04-05-2013, 09:47 AM
Joined: Jan 2007
Location: West of Seattle . . .
Sunday morning. Easter.
The night wasnít as cold as Friday, no frost. Wake up, off to the head (old guy habit, sorry . . . ).
Another stunning sunny day, not a cloud in the sky above the canyon. Perfect Easter morning. I could have been in church, maybe I should have been there. But I was camped by the Crooked River and glad of it. As fine a place to spend an Easter dawn as Iíve ever seen.
Highlighting the hills to the north; you can see Oregon 27 just above the far treeline.
A different way to look at it. I need to explore black and white photography more. That's what I was into in college; why not go back to that, too?
Dawn touching the hills to the south.
Sun creeping down the rock wall opposite camp.
And the rising sun reaches the camp. Easter sunrise on the Crooked River. Halleluiah!
A lazy breakfast around the campfire gave a last chance to catch a whiff of juniper smoke before leaving for home.
Perhaps back to sleep?
Packing, I didnít realize Iíd shared my tent space; off to the sage with you, my out-of -focus friend!
After more ethanol-free gas in Prineville, I rode back north on US 97 and 197. No rain today, the mountains were out in all their splendor.
Jefferson. I hope at least, I climbed it several times back in the dark ages of my college youth.
I couldnít resist taking multiple shots with the LCC as I rode. Heading towards Madras.
Mt St Helens is the stubby snow covered peak in the center that looks like itís lost itís topóbecause it has; the shoulder of Mt Adams is at the right edge. Iím not very good at 60 mph photography . . . .
Both SweetBird and I climbed St Helens years before it erupted. We were stationed at Whidbey Island when the erution happened. I was on an aircraft carrier in the Indian Ocean when I heard about it. SweetBird on the other hand actually heard it. Even closer to home, she knew a photographer in college who was on the mountain when it blew; he died.
When I came back from cruise I drove to see my Mom in eastern Oregon and stopped near Yakima to collect some volcanic ash from the side of the road. I still have it; gray ash in a small jar on a bookshelf in remembrance of the people and the mountain.
Instead of riding west on I-84 this time, I crossed the Columbia at The Dalles and turned left on Washington 14 which travels the north bank. Another road Iíd never been on; two lane, small towns, incredible scenery.
Mt Hood again, from the northeast.
A rest stop along Washington 14 provided a chance to use the better camera. This sign talks a bit about the complicated geology that underlies the Gorge, central, and eastern Oregon and Washington.
Looking back east up the Columbia.
Looking west. There were many riders out for a day ride on this warm afternoon. She was on an F800ST, her boyfriend was on a Blackbird. We had a nice conversation. He'd owned mostly BMW's; his family was of German heritage and he talked about how he'd "broken the mold" by buying a Honda CBR1100XX.
And then . . . then, I just rode home. No more photos. Tired. Up I-5, over Tacoma Narrows bridge on 16, then 3 to Casa del Expat.
About 1300 miles for the trip; 400 each way to camp and about 250 each day of riding in eastern Oregon. Wonderful weather, some fast and some challenging riding. Met some good people,
It was a fine way to begin my re-acquaintance with home . . . . There will be more ride, more places that touch the past.
Old . . . and . . . Slow