California in my rear view mirror.

At long last.  Oregon.  Sounds so good just to say thy name: Oregon.   Even has one less syllable to make it go down easier.

California does not give up without a fight.  I leave Seiad Valley just outside the fire closure line. Smoke and Technicolor sunrises/sets are my constant companions. Seems like I’m going up and down continually for no apparent reason.

Things are clearly changing. Not just the trees but all the ground plants are looking more like my adoptive Portland based reference woodlands. That is until you go around the corner and the scene switches back temporarily to when-will-it-ever-end California.

No matter what the map so emphatically promises, CA just seems to just go on and on. There are no geological, historical or otherwise cool points between here and the border. CA has only one job to do, and that is to be over.

I’m making pretty good mileage, often in the 22 – 25 miles range. It is definitely getting dark earlier, and I am definitely not getting up any earlier in spite of my best intentions. I’m walking later into the dark. One night I hit water and a good campsite after 20 miles. But it’s still 45 minutes till dark. I push on, Oregon here I come.

It’s a long gentle canyon that seems to go on. For sure it goes on past dark. I’m doing the no flash light dance until I finally top out. It’s in the trees and dark dark. Steep downhill to follow, so it’s either flash light up from here or camp. I hunt around in circles for awhile and dig in.

Up and out early the next morning. Fresh and moving downhill. In 45 minutes I’m back at the water spot, a distance that cost me an hour and a half the night before. In the daylight I walked out of camp in the wrong direction. Come on CA, give me a break.

And then seemingly out of nowhere, in a nondescript turn in the trail is a point where it is assumed a line first described by words then by pen corresponds to the dirt on the ground. I linger, take pictures and write in the journal before I cross over.

I step over deliberately, just once. No back and forth for me. First California, now Oregon, then North.

Just a mile or so to a road junction where I’ll camp. Along the way I meet a guy looking for his son, Bouncer, who must be just behind me. Seems Bouncer’s Mom and Dad, sometimes with a much younger but perhaps traditionally named Bouncer sectioned hiked OR and WA years ago. Bouncer, now 19, is thru hiking, with the family following along this section with a camper.

I camp by the road junction and it is cold. Still no tent. That is my first real impression of Oregon, cold.

At some point Bouncer shows up and I hear all the hooping and hollering from the other side of the bushes. At one point I hear: “At last I get my husband back!”. I’m not sure if Bouncer is married or this refers to the obsessed Dad.

A day or so later I do 26.2 miles, a personal best. I’m in Ashland. And this is Oregon for real. And for the not so real.

Some scenes from the trail:

In my haste to catch the ride out of town I broke one of my cardinal rules: “Always dump your change”. Here I leave the leftover quarters from the Laundromat at camp.

Smoke highlights the 3-D nature of my universe. Fortunately the air is clearer at higher elevations.

I pass through an active logging site. Here are some locals waiting for that great one way trip of a lifetime.

How do you spell “Understated “?

Suddenly it does not seem as far as yesterday.

One last look back and then goodbye, California.

First water in Oregon. A spring right out of the rocks, piped for easy access, wild flowers and honey bees. Right on the trail. Perfect.

Don’t let this little piece of aqua heaven fool you, as it did me. The next 200 miles of Oregon were drier than any stretch in CA. More on that later.