steep and dangerous road, especially when she took the two hairpin curves on a six percent downgrade. It was a terrifying experience, worsened by the signs reading Runaway Truck Lane — 1 mile .
The cliffs eventually opened to safer roads, the friendly officer exited the interstate, and Layla’s anxiety quieted. Surely the most perilous part of the trip was over. The thought was further reinforced when the interstate flattened and straightened, eventually meeting the Columbia River and following it west.
For a while the lands to the south were flat and Layla could see for miles, but the further west she traveled, the more uneven the earth became, rising to her left and occasionally her right, trapping her in earthen corridors.
When she saw a sign for The Dalles—a large city near an enormous dam—her anticipation spiked. She knew from researching the trip she’d soon enter the greener half of the state, and after driving through brown mountains and canyons for over eight hours, she was ready for the vegetation rich scenery that differed so vastly from the wheat fields of Oklahoma.
When a smattering of trees cropped up on the hills to the north and south—tall, skinny timber that reminded Layla of rock candy—she shifted in her seat, itching to go faster, anxious to see what lay in wait. She didn’t have to wait long. Soon the lands were lush as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t far when the timber encroached both sides of the highway. Suddenly, the three day trip was completely worth it, if only to gaze upon the greenest land she’d ever seen.
Signs advertising the Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway came into view, and Layla glanced at the clock—shortly after five. According to research, she’d lose the light around seven, which meant she had plenty of time to take the detour.
The diversion turned out to be one of the best decisions of her life.
The historic route scaled the cliff—narrow, curvy and shadowed by immense trees that looked skinny, but only because their majestic height gave the optical illusion. Dogwoods and oaks that Layla would have considered large in Gander Creek were dwarfed in the gorge, looking more like brush than trees.
Right beyond the timber—dark, mossy and moist—towered layers of volcanic rock. Once in a while the road opened to picnic areas, affording views of slender waterfalls trickling down the cliff face, but Layla bypassed them, knowing Oregon’s tallest waterfall was around a few more bends.
She reached Multnomah Falls about an hour before sunset, ignoring her bubbling anticipation long enough to organize the backpack she carried in lieu of a purse. After double-checking she had her camera and keys, she walked to the visitor’s center and purchased a day pass to the state parks.
Well worth it, she decided, finally approaching the pool at the bottom of the two-tiered waterfall. High above her, a bridge spanned the bottom half of the cascades, boasting a much more enticing view, so Layla snapped a few pictures of the pool then hiked up the cliff, patiently navigating through tourists to claim a prime spot on the catwalk.
Awe-inspiring in its uncontrived glory, the falls sprung from the depths of Larch Mountain and powerfully rushed down its basalt cliff face, casting a cool mist that moistened Layla’s cheeks. She watched for a long time, reveling in its raw force. Then she closed her eyes, blocked out the tourists’ chatter, and listened to the roar.
A peaceful moment, to imagine being the only human presence among untamed nature, but Katherine’s aching absence kept it from being perfect. Every step Layla took toward the west coast felt like a step away from the woman who’d inspired her to make the journey, like she was forsaking her old life for a new one that no longer included Katherine.
Layla shook the sad musing from her head and opened her eyes, snapping several picky pictures of the falls. Then she returned to the gift shop, loading up on postcards
The cliffs eventually opened to safer roads, the friendly officer exited the interstate, and Layla’s anxiety quieted. Surely the most perilous part of the trip was over. The thought was further reinforced when the interstate flattened and straightened, eventually meeting the Columbia River and following it west.
For a while the lands to the south were flat and Layla could see for miles, but the further west she traveled, the more uneven the earth became, rising to her left and occasionally her right, trapping her in earthen corridors.
When she saw a sign for The Dalles—a large city near an enormous dam—her anticipation spiked. She knew from researching the trip she’d soon enter the greener half of the state, and after driving through brown mountains and canyons for over eight hours, she was ready for the vegetation rich scenery that differed so vastly from the wheat fields of Oklahoma.
When a smattering of trees cropped up on the hills to the north and south—tall, skinny timber that reminded Layla of rock candy—she shifted in her seat, itching to go faster, anxious to see what lay in wait. She didn’t have to wait long. Soon the lands were lush as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t far when the timber encroached both sides of the highway. Suddenly, the three day trip was completely worth it, if only to gaze upon the greenest land she’d ever seen.
Signs advertising the Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway came into view, and Layla glanced at the clock—shortly after five. According to research, she’d lose the light around seven, which meant she had plenty of time to take the detour.
The diversion turned out to be one of the best decisions of her life.
The historic route scaled the cliff—narrow, curvy and shadowed by immense trees that looked skinny, but only because their majestic height gave the optical illusion. Dogwoods and oaks that Layla would have considered large in Gander Creek were dwarfed in the gorge, looking more like brush than trees.
Right beyond the timber—dark, mossy and moist—towered layers of volcanic rock. Once in a while the road opened to picnic areas, affording views of slender waterfalls trickling down the cliff face, but Layla bypassed them, knowing Oregon’s tallest waterfall was around a few more bends.
She reached Multnomah Falls about an hour before sunset, ignoring her bubbling anticipation long enough to organize the backpack she carried in lieu of a purse. After double-checking she had her camera and keys, she walked to the visitor’s center and purchased a day pass to the state parks.
Well worth it, she decided, finally approaching the pool at the bottom of the two-tiered waterfall. High above her, a bridge spanned the bottom half of the cascades, boasting a much more enticing view, so Layla snapped a few pictures of the pool then hiked up the cliff, patiently navigating through tourists to claim a prime spot on the catwalk.
Awe-inspiring in its uncontrived glory, the falls sprung from the depths of Larch Mountain and powerfully rushed down its basalt cliff face, casting a cool mist that moistened Layla’s cheeks. She watched for a long time, reveling in its raw force. Then she closed her eyes, blocked out the tourists’ chatter, and listened to the roar.
A peaceful moment, to imagine being the only human presence among untamed nature, but Katherine’s aching absence kept it from being perfect. Every step Layla took toward the west coast felt like a step away from the woman who’d inspired her to make the journey, like she was forsaking her old life for a new one that no longer included Katherine.
Layla shook the sad musing from her head and opened her eyes, snapping several picky pictures of the falls. Then she returned to the gift shop, loading up on postcards
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