history

Day 7 Timberline Lodge and Beyond

Zero Miles! My first one! Well, I just polished off a $12 salad of lettuce and dressing. I asked if they could make it extra large but I watched the cook put it in a to-go box and it was just a big handful. Sheesh! Not quite the welcome I was hoping for at Timberline.

Carved fox on a stair post.

The lodge is an amazing WPA project, full of history and craftsmanship, hard work and ingenuity. In the downstairs museum I learned that the workers made .90 cents an hour during the depression and were happy for it. However this place is somewhat exclusive. I feel rich just being here. At about $300 a night, Timberline is out of reach for most people. Granted, it is awesome, the luxury and the location is worth the price but the people who work here now (and the ones who built it) probably couldn’t afford to stay here. I’d like to see some part of the lodge that was economical so that more people could enjoy this historic public works project.

Art everywhere!

I’ve been wandering around here all morning, since I was “up with the chickens” as we say on the farm. I had been awakened around 4 by noises and lights on Mt. Hood. I thought at first it was for climbers as a string of fricking alien-beam-me-up bright lights lit up the mountain. But the noise and movement of machinery soon let me know I was looking at snow cats grooming the trail on the glacier. Who knew you could ski here in July? Apparently, lots of skier know, the Wy’east lodge is crawling with them! I have since learned Mt. Hood is the only place in the lower 48 you can ski all summer long.

Went back to sleep for a few more hours then made my way down to the lodge proper for a facilities usage and to get put on a list that would somehow grant me early entry to our room. With that, I also got laundry privileges! I “hiked” over to the store, bought a Timberline T shirt, swapped out my dirty clothes in the bathroom and had my laundry done by 9 AM. For the rest of the day I was asked by tourists for instructions and help as I apparently looked like a member of the staff in that shirt!

Would you like help finding your room?

It’s really kind of weird to be here after 6 days on trail. All these people! I don’t live or work in the city and actually see more people on the trail than I do in my regular life. I get that I’m unusual that way, I probably could be quite content as a hermit. Crowds make me nervous. Well, crowds of people anyway. I’m pretty chill in a flock of chickens, a herd of horses, a pack of friendly dogs.

About a year or so ago I heard about a personality description called “highly sensitive” and after learning more, took the 28 question test. Turns out I checked off about 26 of the boxes on that list. Artist, introvert, animal and nature lover, crowd and loud noise avoid-er, picks up and is affected by others emotions, stress and general vibes. Yep. Check, check, check! Learning about being “highly sensitive” has helped me understand why I’ve felt so different for so long and to finally be okay with it. I no longer feel the need to “fit in” and the relief and insight and self acceptance has been very, very freeing. So, no wonder the chaos at Timberline stands out in stark relief to my last week.

But I’ve got things to do, so I put on my game face and get with the program. After taking down my tent (which I longingly looked at as a tiny nylon refuge) I packed up and retrieved my hiker box from the store. In the ski lodge, I took over a table and laid out my resupply and jettisoned things from my pack that I didn’t use or need. My 8 ounces of camp shoes, gone. Really, I was only wearing them 5 minutes or so a day. My unused, extra-just-in-case water bottle, gone. The back-up packages of Ramen? Gone. The ultra light cashmere sweater? Gone. Winter gloves… what was I thinking?! Gone!

I hogged a whole table with my resupply.

It felt good to see what I needed and what I thought I needed part ways. Even with all my backpacking experience, I’d learned so much about what to carry and what to pitch. But this was a trip unlike anything I’d ever done. I’ve never hiked so many miles or moved every night. In the past, my hiking buddy and I would set up our trips to mostly hang out at a high lake where we’d relax, swim, read and pretty much vacation in the wilderness. This PCT journey has been about goals.

Once all the sorting chores were done and I had my $12 salad in hand, I found a corner table to sit and write, charge my cell phone and people watch. But the first thing I see is a huge chipmunk run across the battered but well polished wood floor. A brown shadow, it heads towards the center couches that flank the fireplace. At first, I think it’s a rat, it’s so big, but then it reappears and skitters off looking for an unattended bagel. I flag down an employee who’s setting out coffee for guests.

“Uh, excuse me, there’s a chipmunk in here. It’s under the couches,” and I point helpfully in the general direction.

“Oh, those aren’t chipmunks,” he explains. “Those are Timber Tigers. They’re squirrels, actually.”

“Squirrels? They look like chipmunks.”

“Yeah, they are all over here. They come in as soon as it gets warm, we can’t keep them out. They don’t do much harm.” And off he goes to finish his duties.

Now, I’ve been pretty familiar with chipmunks and squirrels of all kinds for longer than this kid has been alive but I’ve never heard the term “timber tiger”. I shrug and figure he must know something I don’t, seeing as he works here but lo and behold, Google holds all the answers. Timber Tiger is another cute name for chipmunk and that is what is prowling all around the lodge. They are big, well fed and bold, and just like every other chipmunk I’ve ever seen. So much for the taxonomic knowledge of lodge workers.

Tigre Timberious

And so I eat my expensive salad and then notice the sad dog tied to a pole just outside my window. The sun is streaming down, hot on the concrete patio and this beautiful little French bulldog is tethered in a square foot of shade without any water. She is at the end of her rope (literally) as she tries to stay out of the sun but the sun is slowly winning. I am worried about her and look around the lodge, where are her owners? Surely they are coming back? She inches back but she’s gone as far as she can go. An internal debate starts, do I untie her and move her? Do I bring her water? Do I bring her inside? I fixate on the dog and write in my journal about bad owners who don’t seem to realize that the sun actually moves for crying out loud.

An old woman in a wheelchair is pushed near to where I am fretting and writing and eating. I look up as her attendant parks her in front of the view of Mt. Hood who rises so closely above the lodge one can literally walk out the door and up on his muscular flanks. The attendant turns out to be a granddaughter and she catches my eye.

“My grandmother climbed Mt. Hood when she was 18 back in 1942. I’m just bringing her to see it again.”

The old woman nods towards Hood, her eyes deeply set in a face of worn lines, her hair a thin nest of gray white curls. Her skin is paper thin and she doesn’t speak, just gazes at this mountain she once climbed. Back when wool and waxed canvas were the only things between you and the elements. Before women were known as adventurers, though we know they certainly were adventuring all over the place. Back when she was young and lithe and powerful enough to climb this 11,250 foot giant of Oregon.

I wonder how much she remembers, how much she is aware. She looks so tired, propped up in her chair. There are 74 long and short years between the woman in the chair and the girl she used to be, the one who braved the wind and snow and rock and did this amazing thing. I hope she remembers it all like it was yesterday. Those deep memories are the last things to go when we get that old… I hope she sat there for what most probably would be the last time, and remembered how brave and young and fearless she was. I hope I remember things like this about myself one day. And that someone who loves me will wheel me to the edge of my adventure before I too have to pass beyond this earth and on to my next great journey.

Old, amusing version of a Mt. Hood map.

I follow her gaze out the window and see the hot dog… her owners have come and are bending over her. The dog’s nose was just in the sun but she is rescued and they make a big fuss over how she had run out of shade, the poor darling! I learn her name is Daisy and she is untied and picked up and cuddled. Daisy is stoic about her fate and simply sighs in relief. As do I.

And now I see a parallel. The old woman in the chair, the dog in the sun. Each quietly enduring their place in life, with dignity and composure. No fuss, no drama, they were serene in their acceptance, they had surrendered to the moment and in the moment, had found a sense of peace.

I take a deep breath, let it go and do the same. The noise, the people, the chaos falls away and I am happy in my corner, jotting down my thoughts of the day.

And then, Joe is there! Our reunion is not marred with my internal anxiety, but feels surreal in it’s absolute rightness. Now if only our room was ready…. no sooner do I think this, when my phone rings. Our room is ready! We gather up my gear and box and head up to the cozy space. It’s lovely and charming and everything you want a lodge to be.

Pendleton blankets on the bed!

Knotty pine walls, old dressers, refurbished bath… sadly only a shower. I won’t be using the Epsom salts for a soak as I had planned. We tour the lodge and the grounds and catch up on the week. Later, we treat ourselves to a fancy dinner and I order from the vegetarian menu. But while the dining room is rustic and lovely with its crisp napkins, its amuse-bouche, its palate cleansers and all the 101 touches that make it a 4 star meal, something sits on my stomach like an ill wish. I feel hot, too hot and I wonder what is in the lentil loaf. There are so many rich ingredients and I have had some issues with eggs in the past. Are there eggs in here? Did the teeny piece of salmon I ate mess with my vegan flora? I keep thinking I am missing vital enzymes to break down meat, as I seem to have reactions when I stray from my usual diet. I feel like I have let down this amazing meal by not being able to enjoy every last bite. And just like that, I am exhausted. We wrap up our experience and I go to bed, sleep finds me fast and holds on until the snow-cats start up again at 4 AM. Really Timberline? Really?

OK, I just need to get this off my chest.

The other day I was having a discussion with a friend of mine regarding what was Art and who are Artists. I was speaking emphatically on the topic when she stopped me with a question. She asked me why I felt so strongly about the subject. I had to think about that one. It’s true, I do see edges between arts and crafts and artisans and artists. But when someone asks me to defend my position it occurs to me that there are two camps on this subject. The all inclusives and the separatists. And it surprises me when the inclusives camp is less tolerant than the separatists. I seem to have run into the idea of “you’re either with us or against us” more often from inclusives, when what I feel as a separatist is, we are all cool doing our own thing, you don’t have to believe what I believe.

This came up because recently there is some movement in my community to start an artists cooperative where we share ideas and develop a place where we can show our work. I wrote another post about how I feel about the whole group art get together, (read here) so I won’t rehash that, but in discussing the community space, we touched upon these ideas of what/who is an Artist? I especially dislike the notion that all of life is art and art is all things. The idea that art is everything and everywhere is irritating. I’m sorry, not everything is art. Philosophically, if everyone is special, then no one is special. It’s like saying everything is God and God is everywhere. Okay, well I guess people do say that. Does that mean that Art is God? Or, God is Art? Or that Art is our God? (lol) Well, enough semantic double speak, here’s the nuts and bolts of what I mean when I say that there is a difference between Arts and Crafts.

But first, let me reiterate: I am an artist who paints and sculpts. I can draw and compose a visually balanced photograph. And I am a crafter who makes baskets, jewelry, what have you. I can also be an artisan who makes lovely signs, builds clever shelves, imprints leaves into my plastered walls.

Yes, I use my creative abilities in everything I do. So I feel more than qualified to express my opinions that these are different facets of my artistic ability. But, if I did only one… like paint, then I wouldn’t call myself a crafter. Because I wasn’t. And crafters who don’t engage in creating art for art’s sake aren’t Artists. They are Artisans. There is a difference and this whole notion of inclusive “we are all the same, we are all artists” is simply not a truth for me. I don’t believe I have to be on board with this notion to be a good person or to be a good artist or even a good community member.

All the wonderful things we do as humans that are creative and enriching is very important to our psyche as a whole. It’s important to our psyches as individuals as well. But we water it down when we throw it all into the same pot. Perhaps my hang up with labeling is improper use of labels, rather than the labels themselves. If we use the word Artist, to represent creative endeavors, than we could all say we are all artists but define our art with a fist name: Fine Artist, Craft Artist, Fabric Artist, Food Artist, Musical Artist, Wood Artist. Or, we could continue the practice of using the word Art to describe a unique creative project.

Are chefs artists? Yes, most certainly there is a huge creative process to making delicious food. But should I invite chefs to an artists gathering? Are musicians artists? Sure, but should they to hang their instruments on the gallery wall? If we turn it around to examine the logic, should I, as an artist be included in a creative cooking workshop? Not unless I’m there to cook, right? Should I enter the battle of the bands competition and rhythmically throw paintbrushes at a canvas while singing?

So no, I’m not a chef… and no, I’m not in a band. I don’t get to call myself a chef just because I can cook or a musician just because I sang in the school choir. I’m not that kind of artist. Same goes for crafters. Craft is a learned skill and usually makes something useful. It’s reproduce-able by the artisan and by others just as skilled in their craft.

On the other hand, Art is a unique item and generally is not reproduce-able by other skilled artists. I have my own style of painting, Jen has hers… we are not interchangeable. Now I happen to know several very skilled artisan basket makers. And you know what? Two of them make the same style of basket. Slightly different to account for their individuality, but it is really the same basket and I can make it too. Just because I am an artist, doesn’t make my basket art. A basketmaker is a Crafter because they are recreating what someone else designed. Make a basket out of zip ties, washers and driftwood? That’s probably Art. An artist makes something that no one had thought of before… it’s creative and unique and innovative.

It’s a lovely basket, and nicely made but it’s not Art. However, the photo may qualify!

Here is a wonderful 5 minute TED talk from Laura Morelli describing the history of art and craft. She describes how we came to differentiate between the two. She wraps things up with an oft quoted truism “art is in the eye of the beholder” which, to me, is really like saying at this point “lets agree to disagree”. Most unsatisfying, but as a separatist, I can get behind the idea. Along with the great history lesson was a nugget of truth that I loved: work is elevated to art by being innovative. And I’d have to agree with her on that one. Because if anyone can recreate my basket (and anyone who knows how, can) then it’s not art. But if you are skilled enough to reproduce my painting, that bumps you up to being a Forger… and the first name of that title is Art.

http://ed.ted.com/lessons/is-there-a-difference-between-art-and-craft-laura-morelli

Want to read more?

http://www.differencebetween.net/miscellaneous/difference-between-art-and-craft/

And finally, my last bit of analogy. Writing. The best works are art, but even then it has it’s own label: Literature. Great literature is unique, different from what came before. Most likely it’s a work of fiction or poetry. That is to say, made up, and creative because it was created from the writers imagination. Even if it was based on real life. Now, there are some great cookbooks out there. And manuals and text books even! But they are not literature. The greatest cookbook in the world is not high art. It doesn’t diminish a cookbook to not be called literature. But it certainly diminishes the literature to put it in the same category as cookbooks. Yes, it’s true, they are both books, and so is the Physicians Desk Reference. But you don’t see Oprah putting that on her night-stand and my guess is, neither do you.

I rest my case.