Drifting

Big expectations were in store today, as we would see one of the planned highlights of the tour today. Crater Lake was about an hour and a half north of Klamath Falls, and we set off early, hoping to catch a window in the weather for that morning. The road up Route 97 took us along the barren shores of Upper Klamath Lake, before heading off the main road into a dreary and flat land of brown grass and pine forests. The climb in altitude would have been imperceptible, were it not for the appearance of patches of snow in the fields and forests around, patches that soon turned to a thick covering of white all over this isolated part of Oregon. It was as the covering of snow thickened to drifts of several feet on either side of the road that we began to worry if we'd ever get to the lake. And then the drifts were above the height of the car, whilst large patches of snow compacted to ice covered the road. We thought for a moment that we'd missed the turning, as we'd seemed to driving for ages, but this was more to do with the fact that we'd had to drop our speed to less than 20 mph in order to stay on the road. Occasionally, a snowplough would drive past, piling the snow way up onto the drifts to the side through a ten foot high blade.

The turning for the lake eventually appeared, but our relief soon turned to concern as the road condition looked even worse. The road snaked around wildly, which in combination with the covering of compacted snow and ice all over the road, made for real underwear-changing excitement. And the real prospect of becoming stuck and then having to be rescued (that is, if they got here before we froze to death), made for a real adrenaline rush.

But it was not too long before we arrived at the main visitors' centre. For all that we could have known, there might as well not have been a lake at all - you couldn't see anything beyond a few yards either side of the car park - the snow drifts were up to twenty feet walling in the whole area. And as we got out of car, wondering where the lake was, the true impact of the climate up here hit us. It was ball-breakingly cold. A howling wind dropped the wind chill to what must have been 20-30 degrees below. And although I had a nice warm coat and Doc Marten's, the lack of any head gear meant I couldn't hang about for more than a few minutes. That is - if I wanted to keep my ears. So how did Tim take the picture shown here? Well, the National Parks Service had thoughtfully provided a tunnel under the drifts with a viewing window at the end. The view through this window was almost disappointing. Having hyped up this visit so much through all the pretty pictures in the guide books (all taken during the summer - the only time when snow isn't on the ground here), I was expecting to be able to take a good walk around and down to the lake. Fat chance there was of doing it now though. Essentially, I hadn't done my sums. The surface of Crater Lake is just shy of 6000 feet. Where we were was perhaps a thousand feet above this. So 7000' @ 42°N in early March = SUB-ZERO. Still, the photo came out pretty well, and it was proof that we'd actually made it to this arctic place.

We warmed our asses with some respectable cappucinos in the visitors centre, before heading back out on Suicide Roads that would mean us, frustratingly, doubling back all the way to the junction with Route 97. This was because the road around the lake was closed in winter (not surprising really - the expense of keeping open roads for only a handful of intrepid or stupid [in our case] tourists must have been prohibitive).

Trees, green hills and rain

And so back on Route 97, we headed north through the interior of Oregon, headed for the Columbia River and the border with Washington State, some 250 miles north. It had to be just about the dullest 250 miles of the trip. 97 was a decent, straight road over easy grades, and we made good time by far exceeding the silly limit of 55 mph, yet Oregon just seemed to go on and on and on. Along this road, there was little in the way of interest. The villages we passed were few and far between, and the look of them was none to inviting. Although we were miles from the Appalachians, the film Deliverance kept nagging me uncomfortably as we passed ramshackle gas stations and general stores in the depths of the endless conifers.

As we passed through Bend, an unmentionably dull town in the middle of nowhere, the forest thinned out and farmland, or rather deforested grassland became more prevalent. Soon we were Back In England again, as we drove through an endless landscape of stark brown and green hills. We left the 97 at the incongruously named town of Madras (I can't think of any place less Indian Sub-continent than central Oregon), heading cross country over green hills, to join with the Columbia river at the ugly industrial town of The Dalles.

Once more I was foolishly deceived by the temptations and beautiful photos of the guidebooks. The Columbia River Gorge claimed to have some spectacular waterfalls cascading off the cliffs that drop into the wide Columbia River that separates Oregon with Washington. And the pictures of these falls, cascading down incredibly lush forests looked Eden-like. Of course, these pictures were shot on nice sunny days, which apparently only happen in summer around here. Unfortunately we were still in winter, which of course, isn't summer. Which, if you're in the North-West of the U.S. means, of course, lots, and lots of rain. I was warned about this general climatic view by many people, but in my blinkered view of seeing as much of the Pacific States as possible, Oregon and Washington were definitely on the route plan, and no piddly amount of rain was going to stop me!

Anyway, needless to say, we did see some rather spectacular looking waterfalls cascading off the cliffs that towered over the gigantic Columbia river and Interstate 84 that ran at the base of these cliffs on the river's south shore. Of course, seeing waterfalls pouring out of this rocks was no great surprise since we were trying to share the Interstate with 600 juggernauts and thousands of pick-ups in the middle of a huge downpour from the heavens. This was yet another of the many brown-trouser experiences that so "coloured" our 11 day trip. In addition to the waterfalls in plain view, there were many suggestions of ravines and gorges tucked away into the cliffs at various points, some of which were signposted, and for the fractions of a second that I saw these, as a passenger in a car at 70 mph, they did seem like some slice of Eden, just awaiting exploration, even in the rain. I think I'll return here and take a bite of that apple, but next time, make it summer.

Graceland, Graceland, Portland Oregon

The gorge flattened out into rolling hills, and soon we were in the outskirts of Portland, Oregon's big city, and for a long time, once the biggest port north of San Francisco. We didn't approach the city from a particularly pretty aspect. Much of the industry of the place lines the river estuary that historically had brought it so much prosperity. But as we made our way along a number of busy late afternoon freeways to the south-east of the city where we would find a motel, quaint neighbourhoods and suburbs came into view, which looked interesting even in the grey of rain. On seeing greenery everywhere and the characterful wooden clapperboard houses that seemed so un-Spanish, I'd felt we'd definitely arrived in the North-West. That, and the rain of course.

Hot for more value and comfort, we got in at another Motel 6, and then hit the city centre to catch a meal and a drink. Despite the bracing cold wind and the rain, I liked Portland. It had a pleasant old-town centre, with many large buildings dating back to its hey-dey in the late 1800s, a great Chinatown, and a long, impressive (but blue-bollock cold) waterfront onto the Willamette River. On the other bank of the Willamette is the new business district with plenty of dynamic looking skyscapers, with lots of glass and expensive, variously coloured floodlights. After the last few decades in decline, as Seattle became the principal centre of the North-West, it looks as though Portland has regained a sense of excitement and direction, less so as the industrial and commercial port of the past, but as a nice place to live. This new lease of life seems in part due to a migration of thousands of Californians, looking for a new way of life away from Valley Girl and too much sun.

As we wandered around the Old Town, we certainly gained a good vibe from the locals out for eating and drinking. They were definitely a different breed to Southern Californians, perhaps a bit more cynical, dare I say less American, and more English... But best of breed had to go to Portland's Elvis - a man with a plan, but also a kareoke machine, a stack of Elvis tapes and a conveniently displaced shopping trolley. Half-blind and wearing bottle-bottoms on his face, Elvis apparently tours Portland, cajoling amused, and knowing locals into helping him read tiny 4 point printed lyrics of the King's pre-recorded tape inlays, and then translate those words, to music, in something approaching melodious sing-song. Well, so much for the theory. Poor Elvis, wasn't quite of sound-mind, bless, but at least he wasn't begging for money. To him, this was for fun.

So all speculation is now laid to rest, Elvis is alive and well and living, not in Vegas, but in Portland, Oregon.