Part of a larger writing project from more than 30 years ago.
Rolling implacably north toward the Columbia, the Willamette River cuts a liquid grey path through the heart of Portland. There along the water’s western shore, in an area once blistered by aging industrial buildings, a new city park sprawls for more than a mile. This park is part of a larger waterfront development that includes a jumble of rust-colored condominiums to the north and a small open-air retail mall to the south. A block-wide ribbon of grass stretches between the mall and the condos, punctuated by an occasional tree or statue, and by one spectacular fountain. The whole development is tied together by a paved walkway that runs along a retaining wall at the river’s edge. Several blocks apart, four bridges arch dramatically over this path, each gracing the space beneath with a cathedral air. The park is considered one of the jewels of Portland and several times each season is awash in some commercial festival or celebration of civic pride. Yet, on the first day I strolled though this supposedly happy place, I was surprised by an insight into the spiritual poverty of my years of city life.
I had been living for a number of months in a town just outside Portland, in a community dedicated to preserving its remaining wild areas. I had taken to roaming the wooded hills near my new home, a novel experience given my previous twenty years trapped in urban Oakland. Still accustomed to walks in planned greenery, I decided one day to visit the much ballyhooed waterfront park.
Except for the camp of street-people near the toilet house, and a few pieces of debris, the park had the air of a well kept yard. Indeed, it is as kind of front yard for the high rise section of town. The vast expanse of well tended grass and the singular trees rising from perfectly scribed circles of bare ground came across as mere natural accents against the cold background of cement, metal and glass. As I slowly wandered past adults sprawling on the lawn and children romping through the fountain, I felt an uncomfortable distance from the smiling faces around me. City parks are best visited with friends, but I was a stranger here. Cities themselves are no place to be unless one has specific business, some strong focus. Even with the river close at hand and a clear sky above, I felt assaulted by car exhaust and irritated by a constant hum and hiss that chafed at the edge of consciousness like a poorly fitted shoe.
Once into the retail section, I passed shops that seemed like seagulls dressed up as peacocks, their colorful plumage tacked on in a graceless attempt to beguile. On the other side of the walkway, restaurant customers clustered around small tables, spreading chatter and expensive French cigarette smoke, while waiters moved smartly across the pavement, clinking glasses and flatware, carrying trays from bright kitchens. Couples sat quietly, either in comfortable familiarity or in boredom. Singles stared pensively into the middle distance, retreating form a day’s work or perhaps feigning indifference to the pain of feeling alone in a crowd. I did not want friendliness born of commerce, nor the company of strangers. At the end of my walk, the smile on my face matched the earnest but synthetic congeniality around me. I drove back from the city feeling tired and sad.
When the small dark forest covering the hill above my house came into view, I felt relieved. All in a moment: I remembered the peaceful, yet somehow expectant sense of place I always found among its trees. I thought of traveling its switchback deer-paths, the air musty with humus and rich with the tang of pine. I recalled crunching along the gravel right-of-way that links the surrounding hills. picking blackberries from the huge brambles lining the path, and listening to the babble of the creek ambling nearby. Unlike the waterfront park, with its well-groomed pet vegetation, the forest floor is alive and teeming with insect, fern and weed. A cluster of fallen longs, a riot of lichen and moss, vast beds of thistle plant, all fill the eye and speak of endless, complex cycles of decay and renewal.
Glancing left as my car approached home, I could see the adjacent wooded ridge looming in silhouette against the darkening sky of twilight. The sight sang to me. I imagined huffing up its steep slope, though strands of alder, spruce and cedar, until the wood opens up onto a field of aromatic grasses bowing gently in the wind. From this butte, one can see nearby mountain tops standing watch over a panorama of green rolling hills, farmland and tree shrouded housing developments.
I do not wish to romanticize rural life, nor gild a cliché about escaping to nature. I know I am a product of the city, that I rely heavily upon artifice and cannot survive any other way. I have rarely been as impressed as others seem to be by the beauty of natural settings, and I have long been suspicious of the cultural myths about wilderness. Moreover, the area that surrounded my house was quite tame. Still, until I moved there, I never knew how much the city had robbed from me. Somehow, a rustic setting allowed me to be by myself without misery, or if I came in misery, to help that feeling seep from my bones. The effect surprised me. If you cannot have the company you want, the wood is the best place to be alone.
