It’s one of those places that could follow you around forever.
There’s something sort-of poetic about Oregon. It’s where the grey sky has a purple hue that contrasts perfectly against the black soil covered by green forestry. It’s cities filled with drifters and the open-minded; it’s strange little coffee shops and intellectuals. It’s an experience totally in it’s own. It’s Oregon, brought to you by well– Oregon.
It’s the place where I realized what a sincere lover of trees that I am. The place where I discovered the phenomenon of Northwest lichen (unlike other forms of lichen) AND the shapeliness of a drooping Douglas Fir.
The truth is that Oregon doesn’t need me to speak for it, because well, frankly it can speak for itself. It speaks in the richness and deepness of it’s colors. It speaks in the roaring of it’s waters and the leaves rustling in the wind.
It speaks in the spray of the angry Pacific when it spits in your face after violently breaking against the black volcanic rocks. It’s the taste of salt that burns in the cracks of your lips and the wind that makes a mess of your hair. It’s tiny seaside towns with tsunami warning signs.
It’s the blowhole at Thor’s Well that allows you to plant your feet in fear at the sight of the optical allusion that might knock you into the pool below.
It’s the images of Rivendale at Multnomah Falls with a mind baffling bridge built in 1920. I still can’t wrap my mind around it’s construction.
It’s leaves the size of your head.
It’s homemade cheese and cows grazing. It’s the creativity of Portland, the hipster haircuts and the experience of a food truck scene like no other.
It’s mist with covered bridges and getting lost on roads with people walking their dogs in their rain slickers.