Farewell, Oregon

Sometimes, our path is clear.

Sometimes, the right path is far less obvious.

When I came to Oregon in 2008, I hoped that it was the right choice.  I had been offered a great job, and with it came the opportunity to live in a city known for its easy access to a wide variety of outdoor activities.  I needed that change; I wanted that access--even though it would put three time zones between the people in my life and me.  I took a great leap, hoping for the best.  

Oregon is a very special place.  Every day I take the time to notice, it shows me new wonders and beauty.

This is a place full of hidden secrets,

Strange surprises,

And long history.

It is a place where 87% of all tool sheds are actually coffee houses

Or Thai restaurants.

There is splendor both towering

And tiny,

And even the areas of stark desolation hold the potential for magic.

The mountains here know that they are volcanoes, and seek to remind us that they are not dead, but only sleeping.

Even the road signs, like the people, are friendly,

And sometimes bizarre.

People here are innovative,

Inventive,

 

And tell you exactly what you’re getting—

Though they might bend the rules a little.

They use skis for entertainment

And building supplies.

Times can be tough,

But Oregonians take care of each other, and are not afraid to show their love in oddly boisterous ways.

We have to look out for each other; our environment can be so harsh that even road signs bundle up for the winter,

Yarn bomb credit: http://recorked4u.com/

And bike racks wear their thickest socks.

 

I came here because I needed a change.  I wanted to find new adventures.  I found a place where I felt I should have been all along.

My enthusiasm for the area has brought me lots of visitors in the past four years;

I’ve tried to point them towards some of the fantastic things I’ve found,

While allowing time for reflection.

Too often, we rush through life

When we should take the opportunity to hang out and enjoy the view.

I like to think that I’ve made the most of my time here,

Taken chances,

And broadened my horizons,

But it’s time for me to leave Oregon.

There are things in my life that I can’t do here, and other adventures I’d like to have.  I will miss Oregon terribly, but I can be happy knowing that I had an amazing time while I was here; it’s something most people don’t even know their lives lack.  A few are lucky enough to come here for a visit.  Fewer still—myself included—are lucky enough to live here.  I grew up in Ohio, but I’ll always be an Oregonian.  Thank you so much, Oregon, for being part of my life.

Sincerely,

Ryan

This didn't turn out quite as well as I had hoped, but considering how I feel about the topic, it's hard to believe I could ever do it justice.  Check out the captions, credits, and a few more signature Oregon pictures here.

Old mountain, new areas

I like to think that you wouldn't know it by watching me, but I only learned how to ski two years ago.  After living in Bend for two years, I was afraid that they'd make me leave town if I didn't take up skiing, snowboarding, or snowmobiling (possibly all three), and I had nowhere to park a snowmobile.  Bachelor offered a unique deal: a five-lesson package, with gear rental included on the days of all lessons, and a 12-day pass upon completion of the course.  Half price on your season pass the following year, and 25% off the season pass the year after that.  Just like a drug dealer, they got me hooked, then jacked up the price.

I do my level best to make them lose money on me.  For the past two years, I've been in the top 25 on the consumer leaderboard for vertical per day and turns per day, usually without meaning to achieve such goals.  I just go to the mountain early, stay late, and ski as much as I can between those times.

In the past two seasons, I've explored most of the mountain, but there were two areas I had yet to breach: the backside, and the cinder cone.  This season, as part of my Bend Bucket List, I've skied both.

On February 19, Bachelor had a gorgeous bluebird day.  You could see for miles, the air was crisp and clear, and the often-brutal Bachelor winds were nothing more than a pleasant breeze.  It was a record-setting day for Bachelor--the entire mountain was crowded with skiers and snowboarders, and I decided it was a perfect day to explore the backside territory.  I started with a run through the west bowls, accessible from Northwest Chair, just to get an idea of what was in store for me.  On a day that busy, it's impossible to find an area of untracked powder larger than a common bedroom, and rare to find a place on the mountain where you can't see at least one other person.  This held for the west bowls, too, but there were still long moments of peaceful isolation.  I could hear a bird singing somewhere south of me, and the view in that direction showed an expanse of National Forest which appeared untouched between the mountain and the horizon.

Later, I convinced a friend to join me on a run from the Summit chair down the back of the mountain.  I ended up skiing the backside three times (three and a half, if you count the West Bowls) that day.  If I'd had more time, I would have spent the entire day back there.  The runs may have been shorter, until you hit the catchline road to bring you back to Northwest Chair, but for me it was an entirely new place, with new views, new terrain, and large, drifted cliffs of snow.  Despite the tracks laid all around me by those who came earlier in the day, I got to feel like an explorer.  Hopefully I can get back there again before I leave town in two weeks.

Somewhere inside this snow sculpture, there's a tree caked in ice.

Kwolh Butte, seen from Bachelor's backside.  I had wanted to make a hike to that crater as one of my last adventures in town, but it would be an overnight trip in snowshoes, and I don't know enough local crazy people to help me break that much trail.

The next weekend, I came down Leeway from the top of Pine Marten chair and watched a solid line of riders hiking their gear up the cinder cone (a small feature of the mountain prominent enough to be the namesake of a local brew).  The front side of the cone is visible from the West Village parking lot, and is usually heavily textured with the tracks of dozens of skiers and boarders.  I had been in powder between Outback and Northwest chairs most of the morning, and was ready for a more unique ride, so I shot down through the valley, coasted as high up the cone's flank as I could manage, and hiked the rest of the way with my skis on my shoulder.  The trip was much shorter than I had anticipated, and I even managed to convince a coworker to join me later that afternoon.  On both trips, I had to take a shorter route that brought me out of the trees on the lower end of Leeway (he would only agree to join me if I found an easy way through the trees for him, and he didn't want to hike back to a lift from the bottom of the cone's front side), but the slope was steep enough to make turning in the deep powder easy and more fun than I had expected.

A view of the far rim of the cinder cone; a view you can't reach by any ski lift.

Like the backside, I'd like to ski the cinder cone again, but if I don't, at least I got the chance to try it.  Even on a mountain so familiar to me that I no longer carry a map (and often serve as a map to people who have forgotten theirs), it's great to find brand new areas to explore.