![]() No one in the household was stirring the rooster crowed as I pulled out. The following morning I woke at five in the rough-hewn guest house my nephew had built behind his vegetable garden. The diamond, with its boys’ and girls’ coach-pitch three-inning game, and the pure Americanness of the scene, were thrown into perspective by the massive, timeless hills, verdant with the spring rains, towering above it. My nephew and I took his son, six years old, to his baseball game down in the town of White Salmon. The month was May, but a cutting wind sliced across the steep hills. It looked as though the householder had wrangled them there for sizing into smaller chunks as fuel was needed during the long winter. One little house partway up, a shack really, was flanked on one side by a pile of rough-cut logs, each about the length of an American car from the fifties. ![]() ![]() As I drove up precipitous roads that reached up from the Columbia River to my nephew’s house, where I would spend the night, some of the hillsides had that desolate, shredded look that follows clear-cutting. Taoist hermits might be meditating in caves up in those hills.Ībove White Salmon, Washington, where I spent my first night, pioneer days had not, it seemed, entirely ended. In late-afternoon light the stone takes on a purple glow. The Gorge’s mist-wreathed granite cliffs, rising above the onrush of the Columbia River, look as though they could have been painted by a Chinese landscape artist from the Tang Dynasty. Leaving Portland, with its microbreweries, Pacific Rim restaurants, lumberjack chic, and drive-through coffee stations, I drove east along the Columbia River Gorge on the first leg of a four-thousand-mile trip that would take me to northern Michigan and then down to South Carolina and Tennessee.
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