A much vaunted “green corridor”. One of Portland Metro’s cool places in which to enjoy the beauty of the northwest goes by the name of Larch Mountain. In a car, taken at speed, one might fail to see the more sullied details. Not so on a bicycle.
In Portland we are constantly bombarded by how livable we are, how environmentally aware and proactive we are, how this is the place where everyone and their dog wants to come and live due to our ever lighter footprint on the planet. I have always considered the barrage of self-congratulation and promotion to encompass the surrounding environs and not just the gentrified downtown. Life really does go beyond Whole Foods and Powell’s Books when it comes to livability.
Starting out in the early morning, the route is flat for all of a mile or two as it follows the east bank of the Sandy River where monofilament line and styrofoam bait cups are liberally strewn amongst the “silver bullets” awaiting spring’s melt-waters to carry them to the Columbia over top of the few remaining salmon and steelhead. Pollution and its solution here, being very much of the dilution school of thought.
Done quickly with riding the easy stuff the road tilts up and away towards Corbett and onto an impressive vista looking eastwards, upstream Columbia. It takes in the Rooster and Beacon Rocks along with Bonneville Dam and the miles of timbered country rising north and south away from waterfall riven cliffs. Hardened points of hexagonal grandeur, dripping water through vivid mosses and dustings of saxifrage. From this point it is fourteen miles of a climbing, winding “green corridor” to the summit overlook atop Larch Mountain whose all encompassing horizon is the major volcanic peaks of the Cascade range stretching north to Canada, south to California.
The constant admonishment of legal roadside graffiti, easily reviewed from a bicycle at 10 mph or less due to the climb, being the prohibited discharge of firearms and that the penalty should you choose to do so is $5,000.00 and six months in jail. As if there is a substantive difference, there is periodic further admonishment that target shooting is also prohibited due to there being school bus stops and residences close by. What else gets shot up here besides targets? These ugly white signs line both sides of the entire corridor, appearing maybe every mile. I imagine they have to be repeated this often because being riddled with bullet holes they are at times illegible and it takes ninety hard breathing minutes on a bike to finally decipher the entire message. I would think it more effective to have one rather emphatic, preferably bullet-proof sign at the road’s beginning and use the balance of signage monies to occasionally patrol the “green corridor” for the trigger happy in what appears to be a free fire zone.
Should the perforated signs trouble a conscience as much as a person’s visual sense, their spacing allows some of us the peace of mind to discard the household refuse we are too cheap, mean or lazy to take to Goodwill Industries or the Metro dump. Mixed among the wild blue Delphiniums, the Vanilla Leaf and Aquilegia are piles of molding diapers, the odd spent appliance, the ubiquitous tires and sundry car parts oozing oil. I could spread them out and have a sale on the remnants of old carpet that refuse to break down and provide a nursery for the Dogwood and Trillium seedlings. Redneck trash provides a jarring note in this “Green Corridor”. What on this earth possesses a person to drive into this beautiful area and abandon the detritus of their existence for all to see?
It may be June but it remains far too cold too linger on top for the reward of volcanic peaks and the vivid banks of Pennstemmons whose toes dig deep into cliff faces perched high above wind stunted trees and alpine ponds. It only remains to hurtle downhill, seeking an elevation where freezing air becomes less so and eventually turns warm. The direction is west to a not far distant Portland. A safe haven where we might elaborate upon the righteousness of our life of greenness and where the well-planned foresight of our existence is represented by mere lip service to travel by bicycle.
A city separated from its environs by myth more than miles. This most livable area might look to more bicycles and less bullet holes to be more truly so, as far less trash would pollute the wild flower verges and river banks of this landscape were it to be transported by the sweat of one’s brow. This “green corridor” is neither landfill nor shooting range. Connecting the bullet holes will not make sense so read the signs, peddle hard, drive with care and leave the gun at home.