on to Sisters, named for the three volcanoes about ten miles south of the town.
In Sisters we are in a dry pine subalpine forest. The architecture is by design Old Timey Times Western, with false fronts and Western-themed hand painted signs.  By chance the Sisters arena is hosting its annual rodeo, so locals are excitedly asking us if we’re in town for the rodeo. JG: “the what?” was a pretty good answer. 
I am musing about the competitive nature of sports.  In Eugene we had hotel breakfast with the track and field team from Liberty College in Lynchburg, VA. They were in town for the NCAA Track and Field Finals. I watched some of these track heats on ESPNU.  What incredible athletes, competing for hundredths of a second, just for the glory!
I also wrote about man versus bull in the bull-riding competition.  Now I’m seeing competition even in Eugene’s Owen Rose Garden.  Experienced, respected judges decide which new hybrid rose gets to be named and patented. Since I personally have grown rotten loser roses, good only at displaying three kinds of mold and two kinds of aphids, I can understand this type of contest.  But a televised “Wiener Dog Championship,” in which adorable dachshunds in chic hat and coat ensembles strutted before a table of judges left me scratching behind my ears in dismay. Don’t all dachshunds believe they are perfect? And aren’t they all?  

On a road trip, there will be setbacks. Despite my precautions, I hurt my foot. I reactivated an old injury from 2018 and my inflamed foot won’t bear weight without pain. I am bearing up quite well under the stress of staying off it.  Not a burden to prop my feet up with an ice pack and watch TV. I take rest days seriously. I have a very good Rest Ethic: No, I am not going to swell like bread dough, become a lazy slug, or wallow in self pity. JG: “That must be frustrating, to be injured.”  He manages all kinds of risky outdoor choices and remains unfazed. Those who have hiked or skied with us know I am the Voice of Let’s Turn Back while he is ready to push, ford, or scramble. So now I am comfortably ensconced with hotel ice, allowing time to heal me. JG is taking on trails suggested by our favorite Oregon guidebook author, Bill Sullivan, then guest-blogging about them. It’s all part of our story. 

This hike is four miles south of Sisters, OR, on a forest service road. It’s a hike on an easy trail following Whychus Creek (pronounced why-choose).  The area around Sisters has rich but thin volcanic soil over igneous rock. Swift flowing Whychus Creek has been cutting through this to form a modest scenic canyon. Away from the creek the landscape is semiarid; rainfall is reasonably abundant, but the thin soil retains water poorly.  
Scars from a fire two years ago are slowly healing. The trail was mostly easy walking, with a few hundred yards of scrambling over steep, rocky sections. 

Eugene makes a favorable impression on tourists: leafy, prosperous, and functional. The streets are extremely clean. Traffic rules are observed. Single female runners trot safely during daylight hours on city streets. Older women in neon colors on bikes with panniers called out greetings to me, recognizing a sister. Hybrid buses travel routes that reach to the suburbs on the transit system called Emex, for Emerald City. Seattle is also called the Emerald City, but City of Eugene says it claimed the name first.  We are staying across from the Emex transit hub and have seen about two panhandlers with similar signs: “Disabled Vet. Anything helps. God bless,” and only one abandoned tent.  The park-like area under the downtown overpasses leading to the highway and bridges was surrounded by cyclone fencing and signed, “Restoration in Progress.” Spray-painted on the concrete column supporting the overpass was the heartfelt wish, “Fuck Yer Grass.” It reminded me of a news story last week, that an arsonist had torched City of Santa Cruz work vehicles and spray-painted “Stop the Sweeps!” where the trucks were garaged. Sweeps are when the authorities displace homeless people camping on city lots. Ha, Eugene, our nutty anarchists are more destructive than yours. 
While walking back from the river at sunset, we encountered a few rougher sorts: a profanity-shouting female meth head, an old drunk awake but in a stupor, a Goth longhair in black naughtily letting his hairy white backside pop out of his low-slung track pants. Could be Santa Cruz.
Coincidentally, Bob Dylan was performing that night at the downtown Hult Center. The gray hairs waiting to get in looked like our Opera San José crowd, but dressed for a barbecue. Bob Dylan, age 81, is coming to the Santa Cruz Civic later this month. Tickets will cost $326. It is not called the “Rock Me On Your Walker” tour. Maybe he’s singing “Whoo-Ee! Ride Me High Out of my Depends.”  Or “The Kids Don’t Call No More Blues.” Or “Blue Pill Saturday Night.” Or “Don’t Think Twice, I Can’t Remember Shit.”
Artists get to grow, change, and age. You may recall  Bob Dylan was publicly Born Again and wrote album after album of slick Christian praise music.  I guess if you do enough drugs, you end up seeing Jesus whether you’re dead or alive. There’s no shame in growing old, only shame in becoming a shill of the Christian Right. 
Clockwise from Top Left: Rosa Parks, Door to U of OR Library, Restroom Sign, Hotel Window View, Oregon White Oak on Campus

Clockwise from top left: Monument to honor those of Japanese descent interned during WWII, Informative Placard, Rhododendrons, Variegated Japanese Maple, Rhododendron, Variegated Beech. 

We drove about 14 miles southeast of Eugene to hike the Buford Nature Preserve and the Arboretum at Mount Pisgah. This arboretum specializes in native trees of the Willamette Forest, but also had exhibits on native plants, the indigenous people called the Kalapuya, and on forest ecology.  Obviously schoolchildren are entertained here.  Some of the amphitheater areas had displays around their perimeters, encouraging visitors to stroll and learn.  As we hiked, we heard so many different bird calls because we were near wetlands.  I especially enjoyed an exhibit informing me about different forest fungi and their role in stimulating new growth. Then I hunted fungi on the trail. Again, the trails were practically deserted. Oregon parks are so uncrowded.  

Located on the august campus of the University of Oregon in Eugene, the JSMA featured a truly gorgeous exhibition of Hung Liu’s mixed media art. Hung Liu was an artist creating propaganda under Chairman Mao before escaping to UC San Diego in 1984. Then she taught at Mills College and continued to paint and draw her own vision. She died of pancreatic cancer last year, leaving a legacy of social realism paintings made from old photos, drawn with a fiercely humanist, anti-injustice slant.  I had come to the JSMA to see the exhibit on Russian Christian icons but it was the works of Hung Liu that transfixed me. http://www.hungliu.com/

There is an interesting story about real estate developer, gazillionaire, art collector, museum’s founder and dad, Jordan Schnitzer. In 2015 he and his then-girlfriend Corey Sause conceived a child through assisted reproductive technology: his sperm, her egg, and a surrogate mother.  Corey and the pregnant lady surrendered all their rights to the child contractually. A few years later, Jordan and Corey broke up and she sued him for joint custody of the child, arguing that the right of motherhood could not be signed away. A judge in Multnomah County, Portland, agreed. Then Jordan appealed. The Appellate Court reversed the lower Court’s decision and found for the Defendant, upholding the written contracts Corey had signed. Corey has vowed to appeal to the Oregon Supreme Court.  I’m interested in this case. It has overtones of Medea, a bitter ex using the son as a pawn to hurt the lover who spurned her. And it portrays a modern view of motherhood, the Mama Bear willing to fight to defend her young. And it also tests the limits of contractual agreements.  If Corey prevailed, surrogacy and assisted reproductive techniques would be dead in the water because the underlying contracts would be invalid. 

It wasn’t my idea to stop in Myrtle Creek, next to the Tractor Supply Store. It was Joulie’s.  That’s where the next I – 5 northbound Supercharger is. Myrtle Creek is capital C Country. Pickups. Livestock. Feed stores. While JG tied the nose bag on Joulie, I looked around at some XL white men dressed in country casual: knee-length cargo shorts, dark T-shirt or hoodie, and the three B’s: beard, buzz cut and baseball cap. I saw a sign, “Skid Steer for Rent.” While I was imagining cattle skidding around, JG explained that a skid steer is a small multipurpose tractor, like a Kubota with useful blades and buckets.  How worldly he is!

Then we landed in Springfield, Eugene’s ugly drainage canal of a twin city. Eugene, the attractive university town, has kept chain stores out of its downtown. So they have all built outposts in Springfield. Eugene controls its traffic and offers parks, murals, and public art. Springfield is good at untrammeled urban sprawl. 

As a traveler, I’m Country-curious. In Springfield I watched  the buckaroos of World Rodeo Circuit on TV, event bull-riding. Fascinating commentary from the announcers: they introduce the rider by name, age, and hometown. They introduce the bull by name, weight, and reputation. The riders need to stay on the bull’s back as long as possible, up to eight seconds, to win prize money. The bull needs to buck that cowboy off ASAP or it ends up as steak dinner. It sounds like this: Cody Stanton, age 25, from Charmless, Oklahoma riding Terror Tank, 1800 pounds, from Shoestring, Texas. Sage Kimnitz, age 24, riding County Jail, 1900 pounds, from Asqueroso, Arizona. While I watched three young men go flying off their three bulls, the announcer intoned, “it’s a good day for the bulls today. That makes it Bulls versus Riders three to nuthin’.” Riders now wear body armor and helmets, thank goodness. Rides are timed. The winner stayed on 6.66 seconds.

Here’s a lively bit of prose praising a famous rodeo bull:

Red Rock was unridable, not because he was mean or temperamental, but because he was smart. He could somehow sense a rider’s moves and then pull a swift and effective counterattack. I now invite my readers to invent fanciful names for rodeo bulls. Feel free to share them in the comments section, or email me.Here are some of mine: Dark Star, Captain Danger, Friday Night Bender, Psycho Killer, and Toxic Masculinity. JG added Big Snort.  Any ideas?

With input from Miriam, see comment, I propose all-purpose pseudonyms for drag queens, roller derbyettes, and rodeo bulls: Manic Panic, Unbroken, Aces Wild, and Cheatin’ Heart.