Top Ten Reasons Portland Is AMAZING

Oldy but Goody

Weeks ago I received the most unexpected email. It was a short note from a young girl, who is now a young woman, that I grew up with. We romped through the alleys and cruised around on our bicycles during the long sunlight days. We zoomed down the sledding hills during the wintery months, returning home with snow in our boots and rosey cheeks. We tagged along with my older brother while doing our best to escape her younger brothers. Vanessa Griffin was one of my first girl friends. She lived in the same neighborhood and conveniently my mom and her mom spent many hours together as well. I had not spoken to Vanessa since we were about 11 years old, many even ten, when she moved six hours away to Fairbanks and soon after I moved with my mom and brother to Portland, Oregon. Of course, through our mothers' letters sent each year around the Holiday season we caught glimpses of one another's lives. I must say upon remeeting Vanessa (you never can tell how a person will be/ has become after 14 some years), I am more than impressed. Beautiful on the inside and out. She and her friend Sara (also a groovy lady) spent a few days in Portland, part of which I had the pleasure of spending with them, showing off the beautiful city. Both of these women are strong and amazing in their unique way, searching for a better world and their place within it. I wish them the best of luck on their journey and hope that at some point their paths cross through Portland again.

To my one and only loyal fan!

Emilia Callero wins an award of patience. Thanks for your loyalty and persistence... in every way, not just in regards to my blogging negligence. I am going to rewind life a bit and begin my blog at the beginning of this year, a two month stay with my dad in Alaska.

Alaska is a beautiful place. It takes your breath away. So does the cold. Cracked breath. Cracked skin, creating crevices of frozen blood. Snow blows like sand. Powder crunches under footsteps. Extremely dry air shocks with static sparks. I went to Chena Hot Springs, which is just north of Fairbanks and is were I learned to swim as a child. Dad and I took a dip after a long, slippery drive. Never had I been on the road during the wintry, white months. Absolutely breath-taking. I submerged in the steamy pools of the springs. Dipping deeper my chin, lips, nose and ears are swallowed under, feeling rosy and warm. Tightly closed lids I slip deeper. Descending to warm depths. Warm, warmer, warmer, hot, hotter. I rocket up and ascend to frozen skies. To the stars and the extreme cold. My hair turns to tangled strands, a frozen helmet forms. It is frosted white, glimmering. Droplets are literally frozen, suspended in mid-drip, never reaching my shoulders. It is the most incredible phenomenon, when polar opposites, two extremes of hot and cold meet.

Dad and I visited the Ice Museum, formerly the Ice Hotel but according to fire code is not safe to house overnight guests. It stands, in igloo-like form, curved roof and walls reach the snowy floor. There are rooms with beds, one with a polar bear peeking up and out from the headboard and its paws sticking up like posts. I laid on its belly. Everything is carved from ice, the stools, a podium, steps, beds, tables, a winding staircase to a balcony overlooking a bar serving Stoli's out of cocktail glasses of ice. Of course the walls and structure itself are also of ice. Ironically we took off a layer of jackets when we entered for the temperature of 28 degrees was warming to the fingers and toes after facing the windchill and below zero cold outside the shelter.

Dad and I became loyal fans of the Last Great Race, volunteering behind the scenes. We weighed and separated tons and tons of dog food and "people food" that was to be shipped out to the checkpoints along the trail. We also worked the phone lines, brought race placement and times from the trail, helped launch teams from the starting line, and dogsat the lot at the finish in Nome in the wee hours of the morning in between bar hopping. Although we were freezing our little "tails" off during our participation I cant even imagine the cold that the teams face on the trail. Out in the wild, desolate, icy land of the north. Just you and your dogs. I met some of these brave souls. Jeff King told a story about himself and John Baker competing one year. Jeff was holding second place and John was gaining on him. Jeff started pedaling faster and mushing harder yet slowly and steadily John kept gaining distance. As he came to terms with his settlement on third place Jeff pulled to the side and braked to a halt. John approached swiftly and as he came within yards threw his brake in the snow and ice and skidded to a halt next to Jeff’s sled. “Want a cup of coffee?” John yelled over to Jeff. It was a beautiful crisp morning. So without a word of the race, the competition, and John’s obvious take over of 2nd place from Jeff, the two mushers enjoyed coffee in the middle of nowhere. That’s the sentiment of the Iditarod. That’s the sentiment of the Bush. Community. Living in the moment. Sharing the moment.

God Bless the US of A

Happy Fourth of July!