I know many people who have travelled widely in the world. But I’m not one of them. My husband has even travelled on business in Japan, Mexico, Italy, Austria, Germany, England, Slovenia, Croatia, Canada. I am a domestic traveller, though I have a passport for going in and out of Canada. I’ve travelled through all of the states in USA, save Alaska and Hawaii, and I hope to take care of that.

My parents took us five kids on summer trips to visit relatives and to experience national parks, historical sites, cultural events and random churches here and there. (If it was Sunday, that often meant church attendance wherever we were.) I didn’t enjoy being stuffed into a sedan with my siblings but I did love stopping for warm, ripe fruit from farm stands. (A favorite memory of a summer peach: almost prickly fuzziness of beautiful skin giving way to rich sweetness as I bit into it, juice released, trickling down my chin.) I didn’t much like cheap motels my father targeted in the middle of nowhere “to save $5 a night”. (Who was he kidding? It cost $5 to drive several extra miles). But I did love verdant, surprising landscapes farmers’ or ranchers’ country roads provided. I didn’t appreciate driving through heavy trafficof a metroplis’ city center for museum hopping, but I did love being inside the cool stillness of such places, absorbing powerful details of art and history. I liked singing in harmony with my family as we rattled and rumbled along. Hearing my mother and father call out types of soil and rock, plants, animals was fun. And driving through isoalted villages, stopping for ice cream or good soup with oyster crackers.

I’d observe comings and goings of people in passing cars, on sidewalks, in parks where we might take a break under shade trees, relishing a tender breeze. I recall thinking: How amazing that they are all different, and what is it like living their lives? I made up stories explaining them to myself as some smiled at my guiless stare or looked down or shook their heads. Anything or anyone that I deeemed curious (everyone and thing), the strange places where things happened that I could seldom be certain about, never would be–they all got my intense attention.

It might be just Kansas or Maryland or Wyoming but it was a grand trip away from home grounds.

I didn’t get bored. Hot and restless or tired of my siblings trading words that pinged or stung, or revolted by a sister’s car sickness as we wound about curvy stretches. No, it was life being lived, a wellspring of impressions that gave me ideas–up close and personal, vividly within reach even if moving on to the next stop. It was a kaleidoscope of moments that would never again be felt, seen and heard.

So this is how it still is for me: possibilites of life. Panoramic experiences made of small and big variations.

We discussed a short trip around my 74th birthday and I chose Hood River, a community known as the world capital of windsurfing. Kiteboarders frequent the waters of the Columbia, too. (Pictures above are the two trip photos I could find from iCloud files due to issues.) It is the first trip of more planned and only 1.5 hours from us. Our May calendar has notes of trips to Bend, and Newport, OR. Late July it is off to Medocino, CA. area. There will be scattered hiking jaunts, as usual, in between. Sometimes smallest forays are made of that desire to explore and, fulfilled enough, return home. All might consider them an option rather than huge trips that are more costly and perhaps complicated.

Hood River and the nearby town of The Dalles are each on the river’s banks in the Columbia River Gorge, which begins just beyond Portland. It’s a wondrous place I’ve written about over the past decade. An impressive fact to recall: it is the largest National Scenic Area in our country, dominated by the massive and deep river and forested Cascade mountains with varying rocky prominences; steep, zigzagging trails to alpine areas; and flowering meadows. And, of course, Mt. Hood, which watches over us on the Oregon side.

(The Columbia River, above, with windsurfers in better weather.)

The plan was to be outdoors hiking, exploring new trails but it simply had to rain alot. It is spring, afterall. The wind is always fierce in the Gorge, but the long week-end’s temperature was decidedly quite cold. (Often we visit in summer–sunshine is then almost searing, the air very dry.) We stayed in a Euro-style king studio room at Columbia Cliff Villas located next to the renowned Columbia Gorge Hotel (photos, above). The two share connected grounds with bridges and gardens, lush with spring flowers and walkable via tidy pathways. A little creek runs through grounds and ends in Wah Gwin Gwin Falls that empty 208 feet below into the Columbia River. Our view rewarded us with fine scenes even as we dried out, the Columbia River rushing by, changing hues with fickle, reflective light and thick scudding clouds. Sunshine visited a few times, glinting off white-capped waves.

We strolled the streets of Hood River’s business district (named for a small river that runs through it, then empties into the Columbia). There is a favorite coffee shop/eatery we always visit called Doppios, and Chemistry, a jewelry shop not to be missed. Coffees, pastries and sandwiches did not disappoint at our first stop. My new dangly, silver and old earrings are well made and fun. We spent time in two bookstores, not that happy with the inventory, but I did pick up The Murder of Mr. Wickham by Claudia Gray, a new author to me, at Waucoma Bookstore.

(Marc at Doppios; a small view of Hood River downtown; part of the the Columbia River Gorge at end of a lovely walk.)

A good surprise came when perusing the art in 301 Gallery located in the historic Butler Bank building downtown, built in 1924. The interior is elegant and open with light draping over the gallery. The show “Taking Shape” is showcasing three-dimensional works until end of May. Good art! I was tempted to buy ceramics for my small collection, but restraint prevailed.

We also walked the riverfront path on the banks of the Columbia. Dressed well for the weather, we were nonetheless lashed by rain and heavy winds as we pushed on. No windsurfers were out then, but the following day it was a bit calmer, more dry with some sun. The water was taken over by darting crafts helmed by stalwart men and women. Watching them move fast, even acrobatically, is a treat in any season.

Following the walk we headed to Stoked, a good coffee nook, to pause awhile with our cups. Then it was off to The Dalles, an inland port and historically an important trading center for Native populations who first lived there 10,000 years ago. The Europeans ultimately arrived a brief time a go in contrast, participated in trade and development but forever changed the course of history. The ancient ties make it one of the oldest inhabited places in North America, per various sources. Only about 16,000 now live there; it was a quiet town as we looked about, but it remains important due to its longevity and contributions.

We also visited the Columbia Gorge Discovery Center and Museum where exhibits detail the lives and times of this area along the Columbia. The exhibits were excellent; we learned much about Native American tribes as well as European settlers that altered life as it was known before. Also of interest were creatures who once roamed about the land, including Short-faced Bears who towered over all and the Dire Wolf who wiehged about 150 ppounds and coexisted with the gray wolf, coyote and jackal for some time. There was an enormous beautfiully carved wooden sturgeon as well. The beginnnings of the Gorge go back to powerful glacial activity and the huge imact of great floods, but the river ran there even before those events.

An equally interesting aspect of the trip, however, was walking through and photographing the hotels’ gardens a few times. I so regret I cannot upload current photos as there was much to enjoy. The atmosphere was enchanting, especially as dusk and twilight fell and the rainfall at last slowed to a spattering. The last day of our trip it was much better weather so we had clearer vistas all about.

An interesting experience occurred the last night we were at the villas. It reminds me of my early interest in paying close attention to people and events that may seem random.

I glanced out the multi-paned windows and noticed a man dressed in a bright variegated-colored hat with wide brim, a pink jacket, white pants and vivid yellow, white and orange sneakers. He stood by a tree staring at the river that rushed not far beyond. Then he took a couple photos with his phone. He seemed an unusual person, near-clownish in attire, certainly eye-catching in a uniquely theatrical way– and yet somehow at loose ends. How can we know what someone else feels or thinks? We do sense things and I felt his presence strongly. Perhaps it was loneliness or uncertainty of immediate purpose. He was dressed just so, and where was he off to? I expected he’d move on and so went to eat my dinner. But not long after as I finished and again contemplated nature, I watched him enter an older model station wagon at an edge of the parking lot and sit in the driver’s seat. I thought he was leaving. But as time passed he remained, not budging from the lot, still alone.

I wondered about him–if he was mainly enjoying the impressive scenery as was I and taking pictures, then only resting. Then night fell on our quiet corner of the earth, chilly, damp. I admit I was disconcerted. He would be able to see us in our illumined rooms so I closed the curtains. I couldn’t tell what he was even looking at, what was happening. I mentioned to Marc that maybe he was part of the large wedding party that had continued to arrive all day. And maybe he’d had a bit to drink and was sleepy. We considered other reasons why he was parked but none of them made sense. We went to sleep after reading, but my last thoughts were of who the mystery person might be, why he was there.

At one point in the night my husband awakened so looked out the window. He barely saw the shadowy shape of a man, but he had turned his car about in the lot so it faced the river, away from the villas or eyes on him. It struck me as too unfair that we were warm, fed and safe inside a lovely room. And that interesting man was not, cramped inside a vehicle. In the morning, Marc got our car to pack and go; it was parked beside the other man’s so he glimpsed him still at rest there. On the way put he mentioned the situation to the hotel manager. Just in case. But in case of what? That the person wasn’t really alright? That he was sleeping in his car for a reason we only speculated about? But it seemed sensible to do.

I thought alot about the unknown traveler as we drove back home. How he’d perhaps heard about the beauty of the place so decided to come by awhile. Perhaps he was worn out and determined it was a good place to stay the night. Maybe he was homeless. Maybe he was a musican on his way to a venue the next day but had little money for a cosy room. Maybe he’d had a few drinks or other substances and dozed off in a stupor. Or he might have stayed up all night.Marc said as an aside that the man was using his phone when he’d looked out at him the previous night, as the phone had lit the car’s interior.

His unique attire and contemplative manner as he had stood there looking out over the river has stayed with me as much as the power of the Columbia, the fine museum, the coffee and chats, and the gadrens. I wonder how he is faring. Does he have good friends, does he eat alright, is he finding what he wants in this life? He was at the least someone who was looking and seeing, experiencing many things. We are all somebody, somebody looking out at the world and inward again. We each need our fill of beauty and peace as well as other sustenance. Comfort. Care. We are each and every one of us travellers, going a little way or farther than planned and, if fortunate, going home to a safe dwelling.

(Most of these photos were taken from previous trips due to my uploading issues with more recent iCloud photos–hence, the sunshine!)