Powell Butte

July 6, 2025

The morning begins as I imagine many of them will in the coming month, with me biking over to Ovation for my morning scone and coffee. I'm going there partly because I'm an early riser and they open at six, the earliest of any of the local coffee shops.

When Rachael and I first moved into our condo back in 2002, there was a Starbucks just a half block away on the corner of 11th and Lovejoy, and many of my mornings would find me there just as they opened, after having walked down the stairwell from our second story apartment, sometimes passing the paper deliver making his rounds - an African immigrant from central Africa the looks of him, a stocky and smiling man in his thirties I'd estimate, running up the stairs with a tall bundle of newspapers balanced like a bale of hay on his right shoulder.

When I looked down the hall in the morning, nearly every door had the morning's edition of the NYT or WSJ lying centered on its doormat, or maybe an pile of several of them if they've been out of town. Our doorway was one of the exceptions. We had no doormat, and we weren't subscribers either - partly of course because we were still in transition, living half of our lives down in Salem where our jobs were - but also because I would purchase the NYT at the coffee shop along with my order, and then go sit at my favorite spot, one of the regulars, and complete the crossword puzzle in pen. If it was a commuting day and we were driving south to Salem early to beat the commuter rush, I'd be in a hurry to complete the puzzle before Rachael rounded the corner with the Jetta to pick me up. And if I ran out of time as would happen later in the week when the puzzles grew progressively more challenging each day, I'd take the paper with me and complete it in the cafe at work before reporting for duty.

As the years went on, more gaps gradually started appearing as I looked down the hall; and by the time we sold our home and went vagabond I'm not sure there were any remaining dead tree subscribers left on the floor at all. And downstairs at the corner? There were plenty of changes there too, all for the worse in my viewing. Gradually the Starbucks lost its character and the clientele base shifted until it became closer to a hideout for the indigent. And gradually the homelessness situation began to develop. I remember how shocked I was the first time I tried to open the door at the bottom of the stairwell and found a man sleeping there.

By the time we moved out, the local Starbucks was no longer a place I felt comfortable passing the time in. Few others like my selves did either, and it gradually got emptier and emptier until Covid came along and shut it down for good. The corner has stood empty for at least seven years now.

Locked up for the first time here. Before, I'd just walk out the door of the condo on the right, our home for the previous five weeks.

There's a lot I find to like in Ovation, and one is the bowl-like coffee mugs. They remind me of the ones you still often found in southern France when we started touring there.

I've got a simple plan in mind for the day: I'll bike east to Powell Butte and then back home along the Springwater Corrider, stopping in again at the new wetlands in the Lents Floodplain that I recently discovered. After that I'll drive over to Clever Cycles to pick up my Bike Friday, go across the street to the Lucky Lab Bruce clued me in on last week, and then drive home. Rachael's plan is another trek out Leif Erickson Drive, after she first takes her BF over to the nearby Trek shop for a tuneup in preparation for our departure to Europe.

Life just keeps happening though, and well-conceived plans keep getting nudged or whacked into a whole different direction. This morning it's the discovery that I can't find the Pendleton when I'm getting ready to leave the apartment. I don't want to disturb partner by conducting a thorough search, but once I'm settled in at Ovation I make a few calls to the likely suspects. No, I didn't leave it at either Lovejoy or the downtown Umbria next to the Schnitz, as a pair of phone calls confirms. There aren't many candidates, but there's still Dinner at Gallo Nero where I'll bet I left it. I know I biked over with it, because Rachael occasionally is chilly enough to want to borrow it from me. I tend to always have it with me when we go out to eat together, but it's really for her in case she needs some extra warmth.

I wrap up at Ovation after a couple of hours and head back to the shack to rub noses with the missus for a while and share in the thrilling realization that the Apple Wars are finally over, the good guys won, and we can finally return home and put all that behind us, a little PTSD'd but otherwise not permanently scarred. And I confirm that the missing shirt isn't there and finally set off for Powell Butte around noon, late enough so that I can stop by Gallo Nero to test out that hope too, but it's not there.

Beyond discouraging, but it's nice to see now who the scooter belongs to.

For my route out to Powell Butte I first follow the one to Clinton Street Coffee, and stop in there in the off chance that I left it there - but that proves to be a dry hole also. And then I stop by Bruce's house on the off hoping he's in nd receiving gentleman callers so I can borrow an Allen wrench and tighten down my mirror that is flopping around uselessly.

But no, Bruce isn't in either and I'm just deciding whether to just go mirrorless today because I apparently left the multitool back at home somewhere or head east up Harrison instead of Clinton and try Andrea's home instead when I hear my name called. It's Bruce, walking back home from Andrea's, about a half mile in the way - though I can't be sure until I call his name and there's a confirming response because the light is too bright.

So that's an interesting coincidence. We stand on the sidewalk chatting, confirming that it's next Tuesday and not tomorrow that we're meeting again at Clinton Street. I've been confused and thought it might be tomorrow because for whatever reason I continue to be unstuck in time, unsure of what day it is or how long it's been since some particular event occurred. I can't quite believe that it was only six days ago that we had coffee here unless I really concentrate and think back through what occurred, day by day.

While we're talking I explain why I came here, and I reach down to show him how floppy the mirror is when it unexpectedly tightens. To my surprise, it will self-tighten if I spin it counterclockwise.

So time comes, and Bruce turns to head back to Andrea's for the breakfast they have planned and I bike east up Clinton Street, enjoying a bike boulevard it's been too long since I've visited. It's really a lovely route, passing stately old east Portland homes with fantastic gardens that rival Bruce and Andrea's - so there are plenty of reasons to stop and break out the camera. And there are plenty of spots to capture some footage with the GoPro that I have mounted on the handlebars but somehow keep forgetting to turn on at the appropriate time.

And as I bike there's the sound of music everywhere I go, because it's emanating from me. Because somewhere throughout this whole ordeal music has returned to my life full force, and the songbook I grew up on and came of age in is back and as I bike I'm more or less constantly whistling as one old song I still remember the melody and half the words to comes to mind like a long-lost friend; and when I'm not whistling and no one's nearby I'm singing, because even though I don't have an ear I have a decent baritone voice and at one point was part of a barber shop quartet and an a capella group. It's like I've stepped back in time forty years to how I was right after the army. It's the way I endured hours or days of biking into headwinds crossing the plains or down in the southwest, always having a tune spinning to whatever cadence I was managing at the moment.

And then finally come to the I-205 bike path, and my opportunity to check out the scene there. Have the mole-whackers been by and cleared it up enough so folks like Rachael that are security conscious would feel safe there?

Short answer: nope, and Springwater is starting to feel less secure and more menacing and littered and trashy every time I pass through also. They're moving back again, apparently having been whacked away from some other refuge they've been trying to survive in. Mole-whackers, start whacking!

So, so, sad. It's a whole different feeling than coming to a crest and seeing the names of cycling gods spray painted on the pavement to encourage them on.

I cross Powell Boulevard and stop to consider whether to turn here and take the direct route east to the butte ut finally decide to continue south to the Corridor and approach the old dome from the south, following Johnson Creek along the old rail line that's been converted to a bikeway.

The train doesn't stop at the Lents Depot any more, but it's not going anywhere. It's still in service, but now it's just stationary.

I'm coming up on the new wetland when I look ahead and see a raptor perched on a utility pole maybe about three poles up the line. He's a buteo, probably a red-tail but I'm suspicious by his size and the way he's perched in such a prominent, visible spot. it's not really typical red-tail behavior.

And I'm right, as he lets me discover as I slowly get close enough for a good shot and see that he really is the red-shouldered hawk I suspected. It's the first I've ever seen along the corridor, and I'm sure he's here because he can get a good look at the new smorgasbord spread out just across the trail.

I'm gonna put my hex on you, sez the house finch. Ooh, I'm so scared, responds Mr. Towhee.

I turn off onto the new spur alongside the developing wetland, following another biker who looks like he's just here to observe the scene like myself. We chat for a bit and I ask him how long this path has been open and he tells me it's barely a month. One more reason to love this city, another brass weight to offset the lead ones on the other side of the balance dragging the city down.

And then I continue on, unsure still whether I really should take the effort to climb up to the top of the butte until I look ahead and see that yes, of course I should.

Wow, another wild coincidence. That's my coffee shop! I'll have to ask around to see if they sell bike jerseys.

I've done this enough now that I know the routes to and through the park, and I know that it's worth getting off and pushing for the hundred or so yards of 15% slope that are just too much yet for the shape I'm in on a hot summer day.

The snow's getting stripped off of Saint Helens fast. Already it looks much different than it did when we were up on Rocky Butte last week.

I usually bike up to the top on the paved, narrow path with two sharp hairpin turns in them, but today I climb up the gravel path for the first time and enjoy the stellar views it offers as I bike straight toward Mount Hood.

On the Mountain View Trail. The birdhouse reminds me of another one on the opposite side mountain, just east od Dufur.

At the top I stop at the vista point, having a look around to see if Mount Adams is visible today or not but mostly being surprised that I almost can't make out Saint Helens. Between the time j started this climb and now it's gotten hazed over by smoke blowing in from the east.

And then another remarkable coincidence occurs when another man of about my vintage walks up and takes a seat on the wall close by. There are a few ice breakers available so one of us picks one up, chips a hole, and a half hour later we're still talking. We finally cut it off so we can coast down to the visitor center for some water because somehow we both ended up out here on a hot, full-sun afternoon with empty water bottles and haven't had a drop to drink in about three hours..

When we part, it's with a commitment to continue our discussion up on top of Mount Tabor sometime in the next two weeks, so let's stop here and save his fascinating story for then. And let's just stop here period, because it's time to ride. We'll have to wait for tomorrow to learn more about that Pendleton. Really, again? Please, no.

Michael, Roddy, and the big one. Makes me think of a Judy Collins song I haven't heard or thought of in ages.

Yup. On a clear day you can see Adams from here.

Swish! While I'm stopped for this shot another biker stops and cautions me not to feed her,. Nope - it never entered my mind.

Nope, this isn't the song I was thinking of. It's still on the cutting board waiting for the right day.

Today's ride: 40 miles (64 km)
Total: 101 miles (163 km)

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CJ HornYikes! That song…
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4 days ago