A River Runs Through It
The view from Lower Table Rock, in the heart of the Rogue Valley, offers a high-altitude Eden. In the distance, the Siskiyou Mountains, home to some of the most botanically diverse coniferous forests on the planet, keep their counsel. Barely visible, the snow-capped stratovolcano Mount McLoughlin (alt. 9,493) touches the clouds. Below, the Rogue River snakes through a mosaic of green and gold pastureland, providing so much yet asking so little. . .
The Ashland Karma
There’s no doubt about it. In our deeply fractured world, Ashland offers an oasis, an alternate universe. While the Supreme Court hacks away at our civil liberties, this southern Oregon town of 21,000 holds the Woodstock Nation tight. In few other places across America, I wager, will you encounter such a concentration of dream catchers, essential oils, women who have let their hair go grey and men with beards. . .
Buying a House Sight Unseen
It’s true. Three weeks after visiting Ashland, Tony and I made an offer on a house, sight unseen. After returning to Brooklyn at the end of August, I scoured Ashland real estate online (thanks to trulia.com) and sized up everything in our price range. Virtual reality led the way. I went on dozens of video house tours and traveled the town on Google Maps, clicking the arrows on “street view” to check out neighborhoods. My friend Kathy was our eyes on the ground. . .
Moving and Settling In
What’s not to like about moving? Almost everything. Packing and unpacking tops most people’s lists. Having divested 90 percent of our belongings on the move from Rhode Island to Brooklyn, packing was the easy part for us. We shipped what we had and put our hands in our pockets. At our new house, we camped out for three weeks until our goods arrived. What we had in abundance were paintings I’d inherited from my mother or acquired on my own, plus framed photographs taken by me or by young people I’d worked with around the world . . .
Lattes and Decency at Starbucks
For more than fifteen years, Tony and I have started our morning with an espresso macchiato and venti bold at Starbucks. It’s not that we love Starbucks, but it is the only coffee shop that’s open at six a.m., which is when we like to head out for coffee since we are early risers. We spend an hour or so chatting and touching base before we start our day. In Brooklyn, we’d keep our daily coffee date even if it meant hoofing it in a cold rain, streetlights still on. We were—are—like the Pony Express. Regardless of location, Tony and I have learned that the early morning crowd at Starbucks differs from what follows later. . .
Learning from The White Rabbit Trail
Two blocks from our house, there is a trail called the White Rabbit that leads into the forest, along a creek, and seriously uphill with views of the valley below. It’s a magical world of thick pines and madrones with bark as crimson as blood. The trail winds through the rugged, sprawling Oredson-Todd Woods for two and a half miles and then meets up with the Alice in Wonderland Trail above downtown Ashland. These are public lands. Locals say there is no need for a trail map. But it’s a down-the-rabbit-hole affair . . .
Growers Market and Community
I don’t know which my mother liked better: Brahms or fresh corn and peas. Farm stands and farmers markets were her holy grail. I learned how to tell if an ear of corn was tender long before I knew how to make a bed. The first Tuesday after Tony and I landed in Ashland, we headed to the weekly Rogue Valley Growers Market, a mile from our house. It was early April and asparagus, kale, and ramps were the stars. Foraging on his own, Tony found a cache of shiitake mushrooms that joined risotto on the dinner table. I discovered Early Purple Sprouting broccoli . . .
Smoke and Wildfire
It’s official. On July 23, Ashland had the worst air in the country. Smoke from at least one hundred forest fires blanketed southern Oregon, the product of more than 2,000 lightning strikes from a rash of thunderstorms the week before. Local officials advised residents to limit outdoor activity and, if they must go out, to wear specialized “particulate respirator” masks. In the days since, the air quality has swung between “unhealthy” and “hazardous.” The daily temperature has pushed 100 degrees. Precipitation for the year is half of normal. . .
Escaping to the Southern Oregon Coast
A surefire way to escape the smoke and heat here in the Rogue Valley is to head to the Southern Oregon Coast. Twice now Tony and I have made the 140-mile drive through the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest to Brookings, where the Southern Oregon Coast begins and Coastal California ends. We roll down the windows and breathe the cool air. A few miles later, the unique treasures of this region unfold: a world of rock arches and sea stacks, empty beaches, gentle surf, and forested promontories as far as the eye can see. . .
Build It and They Will Come
When Angus Bowmer, a Shakespeare enthusiast moved to Ashland in 1934, he convinced town officials to bring back the fireworks that lit up Ashland before the Depression. He also offered to stage a three-day festival of Shakespeare plays as part of the celebration. Town officials agreed, but they assumed the performances would lose money and organized afternoon boxing matches to offset the theater losses. In the end, it was boxing that went into the red. The actors in the Shakespearean festival—local students and residents—returned to adoring audiences the next summer and the next and the next. Build it and they will come. . .
Thru-Hikers on the Pacific Coast Trail
“Now that’s what I call stocking up on protein bars,” I said to the tall, unshaven man with 75 plus bars in his grocery cart. I was picking up a dozen bars for my husband, Tony, who has a thing for them. “What’s up,” I asked. “I’m a skinny guy to start,” he said with an Australian accent, “and I’ve lost 35 pounds the past two months hiking the PCT [Pacific Coast Trail]. I’m stocking up for the last leg. I just ate two breakfasts.” I had heard that August was prime time for PCT “thru-hikers” to hit Ashland, perhaps the most favored place along the 2,650-mile trail. . .
Wildlife: Domesticated and Not
Two night ago, for the second night in a row, our cat Pesto brought a live bat into our house, set it free, and followed it from room to room as the bat searched frantically for an exit. At one point, the bat caught its breath hanging upside down from the cathedral ceiling in our family room. (Please, no bat guano on our beige couch, I prayed.) We eventually opened the patio door and the bat’s next dip and swoop led it back into the dark. Last night, the cat and bat game took longer to resolve. Tony and I actually went to bed while the bat still hung from the ceiling. . .
How Can I Be of Help?
In this corner of the universe, the sensibility is just, plain different. “Is that part of your job description?” I asked the cashier at Bi-Mart, our go-to, employee-owned discount store down the hill from us. “Yes Ma’am,” she answered. I was checking out when a woman approached the cashier. She had come back for a receipt for purchases she had made a few minutes earlier. “I know I said you can throw it away,” the woman explained, “but I changed my mind.” “No problem,” the cashier answered. “I’ll check the trash.” . . .
Small Films on the Big Screen in Klamath Falls
“Are you game?” my best friend Kathy asked, wondering if I would accompany her to the Klamath Independent Film Festival (KIFF) in Klamath Falls, a 65-mile drive through the mountains east of Ashland. Her short doc, The Road Between Us, was on the program. “You lead and I’ll follow,” I said.Over two days, Kathy and I would watch three feature-length films and 22 “shorts” out of a list of 35 movies, all made in Oregon or by filmmakers with Oregon roots. This was my second film festival since moving to the Rogue Valley. . .
Our Willows: In Memoriam
Willows are short-lived trees. From my desk, I see a large redwood tree, 25 feet from our house, that may live 2,000 years (barring the end of the planet). The tall birch tree, whose white trunks fill our living room window, may last well into the 22nd century, unless it succumbs to the bronze birch borer. Willow trees, on average, live only 50 years. The two majestic willows that grace the common meadow behind our house are 45 years old. They were planted before the houses that now surround the meadow were built. In June, a large limb crashed to the ground (weighing at least 300 lbs.). . .
Halloween: Ashland Style
“There will be no official caravan of goblins, ghouls and every other costume imaginable this Halloween in Ashland,” the local Mail Tribune announced in September 2011, under the headline, “Ashland cancels popular Halloween parade.” For years, the city’s annual parade had drawn thousands of onlookers. According to the parade’s sponsor, The Ashland Chamber of Commerce, rowdy adult participants caused the cancellation. “The type of feedback that the Chamber of Commerce was getting from parents was that their kids weren’t having any fun in the parade … that children felt intimidated,” explained the Chamber’s marketing director. . .
Democracy in Action: Left and Right in Oregon
I have always voted straight Democratic, starting with George McGovern in the 1972. Living in Rhode Island, which the Democratic Party has dominated since the Great Depression, I didn’t give it a lot of thought. In Southern Oregon—where campaign signs seem to decorate front lawns months before an election—politics are lively, if not inescapable. Passions run deep, from the governorship and gun control down to races for municipal court judge and county sheriff. I figured I needed a crash course on Oregon’s political landscape before the 2018 midterms, and in the two weeks since the election, I’ve been parsing the results. . .
Trouble in Paradise: Ashland’s Wildlife Problem
Ashland has a wildlife problem. When I was in New England a month ago, my phone kept buzzing with “cougar alerts” from the City of Ashland. Earlier in the summer, a mother bear and her two cubs had greeted visitors at the entrance to the famed Lithia Park, setting off glee and panic. The other day, as Tony and I drove to our morning rendezvous with Starbucks, four deer ambled across a downtown crosswalk, against the light. Folks who lived in Ashland in the 80s and 90s don’t recall so much mixing of “wild” and “tame.” But it’s become a fact of life here, like the summer smoke.
Tis the Season Holiday Photo Collage
For the past few weeks, I’ve been snapping pictures of the unfolding holiday scene in these parts: sunrise over the mountains (on days with no valley fog), stores decked with bows and firs, the first hoar frost, vineyards at rest, nesting mistletoe, back roads, the first ski day at Mt. Ashland (photo courtesy of my skiing buddy Kathy), gingerbread cookies, and the local Festival of Lights—which in Ashland, you may have guessed, involves another parade. . .