Evergreens, pungent in an array of adjectives, give rise to any number of emotions and memories of a childhood spent among them. Hillsides are cloaked, not in bougainvillea gone wild or sprawling ice plant, but the vibrant colors of rhododendrons and azaleas, the dozens of shades of spring green, meadows covered in tiny purple iris “flags“ or golden daffodils. In fall, Oregon’s autumnal splendor rivals that of the highly touted Northeast.
Instead of a broad canal delivering water to an arid valley, rivers -- among them the mighty Columbia, meandering Willamette and capricious Umpquas (there are two, after all, before merging into the one that empties into the Pacific) -- descend at times abruptly and others incrementally toward a final destination.
Even today, and it’s been awhile since the last visit and decades since I lived there, the feeling of “I’m home” sets in when we cross the invisible line in the Siskiyous between Northern California and Oregon.
One of my favorite views, though, is not of the mountains and rivers of the PNW, but that of rounding a curve in Colorado as Estes Park unfolds, framed by the icy blue of the lake that shares its name and towering peaks, well over 10,000 feet and cloaked in white against an azure sky. Breath-taking. In its most, albeit temporary, meaning.
But the majority of my life has been spent in the Desert Southwest, where beauty is much more subtle, and the eruption of color, while momentary, is, for lack of a better word, stunning.
And that is part of its charm. One can go along for months tolerating the triple digits of summer, enduring the steering wheel that singes until the A/C kicks in, or the oppressive blanket of humidity when monsoons sweep northward from the Sea of Cortez, wondering why on Earth we stay here. Those who can, escape west to San Diego or head toward the hills, somewhere, until summer eases or vacation ends.
Then the west winds sweep in, cool, dry winds that scrub the air of any debris and leave it crisp and clean. Or the skies fill with clouds saturated with moisture, cumulonimbus towering high into the atmosphere, a study in contrasts of white and grey against that blue, blue sky and green fields below.
The sun, in its rising and setting, flings a palette of colors across the horizon, desert to the east and mountains in all other directions.
It’s a landscape far from bland, with mountains, canyons and dunes that are at turns purple majesty and gilded titian. Rain on the desert nurtures dormant seeds, giving promise to a splendid wildflower season. It transforms prickly ocotillo branches into leafy, scarlet architectural statements, and evokes exotic fragrances. Rainbows, often two at a time, stretch from one pot of gold to the other against a blackened sky.
Temperatures cool. Windows are flung open and spirits lift. There’s an “aha!” moment, one of, yes, we can do this. Especially with this kind of payoff.
