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Writing from the Columbia River Basin

Pacifica

Pacifica

It's the sound of 1,000 rivers that, after eddies and falls and dams and farms and whirlpools, have finally found their lowest home. They greet each other like long separate friends - joy, but also the ferocity of lost time and the acrid scent of salty tears.

This past weekend I took a vacation to the Oregon coast to celebrate a friend's birthday. When people asked why I was going I said, "To NOT fly fish. To NOT adventure, to NOT push it, to NOT find adrenaline. I'm going to eat brunch and sit in a hot tub and maybe wander on a beach." We found the best biscuits in town for a few days in Portland, then drove along the turquoise blue Wilson River to the Oregon Coast.

I grew up inland but with family to the West we'd always make an ocean trip once a year. I didn't realize how much I had missed it until I smelled it.

The Smith In My Hair

The Smith In My Hair

Fishing With Dad

Fishing With Dad