Kristin visits the Rose City!

Before I moved to Portland, I knew that moving across the country would inhibit my ability to see East Coast family and friends. Now, after living here for about six months, that fact is even more apparent.

Knowing this limitation, I believe I've come to value visits much more because I am aware they will be shorter, more infrequent. I certainly miss seeing family more often, especially those treasured weekend trips home to indulge in home-cooked meals and quiet time, which rarely seemed to happen in New York.

Kristin purchased her flight to visit Lindsay and me in December. And then, somehow, early April had arrived, and we were off to the airport in a Zip Car to pick her up.

She arrived after what felt like a month of rain showers. (And actually, I'm not exaggerating. It ranked as one of the rainiest Marches on record!) I obsessively checked the 10-day forecast before her trip, hoping we'd see at least some sun. Or at least, clouds without rain. She lucked out. We had a beautiful week and it only rained a few times!

The day of her arrival, we decided to welcome her to the neighborhood. Coincidentally, our friend from high school was here visiting another friend from high school, so we all met--along with yet another friend from high school, who lives in Corvallis--for a beer at New Old Lompoc Brewery. (A few weeks ago, we learned it will soon be bulldozed thanks to condominium construction, which truly seems so counter our neighborhood's values.) With the exception of Lindsay, it was quite the Binghamton crowd.

On Easter morning, we drove out to the Gorge. The weather was perfect--sunny and mild. We hiked Angel's Rest, which is characterized by its cliffs and spectacular 270 degree view at the summit. Over 2.4 miles, we ascended around 1400 feet. The 40 mph winds at the top shortened our stay at the top, but not until we had soaked up the marvelous view of the Columbia River. It was, really, a perfect way to spend Easter morning. Later, Lindsay's parents had us over for Easter dinner, where they surprised Kristin and me with a birthday celebration! 

Our cousin Steve and his wife and boys were in town, so we met up with them at the McMenamin's Kennedy School for dinner. The McMenamin's brothers are known for buying up old, historic buildings and turning them into eclectic bars and restaurants. The McMenamins renovated the once-abandoned school and turned it into a hotel with guestrooms, a restaurant, multiple bars, a cigar room (named "Detention"), a movie theatre, and a brewery! Needless-to-say, we had a great visit and a ball wandering around the old school and peering into classrooms.

Other highlights of Kristin's visit: cooking dinner at our apartment for our birthday and playing darts, a Forest Park trail run, seeing the Iron Lady at the Mission Theater (another McMenamins joint), Besaw's for an early scrumptious breakfast, delicious Dick's Kitchen burgers with Lindsay's family and ping pong, an obligatory Friday trip to Bailey's for a delicious micro-brew, and making sushi on her last night. 


We are thrilled Kristin was able to visit us for a whole week. And she managed to bring along some of the marvelous East Coast spring weather! Here's hoping it sticks around...

A brief glimpse of spring

A very Irish weekend

I didn't realize St. Paddy's Day was a big deal in Portland until it was here. We met up with Lindsay's friends Saturday afternoon at Kells Irish Restaurant & Pub, which hosts an annual Irish Festival for four days around St. Paddy's. It was quite the festival. Hundreds of people decked out in green gathered to celebrate under massive tents behind and across the street from Kells. Irish dancers performed and bands rocked all day. We enjoyed creamy Black and Tans and the day's good cheer.

Sunday morning, I met up with some friends and braved the rain, sleet, wind, and chill to run Portland's annual Shamrock Run along with 33,000 people. It was a riot! It certainly wasn't my fastest 5K, but I had a blast. And the finish met us with hot clam chowder and a free beer (I drank a quarter of it--what we all wanted most was a nice hot cup of coffee!)

After the race, Lindsay and I made a delicious brunch at home--scrambled eggs, rosemary and thyme roasted potatoes, breakfast sausages and Stumptown coffee. Then, we parked on the couch for a few hours to watch the NCAA tournament and the U. Del. women--led by star forward and hometown girl Elena Delle Donne--pick up a historic win, with its first ever tournament victory.

Sunday evening, we walked across town to the Rose Quarter to our first major junior ice hockey game. The Winterhawks--comprised mainly of players age 16-21--crushed Seattle. I had trouble believing half the guys on the ice were still just teenagers!

Overall, we had a great weekend. Next year, I plan on running the Shamrock Run's 10 or 15K. Hopefully, though, the race won't be the day after St. Paddy's day again.

Marvelous mountain

On Sunday, we headed out to Mt. Hood for another snowshoeing outing. I was excited for a few reasons. First, the weather was just magnificent--45, calm, and sunny. And, we were using our new snow shoes and poles for the first time.

We hiked about 2 miles to Mirror Lake. For about 1.5 miles, we were just trudging up, up, and up on snowy switchbacks. (Are we there yet??) If we had packed a lunch, the lake would have been a perfect spot to indulge in some food and rest.

We continued onward and upward to Tom, Dick and Harry Mountain. At the top of the ridge--over 1,400 feet above our starting point, we could see for miles in any direction. The cars on the road below looked like matchbox cars. Most spectacular, however, was the view of the southwestern slopes of Mt. Hood.

Another magnificent day on the mountain.

J.O.B.

This blog has mainly been a space for me to write about non-job related activities. Until now. Since I moved to Portland, it's been a welcomed escape from job-searching, interviewing, networking, cover letter writing. It's been a place for me to share new experiences, reflections, photos.

In January, I applied to a job at a non-profit that works to empower homeless youth to leave street life and become self sufficient--New Avenues for Youth. A few weeks ago, I interviewed for a case management position in their job training program. Last week, they offered me a job.

I accepted!

My first day was Tuesday. Our office is about 1.5 miles from our apartment, so rather than paying $4.20 each day to take the bus, I figured it'd make most sense to just walk. Not since I worked at Joey's Italian Ice as a sophomore in high school have I been able to walk to work! (I'm not including my work study jobs in that calculation...)

This week, I tried to meet with as many staff and leadership as possible to learn about their roles and what their department does and how it connects to the greater mission of the organization. 

Our Drop In center is where we make initial contact with youth who come in off the street. Every morning, it's open for breakfast from 9-10 am. When I stopped by on Wednesday, about 30 youth were hanging out, eating, talking, playing guitars. At Drop In, youth have access to basic services--food, showers, clothing, washer/dryer. A number of social workers are on site to engage with new youth. The ultimate goal, aside from providing them a safe space with food and basic necessities, is to engage youth to continue coming and become invested in other programs we offer, like education or job training. 

At 10 am, the Drop In center closes until lunch at 1pm. Youth who want to go to Education classes on that day go there. Many, however, just go back outside onto the streets. At Education, youth can go on computers for 30 minutes to check Facebook, email, play games, or just browse. It's a little incentive to convince them to come! Then, they take classes to work towards achieving a GED or graduating from high school.

I am a workforce case manager in PAVE (Promoting Avenues to Employment), our job training program that provides at-risk and homeless youth with the knowledge and training necessary for them to obtain living-wage employment. They learn job readiness skills, have access to internships and a subsidized work experience. 

My specific program, RISE (Retail Industry and Sales Experience), is financed in part with funds provided through Worksystems, Inc. from the U.S. Department of Labor and the Portland Development Commission. Because our programs are funded through grants, my job security is currently iffy. I may not have a job after June because of significant cuts.

I'm excited about New Avenues and the amazing work it is doing for Portland's at-risk and homeless youth population. (Last fiscal year, they served over 30,000 meals to homeless youth.) I'm looking forward to constantly learning and working to help young people become self sufficient and achieve their goals. 

I know my job will be challenging, but I thrive off of challenges. Especially if I can help young people--many of whom society has let slip through the cracks--realize their true potential.

Sunday hike

When I lived in Manhattan, going for a hike wasn't exactly an easy endeavor. It involved a few steps.

1. Determine Metro-North train schedules. 

2. Ride subway uptown, transfer to Metro-North.

3. Take Metro-North for an hour to Breakneck Ridge stop.

4. Walk to trailhead.

5. Enjoy truly spectacular hike at Breakneck Ridge with breathtaking views.

6. Run to catch train at Cold Spring (otherwise wait an hour for next one).

7. Head home on train and subway.

We were never disappointed with our few Hudson River Valley hikes. On the train heading back to the city, however, I often thought of how our lives might be different if we had easier access to the outdoors.

There is something remarkable about the simple act of walking in the woods on a crisp winter day. Whatever is trivial in my life seems to fade, disappear. I tend to gain clarity. Situations or conflicts that had previously confounded me somehow seem to make more sense. I've always viewed nature with a great sense of appreciation. It's humbling. Grounding. 

Sunday morning, we decided to go for a hike in Forest Park, which we can enter about a mile from our apartment. Yesterday's forecast called for showers, so we threw on our rain jackets. (To our delight, the showers never came.) I laced up my hiking boots, filled Lindsay's camelback with plenty of water. We were off.

We started our hike at the Lower MacLeay Trail, which runs alongside the rushing Balch Creek. The trail was muddy, but I was altogether surprised at its upkeep. We passed a number of other hikers, runners, and families. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the dry day, even the small children, now covered in mud.

At the Stone House (above) we continued onto the Wildwood Trail. A little over a mile and a bunch of switchbacks and 800 ft of elevation later, we were in the Pittock Mansion parking lot. We continued on the trail another few miles to the Hoyt Arboretum. 

The 187-acre arboretum is home to about 10,000 individual trees and shrubs of over 1,000 different species grown from seeds collected throughout the world. We wandered through a section of Sequoias and, soon after, Redwoods, and I immediately felt as if we were in the Redwood National Forest in Northern California, not the city of Portland.

We walked out of the arboretum, through Washington Park, back to the city. When we got to our apartment, Lindsay checked her pedometer, which estimated we had walked close to 10 miles (including a trip to the grocery store on our way home, of course). 

I am thankful to be surrounded--quite literally--by natural beauty here. And I don't think I'll ever take that for granted.

Our first East Coast visitor

Almost five months after we left the Upper East Side and Harlem for the Pacific Northwest, we welcomed our first East Coast visitor, my college roommate, Ultimate teammate, and close friend, Krista.

(In the coming days and months, we’re expecting three more visitors from the opposite coast—Lindsay’s friend from grad school in a week, Kristin in April, and Myles in May. We are very much looking forward to showing our loved ones our new city.)

Krista arrived Saturday morning—wide-awake and cheerful (but really, when is she not?)—after a long trip from Philadelphia, where she is an oncology nurse at UPenn. After about an hour of hanging out and catching up, we decided to take on the day. And oh, did we take on the day!

Lindsay’s brother, DJ, joined us, and we walked over to NW 23^rd street to Lela’s Bistro to enjoy Bánh mi, or Vietnamese sandwiches, for lunch. I ordered the Grilled Portobello sandwich. The Portobello is cooked with a delicious ginger-garlic sesame-soy sauce and served on a super fresh baguette with a bunch of carrot and cilantro and some aioli. When we want a fresh, light, and delectable lunch, we always opt for Lela’s. I’ve never been disappointed!

After filling up, we walked down 23^rd Ave. to show Krista its renowned “cuteness.” Cafes, an array of restaurants, high-end boutiques, bars, most of which inhabit gorgeous Victorian homes. We wove through our neighborhood heading east to the Pearl district, which is far more urban, upscale, and city-like than our immediate neighborhood. After a few miles of wandering, we decided we had earned a delicious beverage, so we parked for a few hours at Bailey’s Taproom. (A truly great place to spend a few hours on a Saturday afternoon!)

Lindsay and I discovered this place only a few weeks ago, which is dangerous, because now we want to go all the time. Draft Magazine deemed Bailey’s as one of the 100 best beer bars in the country. And, if you ask me, I concur! The exposed brick, high ceilings, timber pillars, huge windows give the bar a much-welcomed coziness. It offers 20 constantly rotating taps, with a huge emphasis on Oregon breweries and a range of eclectic brews. (I’ve learned to always check the alcohol content of beers out here. Otherwise I could be seriously in for it.)

Over the next few hours, I enjoyed the cozy ambience, catching up, incessant laughing, and, of course, my two vastly different IPAs—one floral and hoppy, the other delightfully smooth and refreshing.

Giddy and giggly, we made our way to Whole Foods to pick up ingredients to make pizzas—a mango and asparagus pizza and a fresh mozzarella, goat cheese, tomato and basil pizza. Both were excellent! Krista's friend from childhood and her boyfriend joined us. While Krista dozed in and out of naps, we played darts and chatted.

Sunday morning, the four of us woke up bright and early (OK, not so early), to embark on a snowshoeing adventure on Mt. Hood. Before making the hour-long trek, however, we stopped at the Lovejoy Bakers for overpriced, yet delicious, breakfast sandwiches and Stumptown coffee.

On we went to take in the splendor of Mt. Hood. We couldn't have had a more perfect day for snowshoeing. Mid-30s. Blue sky. Light wind. Packed base of about 2-3 feet. Neither Krista nor DJ had ever snowshoed, but really, snowshoeing is pretty fool-proof. In my mind, if you can walk, you can snowshoe. We took on White River Canyon because we knew we'd face the mountain square on the entire time.

I've never felt so overpowered by the mountain's grandeur. There we were, the four of us and a lone backcountry skiier, seemingly alone on the snowy mountain, as if it were completely ours to explore and cherish.

A day of snowshoeing meant we were hungry and thirsty, so before we could think twice about the extra 45 minute drive, we were off to Double Mountain Brewery & Taproom in Hood River. Just thinking about their margarita pizza and refreshing India Red Ale had my mouth watering! Warm and full, we headed back to Portland, perfectly satisfied by a day of magnificent views, fresh mountain air, and delicious food and drink.

Overall, Krista's visit was outstanding. We explored some new breakfast places with her friend from Lancaster, wandered through the Japanese Garden and International Test Rose Garden, went for a muddy trail run in Forest Park, chuckled our way through the Blazer's loss to the Wizards.

We are very much looking forward to hosting future visitors. But seriously, how could you not want to visit after reading about what a ball we had--the entire time?

Coming out

I’m sitting in one of my favorite Portland coffee houses. It’s a beautiful “winter” day here. A marvelous blue sky. A shining sun. The glass-empty side of me is certain Mother Nature and the meteorologists are deceiving us into thinking spring is on the way, but I’m not complaining. I’ll take all the sunshine I can get.

A few minutes ago, the early 40s-something man across from me was on the phone with a friend or relative. I like to think I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping, but you could say I was half listening. My ears perked up when he started talking about his 15-year-old daughter who had recently been outed at school. (Perhaps this drew my attention because I immediately had flashbacks to middle and high school. The thought of being publicly outed at that age—or, really, any age—horrifies me.)

Aside from being appalled that her classmates could do that, he went on to have a nonchalant conversation with his friend. He shared relief that society is changing, albeit slowly, toward more acceptance of gays and lesbians. He articulated concern, almost sadness that his daughter would likely face more challenges and bigotry than her straight counterparts because of who she is moved to love. (Please read Frank Bruni’s brilliant, poignant piece in Sunday's Times.) He expressed his unconditional love for her. He was relieved she had the courage to be honest with herself and their family about her identity, rather than coming out well into adulthood after hiding her true self for decades. He said he had lost a friend over it, but now recognized who his true friends were. (The friend said he needed to "reform" his daughter.) After a few minutes, that was that. Back to work.

I imagined what their conversation could have been like. For some reason, I picture her telling him in the car. (Wait a minute. This is Portland. They’re decked out in rain gear riding bikes.)

     She looks up. “Dad, I’m gay.”

     “You’re gay?”

     “Yea, I like girls.”

     “OK, I’m cool with that. Thanks for telling me. I love you no matter what. You know that right?”

     “Cool. Thanks, Dad. What’s for dinner later?”

He hadn’t crashed the car. (Or his bike.) The world hadn’t fallen apart. His daughter was still just that—his daughter.

While half-listening to him for those few minutes, I realized a few things. I’m proud of this 15-year-old girl, even though I know next to nothing about her. I’m proud of her Dad for being a rational, reasonable person. His daughter will be more likely to be stronger and surer and more confident of who she is because of his support and love, even if she faces backlash from others.

I realized I couldn’t imagine being outed—ever—but even worse, in high school. I know that things haven’t changed a whole lot since I was a timid freshman at Binghamton High School. Kids can be truly ruthless to each other. (See this excellent New Yorker piece on Tyler Clementi’s suicide.) Kids can also, however, surprise you by their empathy, understanding, compassion. (Thanks for helping me understand that, 17-year-old version of Myles.)

For me, coming out, saying those three words I was so terrified to say, even whisper—“I am gay”—, was the hardest journey I’ve ever gone through. I say journey because it took me around 14 years to fully accept and embrace not just a part of me, but all of me. (I think I was about 7-years-old when my first girl crush developed, even though I didn't know that's what it was then.) And in many ways, that journey continues today.

Growing up, I knew there was something different about me. Something inherent. Something I could never pinpoint as a kid. I looked normal. (Except for that oh-so-awkward-braces-and-pimples phase.) I tried my best in school and always held myself to high expectations. I didn’t act out. I developed good friendships. I was, generally, a “normal” kid.

But I felt different. And I didn’t know why or what that difference was.

I struggled to articulate my feelings. I remember feeling anger build up inside of me, sometimes for no real reason. A bad grade, perhaps. A poorly played basketball game. A disagreement with a sibling or parent. Sadness, frustration, helplessness all swirling together within. And the result was often a complete meltdown.

I feared others would see what made me different, even though I didn’t fully know what that was myself. I feared they would ridicule me. I worried they would think I was no longer ME, even though I was still ME. I worried they’d see me only as that difference, not me in my entirety.

My girl friends in middle school had crushes on handsome male teachers. I had a crush on our substitute math teacher. She was blond, pretty, and so sweet. She must have been about 23. While others acted out or messed around, she had my 100 percent attention.

Ten years and a bumpy rollercoaster ride later (similar to the time I rode the Comet at Hershey Park and almost fell out), I finally uttered those three words. Not out loud, but to myself in my dorm room in Australia, a world away from my reality. My world both fell apart and came together at the same time. Those same fears I had as a kid still resonated loudly. But now it was real. I had finally accepted this huge part of my identity and wanted to gradually tell my parents and loved ones.

Hearing the father across from me express his sincere support of his daughter sparked a reliving, a remembering of each moment I came out to my family and friends.

He didn’t support her, but not really support her, by saying “Well, I love her, but I’d prefer she’d end up with a guy.” He said unconditionally, emphatically, “I love her regardless of who she loves.” Without the outpouring of love (and, often, welcomed humor) from family and friends, I wouldn’t be who I am right now. It has certainly never been easy, but expressions of support and understanding built my courage. To tell others. To face the world. To take risks. To deal with others' intolerance.

I’m not sure I’ve personally thanked all of my family, cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends for their emails, hand-written notes, phone calls, or conversations, but I think about them often. They gave me strength to truly be myself.

As I reflect on my years post-coming out, sure I’ve made mistakes. I’m not perfect. But, I’m convinced I never would have had the courage to join TFA, move to New York City, and teach in the Bronx. And I certainly wouldn’t be here, sitting in my favorite café in Portland.

I can’t imagine a life where I am still hiding from myself and others. But, I understand why it takes others years or decades to accept and embrace who they are. Maybe it’s blatant homophobia. Perhaps they hear comments, here or there, subtle or not, that drive them deeper into uncertainty and confusion. 

Coming out is a process, and everyone grapples with it in their own way, in their own time. When I was finally honest with others and myself, I became a happier, kinder, more confident, empathetic and productive person. 

At that moment, I met myself—my whole self—for the first time. And I liked that person, even though I knew I had a lot of work to do.

Rainy Sunday

A latte and Lindsay. The perfect remedy.

The lost iPhone

Our first snowshoeing outing was such a hit last weekend we decided to head back to Mt. Hood yesterday to satiate our appetite for snow. Lucky for us, twin storms last week dumped over three feet of perfect white stuff on the mountain, so we knew the conditions would be ideal. (Meanwhile, in Portland, it rained about five inches over the course of the week.)

It poured the whole drive to the mountain, but as soon as we started our ascent through Mt. Hood National Forest, incessant rain turned into thick white flakes. To our delight, the scenery transformed almost immediately--under thick white clouds miles and miles of snow-topped forests glistened in the falling snow.

Last weekend, we hiked a 5.25 mile trail to and around Trillium Lake. From what I've gathered, it's definitely the most traversed snowshoe trail at Mt. Hood. Most of the trail is a relatively flat snow-covered road, so it's wider and invites big groups and families with kids. Although we enjoyed our hike, we were ready to try a different, more isolated trail.

The rental shop recommended the 4.5 mile Lower Twin Lake Trail, so we decided to give it a shot. The other trail we were considering, White River, was the venue for a 4K and 8K snowshoe race. Yes. Race. The guy who won the 8K last year ran it in 35 minutes. That's about 7:00 minute miles. On snowshoes! Since Lindsay is still recovering from knee surgery and we've only snowshoed once, we figured we'd try a different trail.

We pulled up the Twin Lakes trail map on my phone and drove about six miles south of Government Camp to the trailhead. As soon as we started our hike, I knew it'd be leaps and bounds better than Trillium. Within minutes it felt as if we were deep in the woods. The trail was pretty narrow so we were single-file most of the way.

After 1.5 miles and about a 500-foot ascent we reached the turn for Lower Twin Lake. We walked downhill for about a half a mile and then reached the lake, which was completely covered in a few feet of snow. We inched close to the lake to maximize our view. Lindsay was a little too trusting of the ice and ended up with a wet foot. If it was wet and cold the rest of the way, she never let me know.

While resting at the lake for a few minutes, we spotted a handful of birds in the tree above us hopping from branch to branch. It looked like they were enjoying the winter weather just as much as we were. After a water break, we continued onward to Upper Twin Lake. Close to a mile and a pretty good 300-foot climb later, we reached the lake. Another beautiful sight.

At this point in our hike, we had to make a decision. Turn around and head back the way we came for a 3.2 mile hike, or continue on. We both felt great so we decided to go further, continuing through rolling hills on the winding trail.

The parking lot was close to empty by the time we got back, close to four hours and 7 miles later. As we were packing the car, Lindsay said uneasily, "Um Maura." Ut oh. "I can't find my iPhone. It's gone." Great. A white iPhone lost in the woods on three feet of snow while snow is falling. It could have slipped out of her pocket two miles ago. She walked up the trail a few hundred feet, but no luck.

We decided not to stress about it and drove home. On the way, Lindsay's mom called. "Some guy has your phone. He found it in the woods." Hooray! Not only was it not lost, but somehow, it was still working. The lost iPhone had been found. Our snowshoeing outing was not ruined after all. In fact, it was quite lovely.

Winter

When I think about growing up in Binghamton, memories of white winters and snow day adventures sit high at the top of my favorites. Since moving to Portland, I've reflected more on my childhood and hometown than I can ever remember, and experiences I haven't thought about in years are suddenly at the front of my mind. Perhaps this welcomed clarity arises from packing up and moving so far from home, from grappling with major life changes.

When we were kids, snow days meant fun: waking up not to an alarm but the sound of shoveling and wailing snow blowers, sledding with the D'Abbraccis at IBM or Rec Park, epic neighborhood snow ball battles, hot chocolate, building massive snow forts and tunnels, shoveling, ice skating on our homemade backyard ice rink, cross country skiing in Chenango Valley State Park, along the Susquehanna, or occasionally, at the French Track. 

Most often those epic snowball fights would end with someone getting pegged in the face, and, subsequently, heading home in tears, head hanging dejectedly. Or, Tyler and Eamonn would get in a fight, and we'd have to go home. 

Once, while cross-country skiing down by the river with Anne, Kristin, and Chris, we came across a woman lying precariously on thin ice. Without hesitation, Anne ran up to a house to call 911, then within what seemed like seconds crawled out on the ice with her ski to rescue the woman while we stood by watching in awe. That was enough excitement for one snow day. 

On another, during the blizzard of 1996 (might very well be wrong on this date), the plows decided to skip the side streets, so we took advantage. My Dad, our neighbor, Jessica, and I cross-country skied up to the top of Johnson hill and back. (It seemed like quite the journey.) Our picture--just us three skiers and a vast sea of snow--made the front page of the paper the next day.

Some winters, if the temperature were consistently below freezing, our Dad would make an ice rink in the back yard. We'd skate and play hockey for hours. (Once, during a mid-winter thaw, the ice rink ended up in our neighbors’ back yard. It was perfectly smooth, which made for a superb skating surface. Let's just say they weren't as thrilled about it as we were!)

Bundled up, skating on our cousins' ice rink on Linden Ave.

On a different cross-country skiing adventure at the French Track, I remember being the Best. Skier. Ever. I didn't fall--even once! (My Dad's memory is perhaps more accurate: I fell every ten feet the whole way back.)

Sometimes, on snowy Saturdays, we'd bundle up, hop in the car and head out to Chenango Valley State Park to cross country ski with our neighbors. My favorite part came after the skiing: building a fire, having a picnic lunch and hot chocolate in the stone pavilion.

In the last ten years, between 60 and 120 inches of snow have fallen in Binghamton each winter. Portland, on the other hand, averages a whopping 2.4 inches. 2.4! So, in order to enjoy winter activities, one must venture to the Cascades where snow falls plentifully. (Close to 30 inches could fall in the next 48 hours on Mt. Hood.)

On Saturday, Lindsay and I drove to Mt. Hood National Forest to snowshoe for the first time. We did a 5.25 mile loop at Trillium Lake, which, on a clear day, offers a spectacular view of the mountain. When we left the city, a huge snow cloud sat on top of the whole mountain, so I knew our views would be seriously limited.

 Mt. Hood, cloaked by falling snow.

This could have been our view from Trillium Lake on a clear day.

Overall, I really enjoyed the trail and snowsnoeing. I am sure we will be back at Mt. Hood or on another trail soon to take advantage of mountain snow and what proved to be a great workout.

Enjoying a snowy winter day on the mountain.

An urban hike

Since early December we've had unseasonably dry weather. I've gathered this pleasant surprise from overhearing people on the street. Some with great optimism exclaim exuberantly, "Wow! This weather!" Others reveal their inherent pessimism, as if they are just waiting for the impending gloom, "Oh, just wait 'till the rain comes." Their voices trail off dejectedly. Meanwhile, I scream to myself, Woo hoo!

But, I've realized that I have to take advantage of the outdoors here even when it is cloudy and raining. The rain here isn't quite as day-ruining as it always seemed to be back east. (Or, maybe my memory is beguiling me. The grass is always greener, eh?)

I awoke Friday to oppressive gray skies. A heavy fog weighed on us in the valley. Rain seemed inevitable. It was darker than it had been all week. The real winter must be back. 

I had a few things on my agenda for the day: Job search. Find a mentoring service so I can start volunteering. Write a few emails. Read the paper. Blog about a 2012 goal. Walk to the library to pick up a book on hold, my fourth Kurt Wallander mystery. Start reading it. Go to the gym. (I know, I know. Really tough morning.)

Mid-morning, Lindsay's friend Curtis texted me, suggesting I look up urban hikes in the West hills. Realizing I would rather go for a strenuous neighborhood walk than go to the gym, I did just that. I came across about ten of them, but I knew immediately I'd do "Pearl District to Pittock Mansion." If I was going to forego the gym, I needed a challenging few miles. 

The hike would take me from the "flatlands" (my neighborhood) up about 800 feet over 2.5 miles to the Pittock Mansion in the West hills. On a clear day, the chateau would greet me with magnificent views of the Cascades. I knew my views would be limited today. To get to the mansion, I had to climb a few sets of staircases--about 400 stairs total--and walk up steep, windy west hills streets. By the time I reached the mansion, I had been breathing heavily for the previous mile. 

Although there were no spectacular views at the mansion thanks to the heavy fog, the walk was well worth it. I'm excited to make the trek again on a clear day.

If the fog sat only deep in the valley, this could have been my view.

(Can anyone guess where I took the picture that is directly under my blog's title? Yep. You guessed it.)