Run DMZ

"Seven miles ahead to something truly amazing," the entrance station ranger said as we grabbed our map and fell into a caravan of cars, RVs, and trucks twisting their way toward the main attraction. After watching one rec van careen into the oncoming lane on a sharp turn and another continually crawl to accommodate cyclists without a bike lane, we opted to go the opposite way in search of better conditions to view one glorious hole filled with calm, clear, centuries-old snowmelt. This was our third attempt to visit the southern Oregon national park. The past two trips were thwarted by wildfires, now common during summer travel in the West. The first time, the park was open but smoke was so thick from nearby blazes that it made no sense to drive that far out of our way with limited visibility. The second time, two years later, it was a wildfire itself that closed roads to park entrances. Third time's a charm We decided at literally the last minute to turn off highway 97 to...

  It wasn’t until earlier this month that I learned one of our neighbors in Terrebonne is a movie star.    I recall my dad telling me about seeing it in some of his old-timey western movies, but nothing recent and certainly nothing starring actors like Kevin Costner and Reese Witherspoon. And yet, there on a plaque I read while listening to my sister puke was a list of contemporary films shot on location at Smith Rock State Park, including  The Postman  in 2000 and, more recently, 2014’s  Wild . (No, Smith Rock isn’t on the Pacific Coast Trail, but Hollywood has never been a stickler for accuracy.)   The Oregon state park is by distance less than a mile from the house we purchased once my parents both passed. But the drive takes about 10 minutes because of less direct roads and speed limits. Still, its presence is huge – for the town and for me personally. I came here regularly to heal from some pretty traumatic events. Yet the place triggers only good...

  Go anywhere in Central Oregon, and you will learn that every natural attraction is the result of volcanic action. The snowy peaks that populate an otherwise flat landscape? Volcanoes. The mountain people love to ski and snowboard? Volcano. The birthplace of American rock climbing ? Created from volcanic activity. Every nearby butte is a cinder cone created from magma bubbling to the surface. Even the waterfalls in my previous post  originate in ancient eruptions.   One of the best ways to take it all in also happens to be one of my all-time favorite places to visit when we're in Oregon:  Newberry Volcanic National Monument  outside Bend. The national park itself is huge and located within the Deschutes National Forest. When I say huge, consider it encompasses more than 54,000 acres of water features, lava and obsidian flows, hot springs, and unparalleled views. Even more amazing: the 1,200-mile volcanic area is still active from a seismic and geothermal stand...

We visit Central Oregon annually, and this year we elected to focus on fun for the three days we were there. I thought I’d devote the next few blog posts to some of the best places to hike in the Bend area, starting with a natural feature the Pacific Northwest is famous for: waterfalls.   Granted the waterfalls are spectacular along the Columbia Gorge on one side of the Cascade Range, but the Deschutes River is an impressive rival and can be experienced with less auto and foot traffic (if timed well). With all of these, bring water … and in the summer, bring plenty of it.   Tumalo Falls (outside Bend) North Fork Trail at Tumalo Falls   Day pass : $5/vehicle Restrooms : Portable toilets in picnic area near trailhead Let’s start with the big one:  Tumalo Falls . It's the photo that opens this post, and it's photographed more than any other I’ve seen. That's because of both its beauty and because it is  accessible for people who don’t typically hike (or even walk)....

  Just after my mother passed away, I convinced my dad to join us on a hike at  Smith Rock State Park . The volcano-induced spires could be seen from any vantage point in his neighborhood, and yet the closest he’d come to visiting the natural attraction was a late winter drive-by that I also encouraged shortly before my mother’s fateful cancer diagnosis.   The weather was perfect (I mean, just look at that brilliant blue sky!) as we gingerly made our way down “The Chute” to the river basin and crossed a wooden bridge to the most popular trails. We followed the Crooked River to the left and stopped to look up at the rock climbers. Some clung for life to minuscule crevices at improbable angles, while others dangled helplessly from safety ropes until rescued. We kept my rambunctious nephew in line and turned around at the “Snoopy Rock” since we didn’t want to push Dad’s physical capacity. He loved that trip and went back after we left, with plans to keep hiking through the s...

I spent half of this year unintentionally living in Oregon. That story is for another time. For now, let’s recall the high point of daily life then: the 30 to 45 minutes I ran in the morning. These runs happened just as the sun peeked over the gorgeous geological centerpiece of nearby Smith Rock State Park. More than once, they took place hours after I’d failed to fall asleep.  Sometimes I’d turn a corner and be gobsmacked by an incredible sunrise. More often, though, it was a gust of wintry wind. When I first tried to run, my legs and lungs rebelled. I barely made it 15 minutes before I was spent. I thought I was out of shape, but a nurse later told me I just hadn’t acclimated to the harsh temps and high desert elevation.  Even in late May and June, the outdoor thermometer registered in the mid-30s at dawn. It had been many years since I was forced to wear ear warmers and long sleeves beyond Memorial Day. I noticed snow covering a trio of volcanoes known as The T...

The day my mother died I was housesitting for friends with a hillside custom home and a Belgian malinois still warming to me. I’d called my dad in Oregon religiously since saying goodbye to Mom ten days prior. There really is no describing the pain piercing every part of you as you drive away knowing you’ll never again see the woman who made you.  The hospice nurses said she could go any minute, but as minutes turned to days and then to a week, I think we privately convinced ourselves she would simply live in a vegetative state forever. In reality it just took the cancer cells a little longer to consume her brain and shut down her ability to breathe. When she went, she went quietly—so not like the woman I knew and loved. It must have been about 10 a.m. when I called for an update and my father couldn’t stop crying. “She’s gone,” was all he could muster between sobs. The gravity of those words pulled me down, literally. Next thing I knew I was wailing in a heap...

This week’s photo was from a park near my parents’ home in Terrebonne, Oregon. That natural open trench takes both your breath and, on occasion, someone’s life away. Everywhere are signs like this one warning you to keep small children and pets at a safe distance. Dogs especially. I’m busier than usual these days, and it's a good thing. Strangely, I’m staying up much later and still waking naturally in plenty of time to go for an early morning run. And the temperatures have been perfect for weekday, hilly 4- or 5-milers through my subdivision. This morning I heard sirens as I was switching my stopwatch to chrono and soon came upon an ambulance and fire engine at a neighbor’s house. I later learned someone had died in their sleep earlier in the night. Then today I began work on a new project. A restaurant in New York City is hosting a special event to honor recently fallen Dominican-American soldiers. My job is to create short bios to accompany their photos in a program. Reading thr...

Lots of good guesses on this week’s Wordless Wednesday photo. Yes, it’s a snow-covered volcano in central Oregon—one of many that surround my parents’ tiny town outside the city of Bend. I honestly don’t recall where we were on the trip when I snapped that photo, which is one of my favorites from my vacation. A highpoint was a morning that I had begun to believe might bring about my literal downfall. As my 70-year-old dad was outlining the various trails we could take on opening day at a county-owned ATV park, my sisters and mother sat me down and warned that I (a) stood a good chance of crashing; (b) should stick to easy trails; and (c) must wear multi layers in case I smashed into sharp rocks or was knocked off by low tree branches. I remember my mother, all serious-like, concluding with this gem: “If it looks really bad, do not try to save the ATV. Save yourself, Anne.” As someone who values the environment, I have mixed feelings about ATVs. They have a reputation in southern Calif...