Being like Frost, and inclined towards roads less taken has usually been our way; leaning toward places and pursuits that the masses are inclined to by-pass, or overlook. We opt for the makeshift espresso trailer over a Starbucks; the single screen theater over the multi-plex; the B & B in a quiet neighborhood over the downtown hotel.
Born a half-century earlier, Thoreau was decidedly of a different stripe. He could be considered by some to be an original environmentalist, hippie, and advocate for civil disobedience. Beginning in 1845, Henry David embarked on a two-year experiment in the minimalist way of life; sojourning in a cabin built by his friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Had he lived in this age, no doubt he would have spent a night or two in a "Greybar Hotel".
Though we live on a fair-to-middling plot in rural Clackamas County, there are still a couple of reasons why simply being there does not entirely satisfy. One is a septuagenarian's need for recharging through exercise. With racquetballing and snowboarding firmly fixed in the rear-view, there has to be some form of exercise to keep this Swedish chassis from straying too far in the wrong direction. What better alternative can there be than a morning walk along an expanse that's basically linear, relatively level, subtly diverse, and only a mile or so from home?! Another benefit afforded by an hour or so of tramping is the departure from the daily dictates of house-holding, and the chance to replace them with the serenity, fresh air and rejuvenation that comes from being part of the world beyond the walls.
Naturally, our trail of choice is removed from the mainstream of hiking venues. It's an old Portland Traction right-of-way, which has been surrendered to the Rails to Trails
Conservancy, a Washington D.C. non-profit. On November 17, 1990, we had the bitter-sweet experience of riding on the last trip ever taken on that railroad. Now known as the "Springwater Corridor", this forty-mile loop will one day run from the east- Portland side of the Willamette River, through Boring to the lumber town of Estacada. A consortium of government agencies may reclaim the corridor for mass transit uses whenever it wishes. But in the meantime, it is dedicated to trampers and trekkers such as we for pursuing the mild side of wild amidst the alders, scrub maples, firs, and of course the occasional bothersome blackberry vine. The stroll will be often accompanied by the tunes of chickadees and house wrens. The bed of gravel on the trail is replenished every now and again by county workers. Local habitues shrug in conceding to the wheels of progress over an eventual blacktop application.
Once underway, wherever his path leads, the wanderer is free to multi-task; to recap the events of yesterday; to consider the agenda for today; to engage in personal devotion; to "veg out" with an mp3 player; or to simply celebrate life in the great out-of-doors. The options are limitless. No matter which one chooses, the circulatories and pulmonaries will ceaselessly express their gratitude. Trek once completed, the rest of the day seems infinitely more doable.
With all these choices that lie just beyond our front door, down the hill and across the road, it's well nigh impossible to not reflexively consider those who inhabit the concrete jungles. We are referring to those who, by dint of circumstance, are consigned to lives in the inner core of every major metropolitan area; where only fools would dare rush in. They are the ones who must carry on each day with no trails, no trees,....and no tonic.
What of them?
