Tomorrow morning I will head for Southern California, away from the dense, damp woods of the Oregon Cascades. Leavings are hard; I seldom feel good about them. No exception here. I wanted to walk in the woods of a town with hope and optimistic plans, but found that mixed with delusion.
Maybe the town will return to quiet country living, like it was before the railroad came in 1910 and changed it into a thriving lumber town. A wave came to Oakridge, rose and broke, and some say it can happen again. It will rise again for another kind of ride—on mountain bikes, these minority optimists say.