I am still in the Colombia River Gorge.
A few weeks ago I decided I would come out here to visit a friend. Without any idea of what I would do when I got there, I first bought a plane ticket and then told my friend that ready or not I would be there in a week. When he asked how long I would be staying, I told him that I had no idea, minimum a few days, at most four weeks. I wanted to check out the area and give kayaking a go and had the time, so why not?
Seven days later I boarded a plane in Phoenix with absolutely no idea what to expect. I had a dry bag full of clothes, a backpack full of boating and climbing gear, and of course, my spirit hood. I landed in Portland and will describe in in hipster-speak: Portland - Organic. Hipsters. Bikes. Beer. Green. Music. Need I say more?
Headed to the Colombia River Gorge in Tyler's truck which sounded like an overweight hamster being forced to run on the exercise wheel. Somehow we made it and only one part of the truck fell off (Tyler said it was non-essential). We head to the rafting headquarters just after dark where I meet three river guides all sporting mohawks or moustaches. Tyler informs me its Maugust. I can't believe I didn't know this?!
The gorge is easy to get lost in. Days blur together and the simplest things in life become exceptional. It is funny that in such an extraordinary place the ordinary things stand out the most to me.
My last three weeks I have seen dozens of waterfalls. I have rafted over a waterfall (multiple times). I have eaten more red meat than I do on Grand Canyon river trips. The people here are full of kindness and the place is magnificent. There are hidden lakes, creeks and lava tubes scattered throughout the old overgrown forests. Four volcanoes surround the area and on clear days tower over the Colombia River, full of kite-boarders and wind surfers. Life is everywhere. Waterfalls spout out from every break in the forests and blackberries glisten in the underbrush, waiting to be picked. The fruit out here seems to be bursting in its skin and at the slightest touch it pops, staining your fingers and lips purple with blackberry juice.
September seventh I go back home, back to the Grand Canyon, to the desert. There life is not gushing out in abundance, fat from excess, but rather clinging to the crevices, trying to live just one more day, and one more day after that. It will be a transition. I am excited.
*Are you allowed to call it a vacation if it is actually your current lifestyle? Maybe adventure is a better word.