Oregon, Day 7, Subset C, Paragraph 14 - Salt Creek Falls

That evening, after off-gassing our residual second-hand pot fumes accumulated during our visit to Bend, we went to Salt Creek Falls, right down the road from the house. Kristen had identified the Falls as one of the places that we wanted to take the Jane to, and when Kristen tried to go there earlier in the week, she got a little wigged out by some of the quirky tourists roaming around in the park. Some of these west coast parks are pretty desolate, and 'desolate' means...at least if you're from Florida...'filled with bowie-knife-wielding inbred mass murderers with triple first names like Bobby John Paul, or Curtis Eugene Lewis'. Mass murderers in Florida only have first names...for all three names.

Didn't you get the memo?

Here, some of the secluded trail leading from the parking area and visitor information kiosk, to the falls themselves. You could hear the falls clearly in the distance, and the noise reverberating in the woods added some sense of discomfort to the experience of the visit. The white noise from the falls prohibited your Doppler effect from determining where other noises were coming from. As a result, you had the strange experience of having other visitors seemingly pop out of nowhere and suddenly be right off your shoulder, looking for themselves.


Like Morpheus...walking the path. "Don't think you are...Know you are."

The falls. Spectacular. Salt Creek Falls are the tallest in Oregon.

Just downstream from the falls, the air filled with mist and spray generated by the pounding water. Note the vegitation changes apparent nearest to the water...the lushness afforded by the constant spray.

Mother/Daughter, checking it out.

Daughter.

Looking at the pooling water, just before it rolls over the edge and crashes violently below.

"Isn't it grand, Dear? The falls? The day? Isn't this just a grand day to be together at the falls?" she asked. Always asking.

"Hmmm?" I replied

"Oh Dear, do pay attention!" she quipped snottily. Her nostrils flared in the breeze.

The Breeze was good. The nostrils, not so much. I was reminded of the laundry. The laundry that the old ripe women would hang to dry. In Pamplona.

"Yes" I said. "Lets get drunk."