Willamette Valley Wanderer

Independence Day

2011-07-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

There is something innately satisfying about backyard BBQ; especially on the 4th of July. The scent of summer heat and cheap fireworks wafting off the pavement to comingle with countless gas and charcoal grills entices my primal urge to seek out meat. Grilled, barbecued or smoked –I don’t care just bring it on!

This year that urge was satisfied by friends in Grants Pass. It was a perfect day, 85 degrees with a sky painted by Rockwell. I left my hometown via exit 33, music blaring and a smile on my face. By the time I hit Gold Hill Thorogood was pumping out of my speakers as the long version of One Bourbon, One Scotch and One beer played over the airwaves. A memory-flood of summers past washed over me while the sun beat down.

Rolling through town, music still thumping, I saw it all – teenagers play fighting, zipping by on skateboards and bikes while old folks sat on a bench in the shade of an ageing pine. Crowds of mostly men and younger children jostling for position at the fireworks stand, looking for those last minute bargains and sure-to-please, spinning, popping pyrotechnic delights. A pregnant woman at the corner, rubbing her belly while watching toddlers throw ‘pop-its’ on the ground and squeal with joy at the sharp CRACK as they hit the parking lot.

Another light turns green and I round the corner where I see a homeless man sipping contentedly out of a faded plaid thermos while waving around his JESUS SAVES sign. His Tweety Bird ball-cap incongruous with his Desert Storm fatigues; ironic yet apropos attire for this holiday.

Parking my car on the narrow neighborhood lane I cut my engine, killing my radio only to hear Alannah Myles’, Black Velvet drifting out to me from a house down the block; nostalgic perfection.

I head through the gate where I’m greeted warmly by my hosts and assorted, tasty libations. Cocktails in hand we meander to the back yard where I’m quickly enveloped by the seductive perfume of grilling chicken, potatoes and that holy grail of summer delights – roasted corn on the cob.

While there is something to be said for fine china and starched white linens there are some things that no restaurant can deliver, no matter the price. I have never paid for a morsel as innately satisfying as biting into a plump, perfectly grilled-in-husk piece of cobbed corn. I revel in the way each kernel bursts under my teeth releasing a sweet, starchy goodness enhanced by the faint flavor of char. Butter dripping from greased lips, snaking a trail down my chin and across my hands; evidence of a vegetarian slaughter dappled with black pepper.

Having ravaged the cob I reach eagerly for my chicken, ripping the warm, grill-marked flesh apart with sure fingers and stuffing it my mouth like a starving woman. My inner omnivore cheers me on as I dance back and forth between the tender poultry and the small pile of delicious red potatoes lining my plate; their crisp skins and gloriously puffed centers adding to my taste buds culinary orgy.

Sitting under a grape arbor with the sweet scent of ripening fruit and sun-warmed leaves, my belly full, I find myself entranced by the sound of children splashing in the pool and the drone of insects buzzing harmlessly above us. I am lulled into a state of nirvana.

After plates are cleared and cocktails replenished the adults sit peacefully chatting while the kids run pleasantly amok. Their laughter and eagerness for the onset of dark becomes contagious as we hear an increase of firework related onomatopoeia and an array of white lights begin to dot the sky around us.

My host waters down his front lawn and sidewalk, while I move my car to the driveway all in preparation for the block-party display which is about to begin; the kids work hard to restrain themselves from diving into the bag of firecrackers their dad has set out. Older neighbors start pulling out lawn chairs and setting them up on the sidewalk next to water cans and piles of highly flammable ‘toys’.

As dark finally descends the street becomes the center of our world for a short time – transformed from a mundane roadway into a veritable circus complete with puffs of fire and smoke, whistles and shrieks. Older kids from down the block run back and forth on the opposite side of the street. The continuous flashes and sparks between us creating a strobe-light effect, making it look like they are runners in a vintage film.

My host’s own young children swirl their sparklers triumphantly during the quieter moments when adults all along the street set up and light the bigger pieces. Their giggles and innocent-observations a music all their own: “they’re like light snakes” I hear the four-year-old say, pointing out the tracers to her older brother who agrees encouragingly.

All too soon the bag of tricks is empty and the last sparkler has been lit; even the larger aerials have disappeared from the sky. Up and down the road children are being ushered inside and a different set of noises start to emerge as the crickets send out a volley of test chirps and canines for blocks around cease their agitated barking.

I linger a moment, saying goodbyes to my generous hosts, then meander out to my car, the night dark and gentle around me. I start my car startled by a blast from the radio I forgot to turn down earlier. Lowering the volume I switch stations until I hear the opening refrain of American Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I release the parking brake, slip my ride into gear and start to wind my way home, skipping the Interstate in favor of the slower Rogue River Highway.

I sail along catching occasional headlight flashes and the trails of last minute bottle rocket launches. As I drop into my home valley I can see the city lit up below me, lights twinkling and winking as though they are welcoming me home. Fresh air surges through the open windows, the night air still warm, and I’m filled with such joy as I suddenly recall what we really celebrate on July 4^th, as a nation and as individuals with or without Tweety-bird hats. Across countless backyards, endless plates of BBQ and over thousands of miles we celebrate Independence.

Interstate 5 - The Ever-Changing Road Oft Traveled.

2011-06-06T08:22:00.000-07:00

It would only be half a metaphor to say that I grew up ‘on the 5’. Interstate 5 that is – a 1381.29 mile stretch of road that runs from Washington’s northern border all the way Baja, California, connecting Canada to Mexico. I’ve traveled every mile of it in the last 30-plus years.

The oft most traveled path is from the Rogue Valley to the Willamette Valley. When I was a child the 5 took us south from Salem to Medford to visit my grandparents. I can remember loading up the car and settling in for the ride. Mom drove a green ’73 Dodge Coronet with wide front seats and plenty of room; not the prettiest car on the Interstate but for me it was a horseless-carriage fit for royalty.

Mom and I would sing Bill Bailey, If My Friends Could See Me Now and Thunder Road, along with other great old songs or we’d listen to Jimmy Buffett, The Beach Boys and The Steve Miller Band. When music ceased to entertain me mom would tell me stories about her childhood and other interesting things or encourage me to make up stories about the places we went and the things or people we saw.

One of my favorite story topics was “Jump-Off Joe Creek “. I wanted to know why it was named that and Mom, lacking an answer, would leave it to me to make one up. I invented countless stories about an old miner who panned for gold in the creek. Sometimes he was successful with his mining but pined for lost love in others he never found gold, or his family was killed. With his sorrows so great Joe would find a high spot along the creek and jump – ultimately drowning or cracking his skull wide open, depending on my mood.

During my teens I-5 was a gateway to adventure as I traveled with my mom – a promoter for an entertainments company that helped raise money for non-profits like Search & Rescue. The company booked bands and special acts such as the Peking Acrobats and The Crests, and then sold tickets in towns throughout the Pacific Northwest.

We would travel as a caravan. The company’s owner led the pack in his Mercedes touring bus followed by a colorful parade of cars, vans and trucks. The rule was that the caravan only stopped for fuel – so it was important to hit the restrooms even if you weren’t sure you had to go.

There were three or four tours a year and I lived for them – ticking off days one by one like a war bride awaiting her man’s return. The gypsy life called to me. Living out of suitcases, a new city or town each day, a magical world that eschewed normalcy and it was all there for me to enjoy.

I fed off the organized chaos and the late night dinners in dives whose name I’ve long forgotten. Ingesting countless French fries and the fascinating stories of those I dined with. I learned a lot about real life on the road and I learned what it was to be a traveler.

Mom changed jobs when I was 17 and blessedly had a car of my own – a construction-sign-orange, 1979 Ford Mustang – ‘customized by crunch’ from a miscalculation on my part involving an escaped German shepherd, a parked truck and my inexperienced-driver self. The dog was fine, the truck’s bumper had a lovely schmear of orange paint and a broken tail light and my poor car looked like it had been sideswiped by the General Lee.

While passengers had to crawl in through the window the car actually ran fine, which was all that was needed by me and my car-less cohorts. Many a daylong road trip was taken in that little car. We’d go south to the outlet mall in Anderson, north to Grants Pass where we’d ‘hang a left’ and head for the coast and one clandestine overnighter to Portland and back to pick up a school friend who was stranded at a Greyhound station.

After the Mustang came a husband and a slew of bubba trucks and beaters. I spent a night on the south side of the Siskiyou summit – stuck in a snow storm with in a Chevy Blazer with a broken axel, high on new love and hot coffee. As years passed the marriage started to break down too – but we were always happy together on the road.

I’d say the stretch of 5 I know ‘second best’ would be from Medford south to the 505 where my, now ex, and I would cut over to the Bay Area where he was from. We lived down there for 20 months and spent the better part of a decade driving back and forth as many as 18 times a year.

One of my favorite views going south is of Mt. Shasta, just as you come around the sweeping corner at Anderson Grade Road and the mountain fills the windshield, her snow capped peaks either glittering in the sun or shrouded in dense gray clouds. Either way she is magnificent with Cinder Cone below her standing sentry like a guard would for his queen.

I’ll never forget one long ago morning when I was alone, headed for Oroville, CA and I came around that curve to see a breathtaking vista laid out before me; the sun coming up behind Shasta, turning her peaks to gold and in the forefront hundreds of hot air balloons filled the sky. A trucker, a few scattered motorists and I pulled over and got out of our rigs, nodding to each other as if to say – “can you believe this”?

I was glad I didn’t have a camera that morning. No picture would have done the scene justice and I would have been so busy fidgeting with buttons I would have missed the shifts of light and shadow as they played tag between the billowy colors of the giant balloons. I would have missed the camaraderie of my fellow travelers as we ‘oooh’d and awed’ pointing out different designs to one another. I would have missed the peace of the moment.

There are more stories than this to tell; more that I’ll write down and some that will only be shared over campfires or wineglasses with a privileged few. I’ve seen car chases, car accidents, hitchhikers and a slew of wildlife. I’ve seen bared breasts, rainbow painted-stretch limos, fireworks and incredible roadside-art; those random statues, billboards and eclectically designed yards that make you point, laugh and comment to your co-travelers. I’ve seen Jesus on a tower, on a bridge and made out of bottle caps on the hood a vintage Buick. The best part is that I’ve come nowhere near “seeing it all”.

I learned long ago - before the gypsy cavalcade or reading Kerouac - one of the road’s most Zen lessons – when you’re on the road BE on the road – don’t worry about the destination man, it’s the journey that’s the real trip.

Silver Grille, Silverton, Oregon

2011-04-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

A few Sundays back I was meandering around Silverton, one of my favorite places for meandering and realized two things at once – I was hungry and I’ve never written about Silver Grille.

Here is where I run into that long fought battle that many a food writer faces – if I talk it up, more people will go and I’ll have to wait for a table. Luckily, they have a bar – and it’s a good one.

On this last trek I was with my mama and we were delighted to be greeted right away by Naomi Nizlek – GM and all around bartending goddess.

We seated ourselves comfortably at the bar and I glanced around at the homey, yet elegant décor. I especially love the dining room with its bold red walls and rich wood accents, light streaming in from the big windows.

The bar has its own enchanting charm; it’s relaxed and welcoming. If you pay attention you can sneak peeks at the kitchen through the swinging doors and see Chef Nizlek doing what he does best – cooking like mad.

“The Goddess” took our drink orders while I breathed in a heady scent of roasting meat wafting from the kitchen combined with the tang of freshly poured alcohol. I opted for a glass of Fetzer Vineyard’s 2008 Valley Oaks Gewürztraminer (try saying that 10 times fast) which I thoroughly enjoyed – the second and third glass went down great too. Mama chose a Grey Goose martini – expertly poured by sweet-n-sassy Naomi.

One of the benefits of going with my social butterfly of a mother is that we were served even before we saw a menu. Like magic a Crispy Pork trotter cake with Caper Sauce and baby greens appeared before us. A study in culinary art without doubt – the beautiful little pork cake was topped with a perfectly cooked, over easy egg and dotingly dressed with the Caper Sauce. The baby greens looked as though they had been picked & washed just prior to being gently mounded on the plate.

The thing is at Silver Grille, the greens may have been freshly picked just prior to our arrival. I discovered when visiting the restaurant’s website that Chef Nizlek has trademarked the term Willamette Valley Cuisine™. A little more snooping told me that Nizlek also makes his Cavatelli and some cheese in-house. The family grows a lot of the restaurant’s produce, like Swiss chard, salad greens, Chioggia beets and several herbs, including Genovese Basil.

Mama and I quickly made this magical treat disappear while we pondered the menu to find a second appetizer and an entrée to share. Along the way we both discovered a soup that sounded too good to pass up – and it is, but I’m getting ahead of myself – so, on we go to that second appetizer.

As a huge fan of mushrooms in general, our second round won my heart with just one bite. The Willamette Valley Cheese Stuffed Mushrooms are a must-have for any mushroom lover. Each delicate porcini is carefully crammed full of Willamette Valley Cheese’s Gouda, Havarti, Fontina and Jack cheeses, along with mushroom duxelle and then baked and served in cast iron.

When they reached the bar top in front of us they teased me with their sizzling song and alluring bubbles of molten cheese but in the end they cooled, just enough, for me and Mama to gobble them delicately – like hungry raccoons scarfing down fresh vegetarian kill. Actually, that was mostly me. Mama was saving herself for our entrée, which I’ll get to momentarily since it would be sinful to skip what came next.

As I covertly licked the rest of the mushroomy-goodness off my fingers our soup course made its entrance. A large cup of chicken soup – but not just any chicken soup, no, no. A rich, smooth Cream of Smoked Chicken Soup featuring Shiitake Mushrooms (yup, big fan) with Black Rice and fresh local kale. I can honestly say it’s now one of my top five favorite soups that I don’t make myself. The mildly peppery, velvety broth is a perfect medium that allows the smoky chicken and black rice to shine while the mushrooms and kale act as backup in this flavor-filled production.

Enter the entrée - Gnocchi Alla Bolognese. Oh. Yeah. Baby. You’ll notice none of the pictures are of the gnocchi – all thought of picture taking was ripped from my mind when the bowls hit the bar. Made in-house, Nizlek’s tender, light, impeccably-crafted gnocchi, prepared with Yukon gold potatoes, are little bites of bliss all on their own; however when topped with his Bolognese sauce the gnocchi become a whole new level of gastronomic nirvana. Nizlek’s Bolognese is almost something one has to eat alone so no one hears your sensual moaning as you lustfully ingest this rich meaty sauce made of beef, pork and lamb which has been slowly simmered down in tomatoes and red wine. I know, right?

Once we finished cleaning our bowls with slices of the in-house baked sourdough bread (yep, one more thing made from scratch right on the premises) Mama and I each opted for a nightcap over dessert; she her Martini and I my wine, which we sipped at slowly while eavesdropping on incoming patrons, chatting alternately with Jeff and Naomi and just generally ‘chilling’ for a while before resuming our meandering.

We paid our check, said our goodbyes and went back out into the chilly evening, only to discuss our meal all the way back to Mama’s house. It’s rare to find one of those places where you always feel welcome and where you’re always treated like a regular – whether you are one or not. Those cozy, tucked away restaurants, intimate, yet alive with interesting conversations from diverse patrons. I can’t wait to go back.

An Outsider’s Ode to the Mount Hood Snow-Cat Drivers

2011-03-24T18:35:00.000-07:00

Arriving moments before a new day begins, my guide, known primarily by his last name Lingo, and I pull into a wide, dark parking area covered by snow and chunks of light cast from the open doors of a machine shop. The flash of our headlights reveal a short row of other vehicles; one occupied by two lightly dozing workers awaiting their long night ahead.

Out of the car and stepping carefully I follow my long-legged companion while taking in the scent of fresh, freezing mountain air and the heavy sweetness of cold motor oil and gasoline; a heady combination that lingers not unpleasantly. Crewmen appear out of the dark, nodding to each other and rumbling low greetings indicative of solitary men. One, Springer, steps in closer to extend a hand and a smile as Lingo makes introductions while the rest include me in their nod of greeting and move on to their tasks at hand.

As we walk through the shop Lingo points out incidentals; rest room, coffee pot and sitting area before going back outside and up a set of what, during off season, would be stairs as opposed to the ice covered ramp standing before us. Gamely scrambling up we gain the locker room and meeting area where the crew is assembling for their pre-shift round of notes, instructions and camaraderie; trading insults and information smoothly.

Assignments are doled out, coats refastened and hats set straight again as each man heads back out into a lightly falling snow. Looking down at the stairs I feel it best to indulge my inner penguin and slide down on my bum purposefully, laughing at the fun of it.

The sounds of engines firing crack the night; the fleet of snow cats starting up. Lingo lights a cigarette and casually begins feeding the yellow giant its 72 gallons of fuel. He smiles down, all teeth and long angles, letting me know we’d start soon. Tank filled he crawls into the cab and drives the clamoring machine forward. Stopping again and bounding out he shows how easy it is to climb the tracks and hop in using the long hand rails attached to the side of the Prinoth “beast” 500 aka our snow cat de jour.

Once ensconced within the belly of the beast a new world opens up. Specially designed glass, tempered against extreme cold and icy build up, spans from the floor-board foot- rest to the high ceiling; allowing for a clear and fully uninterrupted view of the area around us. The doors and back wall the same, leaving one in a cozy glass and steel bubble hovering inches over shifting blades and trails of blue-white ice.

Back in the driver’s seat Lingo makes several adjustments to the tiller and blade to ensure that the rig is properly aligned before he flashes his wide grin “you ready?” I nod gleefully and catch my balance on the ball of my feet as the snow cat lurches forward and ever so slowly up the hill, following its gleaming yellow comrades into the quiet dark.

Swirling snow creates tracers in the lights casting a surreal net around us, an effect which I will later realize does not recede for the entire night – even when the skies clear. We inch slowly forward following the trail of those before us up the steep grade. Each cat, all smaller 350s, just a little to the left or right of the others so that their great wakes overlap to smooth and groom the trails.

After long minutes of climbing the cats clamor to a halt, doors open and drivers descend to meet at the lead rig. Cigarettes are lit and coffee passed as the men comment on the quality of the ice, and the snow that continues to fall, making minute changes to their initial plan of attack set forth in the warm locker room a mile or more behind us.

Final decisions made the crew remount their mechanized steeds with waves and shouts. “Now we’re all set” Lingo narrates, grin in place. Settling well into his seat, ankles crossed, belt latched, he takes the hand controls confidently and within in seconds appears to be no more than an extension of the snow cat itself. Every movement so obviously second nature as to appear effortless, like a concert pianist performing Mary Had a Little Lamb. I imagine the same of the other seasoned drivers.

The radio squawks a beeping alert, reminiscent of old “this just in” news reels of updated information coming over the wire. A sound that repeats all night long reverberating through the cab; oddly comforting in its digitized way. The gregarious Springer’s voice echoes over the airwaves next; voted most easily heard he pops off a warning that a chunk of ice has broke free and is rolling onto the path. Lingo’s barely audible mutter assures the crew that he has the matter in hand and the radio falls quiet for long moments at a time while I lose myself in the soothing bounce of the beast as it continues its first long climb of the night.

Reaching the apex Lingo gracefully turns the cat around and begins our decent. The world tips for a moment as we angle downward, the windshield suddenly filled with an up-close view of blade and the trail. Spread out below us is the rest of the crew looking more like colossal terra-forming insects than a band of workers manipulating mountain-grooming apparatus.

I am unable to reign in my sheer glee at where I am; laughter escapes me time and time again as we dip, weave and grind our way across the mountain. I am enchanted by the towering trees that sneak up beside us in the moon-less dark as Lingo and the other drivers manipulate the lights to cut through the blackness; revealing potential pitfalls.

We cut another turn and level off for a distance. A glance down through the door shows me that several inches of the tracks below me are jutting out over the edge of the trail, only blackness below. Secure in my drivers abilities I grin and point out that he has room to spare. His laughter joins mine while Queen belts out over his stereo system; perfect timing.

Well before the break of dawn the radio comes alive with talk of a different kind; talk of food. Following the crew’s directive we start our slow decent back toward the glowing lights of the machine shop and office. Blood Hound Gang pounds out ‘Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo’ as the snow cat’s tiller creates perfect grooves behind; tilling icy soil for a fresh crop of skiers.

Lingo guides the big cat back into place by the wide shop doors so casually it makes me think of a child parking his truck in a sandbox. Pulling a can of coke from my bag I climb down the blades and follow him inside to the warm sitting area. After a picnic-style lunch, bathroom breaks and a quick smoke we head back for the mountain to forge new trails – literally.

We lumbar back out into the still dark morning; although I notice the shadows begin to shift over our next few passes. All too soon for me the sky changes in the east. An indigo streak penetrates the marred gray vastness in the panoramic windshield of the beast as Lingo executes yet another cut-turn-descend-sharply maneuver; facing us off against the expanding dawn.

The smaller cats, cascading below us, pull to a stop just before the sun peeks over the far distant hills. Lingo pulls in behind them, snapping a photo at my request. “Top of world” he says. It’s no joke, even as I ask for the photograph I know that no picture can accurately portray what is unfolding before me; shades of blue and gray war for position as the sun’s rays race across the land as far as I can see.

Behind us the highest peak of Mt. Hood plays peek-a-boo though some dark and stormy clouds while the rest of our part of the universe is graced with a gloriously blue, sunny morning. I playfully thank my guide for calling ahead on the stunning sunrise and am rewarded with another quiet chuckle.

After the men have stretched their legs and smoked their smokes we muster on. My face has begins to ache from smiling so much as I continue to stare out in glee and awe at the unending beauty all around us; safe and snug in our jostling chariot.

The radio chatter changes tone as we head for the home stretch of the day’s shift. Ski Patrol arrive on the scene and start making their way about the mountain, checking the trails for hazards and calling upon the crew boss, Mike, to verify that certain things will be attended to; his rugged voice, tinged with a combination of annoyance and amusement assure them that the six cats coming down have everything under control. Looking across the mountain I can see Ski Patrol’s small snowmobiles zipping around the groomed trails and big snow cats with ease; there and gone again in a flash of black on white.

Before long the call comes through that every round has been made and it is time for the crew to come in. We begin our last slow crawl down the big mountain and I’m filled with a sense of bliss and perhaps a touch of remorse that it was already over.

Lingo parks the beast and passes me his car keys so I could warm it while he fills out his daily dose of paperwork. I push open the door of the cat for the final time, toss my purse casually into a snow bank and scamper down.

Starting the car and turning up the stereo I step back outside and lean against the snow-crusted sedan to watch the parking lot fill with excited skiers; it’s not even 8:30 a.m. and the lot is a third full. I light a cigarette and contemplate the mountain, now free of clouds and fully showing its glorious self, while replaying the night in my mind, trying to hold tight to each detail. Staring up I can see a couple of folks skiing down a run, placing guide poles for other skiers.

Like a movie that unfolds in reverse I realize everything I could not see when my adventure started was now laid out before me to admire. My eyes find and follow several clean trails and I spot a patch where the cats had to go back over again and again to fill in a hole dug when the rookie had gotten stuck.

Chain smoking I think about that first turn-and-cut downward, nothing but blade and trail and later the tightly swirling snow zipping under tracks hanging out over the edge; reminiscent of an Escher print –all sharp edges and dizzying swirls.

Drawing on my third cigarette I realize the lot is now more than half full, the ruddy-faced attendants are stamping their feet and talking of their first break as I slip into the warmth of the car, still facing the mountain.

The snow cat drivers, Lingo included, begin to funnel to their cars, engines start up and we all make our way slowly down the mountain as a continuous stream of various vehicles make way to the top, many of them never thinking about the unsung heroes of the mountain, the ones that don’t get movies made about them, no poems written. This is my ode to them, an outsider’s ode if you will, to the Mount Hood Snow cat Drivers.