The Landscape of Southern Oregon

Turns out I did not need to drive down the Oregon coast to see the beauty of Oregon. I thought the I-5 corridor between Salem and Portland would be representative of the entire trip – industrial, developed, marked by more strip malls than trees. But when you start to near Eugene, the terrain just opens up and devours your urban sensibilities. It’s breathtaking.

I’m in my little 1995 Honda Civic, 5 speed manual transmission. I’ve packed it to the brim with all my worldly possessions, as I am trucking my life across the country back to New Jersey. I have my Kelty pack armed and ready for me to pull over to the side of the road and set up camp at a moment’s notice (I try unsuccessfully to hide my excitement over my new REI tent), along with 7 pounds of homemade trail mix (gotta love New Seasons), 3 jars each of peanut butter and jelly plus a loaf of bread, and several pounds of apples and oranges. Given the recent development of my conspicuous absence of any form of income, I figure that I can pinch pennies by forgoing travel restaurant stops in favor of buying cheap food in bulk to eat on the road. I’m also incredibly lazy when it comes to food; whenever there is an opportunity to explore more or drive further at the expense of meal time, I’ll gladly eat while driving. I just don’t have the patience to stop, and sit, and eat, when I could be seeing more of the country.

In addition to my backpacking gear, clothes, and food, I have 7 quarts of motor oil squeezed in my trunk. The Volta (my car) has 131,000 miles on her, and so she burns oil like it’s her job. I’ve learned to check the oil level religiously at every stop, to avoid the unfortunate occurrence of the cylinders welding to the engine block. Without leaking a single drop, she goes through an entire quart every full day of driving (about 200-300 miles). But she repays me for quenching her thirst by faithfully carrying me onward, through the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. The landscape along I-5 in Oregon has a different beauty than Colorado. The mountains here aren’t as towering – I’m not even sure whether these qualify as mountains, or merely hills – and you don’t quite get the drastic diversity between the golden foothills of JeffCo and the red-rusted peaks of Aspen. But as soon as you pass Eugene, you’re hit by this effervescent green that just overtakes you. It’s as if the grass is phosphorescent – actually producing its own light rather than simply reflecting that of the sun. I wouldn’t at all be surprised if these grassy fields were still lit up after dusk. The mountains here may differ than those of Colorado, but they certainly do not lack in any majesty.

At first I feel like I’m in the Shire, in the Lord of the Rings. I can hear Howard Shore’s flute melody play blithely as I watch the rolling hills of green grass spotted with homes and farms and livestock. As the road bends, the terrain abruptly flashes from soft and dreamy to jagged and jarring. Now it reminds me of the terrain in Nicaragaua. The green hills are covered with the standard evergreens, but also jutted by rock outcroppings that thrust upward from the grass. Interspersed throughout the evergreens are bare deciduous trees that have not yet budded, thrashing their skeletal limbs in a scowling contortionists’ dance. This is the wild, they say to me. We, not humans, are the rulers here.

Fifty miles north of Grants Pass, at a town called Myrtle Creek, the South Umpqua River suddenly comes into view. Only it’s unlike any river I’ve ever seen in person. The color – a shimmering turquoise – is so striking that merely looking at it induces phantom experiences of the water via the senses of taste and touch. I can feel the temperature and taste the freshness. The color reminds me of the Gatorade flavor “Glacier Freeze,” and I imagine myself, instead of driving on the highway alongside the river, actually rafting down the river, water splashing up in my face and quenching my thirst with its sweet electrolytes.

My little Volta’s speed starts to decline rapidly as I ascend an almost imperceptible hill. I’m used to this by now, and I no longer panic like the first time that I saw my speedometer needle plummet though my pedal was pushed to the floor. Now I simply shift into fourth and pick my speed back up. My Honda is actually doing great with her 4 cylinder considering all the crap that is loaded in the trunk. There’s the occasional rattling noise and the perpetual smell of oil burning, but she putters on.

The highway bends to the right without warning and is swallowed up by the evergreens that border it on either side. The rain has begun to fall harder; the raindrops vaporize as they hit the ground, creating a thick mist that makes it difficult to see where the road turns next. But I’m fixated more on the moment, rather than the destination, and so I just enjoy my beautiful drive through the fog.