My plan was to visit the Willamette river, northwards this time, on both sides of the riparian habitats. Ambling along a river after a night of continuous rain makes everything seem so fresh, as if you're viewing a city that has just been hurled through a large car-wash. Intricately balanced water droplets hung off plant stems, small puddles resided on the pavements and if you're not careful, in one misguided step, you can very easily transfer all of the water from these small ground ponds to yourself.
The Willamette River isn't by any means sinuous at this stage of its journey, and I noticed that it wasn't flowing so violently as yesterday, though it wasn't exactly motionless either. Passing my friend, the squirrel, I eventually came across a group of birds enjoying a get-together on the bank, including a Great Blue Heron, which according to the information boards that have been strategically placed by these river cliffs, is a common sight along this stretch of the Willamette.
I passed a group of blackberries; most looked very unripe, and to the touch, they felt hard. Had they been soft and juicy, I might have gone collecting. I've done this back home on days out filming, and am pretty certain now after 18 years of living in Norfolk, where all the good places are. I wasn't so lucky today though.
Eventually the Willamette meanders off to the south, and the walker is subjected to the rather different scene that is the Delta Ponds. In the 1950s, gravel was harvested from large pits along the sides of the Willamette river, and later began to fill with water creating stagnant ponds. Natural succession took hold, and the area became overgrown. In 1995, helped by the agency of man, water flow was restored by cutting into the levy that once separated the Willamette and these ponds, creating a better habitat for plants and animals. These natural areas today looked pristine, though I didn't spot much wildlife. Unfortunately, the area's natural appeal is overshadowed with large diggers on one side building a car park, and several car dealership yards on the other. Call me slightly picky, but I don't see how the reflection of the Toyota logo in the placidity of the water, or the roaring of a JVC over the chirping of a chickadee is an improvement. I moved on.
I continued along the river, for quite some way, expecting the next corner to present a bridge for which I could access the other side, but every time I weaved around a meander, there was no such sight. Not that I was in any rush or anything. I stumbled upon a stretch of old railings, now decorated with a wide selection of lichen and moss. These pioneer species are extremely hardy, surviving whatever the weather throws at them, and to think that I'm about 300x their size and require the latest from waterproofing technology. I feel very inferior to the lichen; always have done.
The bridge finally arrived after passing a school's athletics field and a grouping of very fine apartments. From crossing the bridge, I entered unexpectedly into another neighbourhood, this time one storey houses; the British would call them bungalows. North Americans also share the same meaning for the term 'bungalow', but in California, the term is used to describe 1 and a half storey buildings, so you have to be very careful! Each with a modestly sized front garden, the one on the very end of the street had incorperated a mini fountain, and the owner was outdoors. I nodded my head to him, but I think he was more focused on watering his lawn which I thought slightly strange after last night's downpour.
My walk back along the river offered no major site of photographic interest, and slowly my mind turned to other things. Even the squirrels seemed to be absent, though I suspect they had been alerted by their comrades across the river that a strange bloke in a red coat was coming. Despite the drizzle, a large number of joggers and dog walkers accompanied my walk back. By 2:00pm, I had arrived at my starting point, found a bench to perch myself on whilst I enjoyed lunch, and then decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon at the Hult Center.
The Hult Center of the Performing Arts is an incredibly structured building from the outside, and is equally as grand on the interior. Perhaps it's more noticeable here in Eugene, a city that doesn't hold an extensive array of interestingly shaped designs. I had come here to visit the Jacobs Gallery, on the basement. The gallery which doesn't charge an admission but simply offers the visitor the chance to dispense with a couple of dollars in a generous donation, is presently showcasing local art and craft work. The way it had been set out reminded me somewhat of the First Friday events in Fairbanks, though there wasn't any free food provided here I regret to admit. My walk around the gallery was accompanied with an audio commentary from two mature american women with a clear love of local art work. "Oh, isn't that nice" one would exclaim, to which the other who had moved onto looking at something different would reply with "Yes, but look at this, isn't this just amazing!" This went on for some time, and it seemed that these two ladies didn't have one bad thing to say about any of the exhibits. As I left, one of them admitted her favourite, "I've just got to buy that one, isn't that simply the best?" I dare say her friend could find a better one.
I made my way back to the hostel through the columns of what was now a strong shower. One more night here in the Eugene Whiteaker Hostel, and then a 12 hour Greyhound journey awaits me tomorrow, as I proceed into Sacramento, and my first explorations in the state of California.
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