the atelier

 

The Western Traveler continues to regard the mighty Columbia from the middle of the Sam Hill Memorial Bridge

    Pancakes and out of Ochoco Divide by 8. Some expansive landscapes of monumental beauty all along the way with distant farms scattered to the horizon, a heroic western world never mind the occasional trump 2020 sign ragged on the fence line. Never mind the commercial chaos of Biggs Junction at the confluence of i84, 97 and the Columbia where we dieseled.

    Lunched on peanut stir fry and salmon salad at a splendid state park on the Washington shore just across the bridge from Biggs. There were big poplars shaking in the breeze and vast stretches of green green grass being mowed by an ageable woman with a dancers feel for her three gang mower who drove over to warn us that if the ranger saw D running loose and joyously free it would cost us $100.

    Beat west to Yakima in fire smoke and wind where the google map set to avoid highways led us through dozens of twists and turns through residential streets until finally we came to a sign that said street closed and offered no suggestions. We scolded Ms. Google and set her on a new direct order to get us to i 90 which she did without a single snide remark.

    And thus we barreled on to Rainier Avenue South two cars behind the number 7 city bus on which was our darling daughter who could look back and see D hanging halfway out the passenger window with his eyes glazed and his tongue flying, Arriving at the compound of C & S at about the same time as R we wallowed in a big bowl of italian plums and exchanged news of the world. R walked D home to her house and a pleasant if boisterous, unrestrained, irrepressible, exuberant, uproarious, rollicking, evening with Ms. Marbles.