The Charm of Fort Clatsop

Fists Raised In Euphoria

I am an auditory learner and the literature I recall best from high school are the ones Miss Bockius read to us.  Even today, I recall the written word far better if someone reads it to me than if I read it myself.  Case and point: Undaunted Courage.  For years I had wanted to read this historical account of one of the greatest expeditions in American history, but thanks to the magic of audio books, someone else read it to me and I savored every word.  I relished in the long monotonous drives that allowed me more than a full hour uninterrupted hanging on nearly every word.  We all have a favorite story – the adventures of Lewis and Clark may be mine.

Once evening, as I cruised southward on Interstate 95, I listened intently as the Corps of Discovery crossed to the south bank of the Columbia River and arrived at Fort Clotsop, the western terminus of their voyage of discovery.  I recklessly removed my hands from the steering wheel and raised my fists in triumph and blurted out, “I’ve been there!”  Suddenly I realized I was shouting at a ridiculously loud volume given there were no other passengers in my car, and I decided I should perhaps take a break from the excitement of the expedition and return my attention to my own travels.

Hidden In My Suitcase

Half a year has passed since the vacation I dubbed “The Lewis and Clark Expedition,” when I followed a similar, while not exact, journey from St. Louis to Oregon.  But on many occasions in my various travels I have crossed paths with Meriwether and William, including the scenic drive over Lolo Pass, and along the Missouri River through eastern Nebraska.  Were it possible to travel through time, I would want to walk alongside Sacajawea, guiding the two captains and their band of explorers through the American wilderness.  Sure, I realize the going would be much tougher than in an automobile, but the prospect still makes my toes curl.

While packing for a simple weekend overnight, I reach into one of the smaller pieces of luggage and find, to my absolute splendor and delight, a silver charm that reads “Clatsop” on one side and features my two favorite travelers on the reverse.  I gasp at the amulet still attached to its small display plastic backing.  I immediately stop my packing, despite the late hour, and dig into my tool box for the needle-nosed pliers to assist me in gently attaching this silver souvenir to my charm bracelet that features shiny reminders from Savannah, Georgia, Glacier Bay, Alaska, and Hershey, Pennsylvania among others.  I secure the triangular charm, and immediately place the bracelet in my suitcase so it will accompany me on my most current outing.  In my mind, I had not lost this treasure, as I had forgotten about it entirely, and discovering it anew, tucked away in my pink travel bag, reminds me of my journey to Oregon more than half a year ago and Captains Lewis and Clark’s voyage more than two hundred years ago.  I wonder if they were as excited to see the site of Fort Clatsop as I was to find it in my luggage.

I Owe Oregon

Just a Number

When I first conceived Project 50 (see “Forty-Nine,” August 2012), my zest to reach the finish line occasionally superseded my desire to see the beauty associated with each number.  So was the case with Oregon.  I knew I did not have enough time to explore thoroughly the middle state on the Pacific shore, so I planned instead for a short jaunt into the northeast corner, just a swift drive from Washington State to add to my final tally.  And according to my beloved atlas, Flora, Oregon lay just across the state line and it would give me a quick terminus at which I would turn around, retrace my tread, and continue on my way through the Bitterroot Mountains before sunset.

Pulling into Flora could be equated to pulling into a driveway.  Only a handful of structures, mostly agricultural, made up the tiny community.  Quite possibly, two families may have resided in the town, to use the term liberally, but such a guess would have been only a hypothesis.  Nothing outwardly confirmed any residents at all, nor did the rural village reflect any apparent dilapidation.  No postcards would be obtained, no credit card purchases, no validation that I had even visited the state besides the simple sign upon leaving Washington not as a welcome to but to distinguish where each state’s work crews ought to end their respective basic services.  So I pulled into a dirt path, put the rental car in reverse and looked in my rear view mirror before proceeding, and framed in the reflective glass I saw the first glimpse of snow-capped mountains on this voyage, beckoning me to keep moving southward.  And so I detoured from my planned course, just barely a dozen hours into my current expedition.  “The mountains are calling and I must go.”

Pulling Me Inward, Onward, Upward

A scenic landscape sucks me in like nature’s vacuum (see “From A Distance,” February 2013) and the peaks ahead of me set my spirit on autopilot and I irresistibly press onward.  At each new vista, around each new bend in the road, at the base of every meadow, the mountains frame themselves and I keep pressing onward.  I justify the delay without realizing that this additional mileage should be added on an equal par with the planned routes and destinations.  Adding a new location more than fills a box on a list, it ought to leave its mark on me.  Yet I thoughtlessly commit fully to the lofty vision that guides me deeper into the Beaver State.  I finally stop in Enterprise to pause and regroup.  This drive pays off in spades, all for the good fortune of looking in my rear-view mirror.

I regret neglecting Oregon.  I knew it would be beautiful.  Of course it would be beautiful.  A century and a half ago tens of thousands of people journeyed across the rugged mountain to its east for the sole purpose of reaching the coast.  A trail named for this end of a spectacular journey pulled these early settlers westward, and now it pulls me into the state’s beauty, even with just the smallest glimpse.  I owe Oregon another visit. I owe this scenery a moment all its own.  I should return and crisscross its width and breadth and value it for the spectacular morning it offers me.  And just two years later, I would return to see even more of the sights that blew me away the first time.  It’s just a shame that my second visit happened to be on a whim, a lark, and spontaneous impulse.  Really, Oregon, I will do it right.  I will.  I promise.  You are too damn tempting to resist.