Wet and wetter

If you've ever been to southern France (Provence?) or Tuscany you have a pretty good idea of what Yamhill County in the Willamette Valley looks like. Rolling hills, gentle valleys studded with magnificent oaks and firs. 30 years ago Jill and I planted one of the first vineyards in this fertile place (the kids will say they did all the work). At that time there were only a few wineries producing excellent wines that were beginning to get national acclaim. Now, there are thousands of acres of vineyards and dozens of wineries. Six of the top ten French vintners have wineries in Yamhill County.

When we lived there, many of the small farms and homesteads were pretty shabby and often despoiled the natural landscape. The global success of the wine industry has changed all of that. Now, beautiful wineries, B&Bs, and homes abound. Cheeseburgers, once the food of choice among the locals, have been replaced by brie and croissants.

At the southern end of this wine madness is McMinnville where our son Allen, daughter-in-law Susan, and our granddaughters Sarah and Kate reside on a lovely 80-acre plot of land on the edge of town. Their property has been in Susan's family for more than 100 years. Susan's folks live with the kids in the old family homestead that was completely redone a few years ago.

We parked The Villa on their side yard with a view of Mt. Hood across the family garden and adjacent field of clover. Idyllic indeed. Nightly, the family gathered in their lovely outdoor pavilion for a pot luck dinner... fresh vegetables from Susan's father's exceptional garden, barbecued meats or grilled salmon, and local wines.

Kate, Susan, Jill, Laurel, Leslie

The day before we left our daughter, Leslie, flew in from North Dakota to see our granddaughter, Laurel, who attends Oregon State just 75 miles south of McMinnville. At dinner that night as I sat across from our granddaughters, Laurel and Kate (a senior in high school) I was overwhelmed by their beauty, sweetness, and intelligence... we are so fortunate.

The next day we departed to meet our friends in Waldport, Oregon to go crabbing. It started to rain during our 2-hour drive to the coast. It continued to rain all night. The weather report said it would rain for a week. Our friends canceled when the forecast grew worse with 2 feet of snow called for in the Cascades, which they would need to cross to reach us.

Then the wind started to blow! At first a breeze kicking up white caps on the bay. Then a fairly strong, steady wind. Then gusts 50 to 70 mph. The awnings over our slide-outs (that we just paid $1500 to have installed) flapped and moaned. The rain (5 inches in 2 days) came down sideways. Now, we're alone on the edge of the cliff... everyone else has fled inland to their homes. We, however, ARE home... The Villa is our home and it is rocking and rolling buffeted by winds that have howled across the Pacific for 5,000 uninterrupted miles, all the way from Japan.

I won't bother you with moments of sincere concern about the safety of The Villa, the fun of being with someone you love on a storm-tossed cliff with the winds howling as you snuggle together, the boredom, and finally the decision to leave after 4 days of almost unrelenting rain and wind.
On a partially sunny day we drove down the Oregon coast, awed by the cliff-lined beaches and stunning vistas. Our spirits are revived as we pulled into a beautiful RV park just north of Crescent City, CA. We're excited by the possibility of taking a long hike the next day through the Jedediah Smith Redwood Forest. Then... it began to rain. Biblical rain with devilish winds.

Okay, now we're getting mad. Over dinner we decide that no matter the weather, tomorrow we're going for a hike.

Soggy Jill in the BIG trees

We do...

It's beautiful...

It's wet...

We're wet, cold, and fed up.

We decide to move on to San Francisco to see our niece who is in school there and possibly find some sun in the process. We drive through the marijuana-infested forests of Humboldt County, its coastal beauty marred by its shabby, rain-soaked towns filled with shabbier looking Grateful Dead wannabes.

Tonight, parked a few blocks from the Golden Gate Bridge we dined at Il Fornaio and watched the setting sun peek beneath the clouds with a promise of more to come tomorrow.

No idea what this means!