acorn feather nosh

A food & nature blog. Brett Warnock is a tree geek, nature nerd, and foodie. And dad.

[acornfeathernosh]

February 6, 2018. Today is a good day. I mean, yes, we’re watching the collapse of civilization as we know it, but who said the apocalypse needn’t be fun. 

I dropped my kid off at school then headed over to Sellwood Park for a walkabout, where a grand sight awaited. A juvenile and a mature bald eagle do loop-de-loops in the amphitheater at Oaks Bottom, where the space over the pond and the basin open wide. They meet in flight and do touch & gos, huge animals that command one’s attention and tickle the imagination, more spectacular than any military airshow to these eyes. 

Waterfowl chatter and whistle, corvids complain, red-winged blackbird trill, and passerines of all shape and form provide a musical backdrop that brings the footpath to vibrant life. My walk ends with a skunky bouquet of cottonwood buds and some kind of mushroom that looks for all the world like bleached coral. Cool! 

Meanwhile, on a slow street in a sleepy Portland suburb sits a gem of a spot called the Milwaukie Cafe & Bottle Shop. I’d read about it on Kathleen Bauer’s blog, and given the pedigree of the purveyors (and it’s convenient location right in-between home and my kid’s middle school in Sellwood), i had to give it a try. 

The space is unassuming, far removed from any hipster Portland vibe—there are no man-buns here—and pay no heed to the monster-truck-with-American flag driving down the street; this is some of the best new nosh i’ve had in a while. After discussing the menu briefly with the delightful barista, i opted for a biscuit sandwich. It arrived within minutes. 

Biscuit w/house-smoked pork shoulder, homemade pickles, mustard, and honey. Holy moly... perfectly crusty biscuit, slight chew in the middle with the flakiest exterior ever, the meat melted before it passed my lips, delicate pickles and mustard provide the perfect acidic balance to the sweet golden honey. Mmmm.... 

Served with a cup of drip coffee from local roaster Water Ave., the meal only cost $8.50, a steal relative to close-in prices. I can’t wait to go back and try one of their polenta bowls. And check it, i still have half the day ahead of me. Sure, the sky is falling, but i’ve got stuff to do.

[acornfeathernosh]

Wandering along Ramsey Creek, eastern flank of Mt Hood, near the small town of Dufer, OR.

[acornfeathernosh]

ACORN FEATHER NOSH DINNER SERIES #4

Acorn Feather Nosh Dinner Series #4 took place on the evening of Saturday, October 21, 2017. Rain was coming down in great gusts, so the festivities all took place inside. Er… except for the Weber kettle-bbq I had fired up in the open garage, which was used to roast green chilis and late-season tomatoes. (It was also meant to roast beets, which it did, before i walked away and forgot about them, and they turned to charcoal.) I invited almost all of the same list as attended one or the other of Dinner Series' 1-3, and the off-shoot cheese cocktail party with Sasha. Surprisingly, there were very few declines; out of 24 invites we had 18 in attendance, although one had to make a hasty retreat early, having lost a crown in one of the downright Paleolithic ribs we we all noshing on. 

Seriously, the ribs were Fred Flintstone huge, and unanimously the hit of the night. Heck, they even had a longtime vegan nibbling a few bites. I paid my son Carter $20 to bus tables and help on dish duty, and he did pretty great, when he wasn’t running around battling my sister’s boyfriend Jay. I think the rain made for a better party, as it kept everyone in close proximity. I like that intimacy. Later on, after the bulk of the guests had gone home, we were discussing the cost of doing these dinner parties and Sarah K. brought up the idea that’s been lingering in my own head, to charge, say $20 and a bottle of wine, OR, bring a food dish and a bottle of wine. I still paid out for this party, but much less so than meals past, when i cooked everything on the menu. Food for thought. .... [Also note, the pork butt is a pretty good value, compared to say, beef bavette steaks or lamb chops.] 

My main contribution was an 8 lb pork butt, cooked Carnitas style, sourced from Laurelhurst Market & Butcher Shop. It turned out great, and I ate leftovers for a week. A late-game addition was glazed carrots cooked in a ginger ale reduction, sourced from an Eastern European guy out of the back of his car in the Woodlawn neighborhood. .... Other food items follow, in no particular order. I’m almost certainly missing something. I failed entirely at noting the beverages which were brought and consumed. Mostly wine. Meanwhile, that list: .... - Rogue Creamery Smokey Blue Cheese. (CA.) - Assorted charcuterie from Laurelhurst Market & Butcher Shop. - Mixed olives and Marcona almonds from New Seasons. - Steve’s smoked beef back ribs, sourced at Old Salt Marketplace w/two house-made hot sauces: BBQ Sauce #1: Hoisin base, w/roasted garlic, ginger BBQ Sauce #2: tomato base w/mustard, horse radish - Salmon dip and grilled veggies from Flying Coyote Farm by Carol & David. - Fire-roasted tomato & green chili chunky salsa. Tomatoes mine, peppers from my sister Nicky. - Garlic bread. Three loaves of Piccolo Como from Grand Central Bakery. - Chanterelle/bacon risotto w/parmesan, mushrooms hand-picked by Tim. - Cauliflower/béchamel casserole by John. - Grilled seasonal veggies by Heather and Jeff. - Chocolate olive-oil cake by Heather and Jeff - Chocolate chip, butterscotch, coconut cookies by Steve.

[All pictures mine, except for that one of the gorgeous beef ribs in the smoker, taken by Steve. Thanks Steve!]

[acornfeathernosh]

Three Bears and the Screaming Eagle. Part 2. 

[Read Part 1 here.]

Field Notes: October 15, 2017. 

This is the last full day the campground is open, closing tomorrow morning until reopening in spring of 2018. It feels pretty great that we’re the only people taking advantage of the sunny weather, and we’re in a great mood as we gear up, check our backpacks, fill water bottles, and, well… divvy up what looks like little strips of fruit leather with my pocket knife, drop the gummy pieces of LSD on our tongues, and head out for our trip. Wilderness hike, here we come. If only. 

Fifteen minutes into the drive, just after reaching the gravel road, we hear a strange noise coming from the back of the car. Earlier this year in town, I drove across a large tree limb which wedged up inside my wheel well. I thought this was probably similar, so I pull over thinking the same, but after a quick glance turn up nothing. I pull back out, and 20’ later we hear an ominous sound… PSHHHHHHHHH!!! Josh throws his head out the window just in time to watch the air escape at high velocity from our left, right tire. One arm of an old, rusted pair of pliers has jammed deep into the tire. We looked at each other then instantly bust out in laughter. Are you kidding me? What a way to start an acid trip. 

Forty-five minutes later, we’ve got my spare “donut” tire on and, figuring we best not temp a 2nd flat (however slim the odds), scoot back to the campsite, arriving about 90 minutes after dropping. The timing is just right, as the ground underneath my feet is starting to roll in gentle waves. We walk, explore, throw a nerf football and a frisbee. We chase rays of sunshine, but situated as were are deep in a canyon, never really get any full sun. That’s o.k. The trees around us breath and throb and pulse with life. High in the canopy, leaves sparkle and shine and speak to us with infinite patience. 

Dusk approaches, and down by the river in a large field of river rock, we crane our heads to the sky and witness hundreds or thousands of giant moths with 3-4” wingspans, so big I thought they were bats at first. They flutter around with wild abandon, silhouetted against a darkening sky. I’ve never seen anything like this ever. What happens next, however, after meandering our way back to the campsite, is one of the most remarkable experiences of my 52 years on this earth... 

We’re just starting our comedown, and getting ready to cook up some ramen noodles, when in a flash of movement I see Josh reaching up and pointing, then whip my head around to watch stunned as a huge adult bald eagle, like a glimmering winged goddess, alights on the rocky shore just across the river, 20 yards away. In a fluid motion it crouches down, as if perhaps clutching something in it’s massive talons, all viewed through a tiny window in a dense tangle of red alders, under a larger canopy of trees blanketing our campground—I’m certain this glorious creature didn’t see us on its descent. Then, like in a storybook, she looks up directly at Josh and myself with a piercing gaze. I’m talking the real-deal, right in the eyes, soul-to-soul stuff of legend. After a moment of recognition and a nonplussed stare, she calmly rises into a standing pose, all regal-like, I swear the same height as my 12-year old son, to about my shoulder. Gulp. No doubt this creature can kick both our asses without breaking a sweat; we may as well be facing down a dragon. I think I just peed a little. 

Then in a grand swell, she spreads her enormous wings and lifts her immense body off the ground in a graceful, elegant whoosh and is gone. This is all in maybe six or seven seconds. I turn and look at Josh, and in a moment of synchronicity, we both ask out loud, Did you just see that? This is just not something one sees everyday, and in a heightened state of non-ordinary reality, no less. After witnessing something as profound as this, our packaged ramen noodles tasted like the food of the gods. 

The light slowly fades as we refuel our bodies, get a fire started, and slowly come down into our bodies, regaling the events of the last few hours. Two bundles of firewood and several hours later, we’ve nudged and cajoled every remaining coal through its lifecycle, splash out any remaining residual heat in the fire pit, and walk to the road, where we fall into the firmament of stars, the Milky Way stretching out the length of the sky. I crawl into my sleeping bag full-up on wonder, and filled with gratitude. What a way to say goodbye to the long hot summer.

[acornfeathernosh]

Three Bears and the Screaming Eagle. Part 1.

Field Notes: October 14, 2017.

Oregon’s numerous wildfires are receding as temperatures drop and the rains have returned with a vengeance. I’m still wearing shorts and flip-flops as protest against the impending change of season, but i’m tilting at windmills—it’s getting cold! Grumble, grumble, out come the Levis and actual closed-toe shoes. That doesn’t mean, however, that myself and my roommate Josh can’t enjoy one more camping trip here in the great Pacific Northwest. Our destination: Three Bears Campground on the Molalla River. 

We arrive at the campsite mid-afternoon, and it’s totally empty. In a wooded stretch along the Molalla River, 15 car-camping sites sit alone but for the cottonwoods, Douglas fir, alder, and cedars. Not another camper or even vehicle in sight. Sweet! We have this place to ourselves, and as such, we cherrypick the best campsite of the lot, #12, nestled on a small bank overgrown with red alder, a mere 20 feet from the river itself. 

We do have some company, after all; robins, wrens, northern flickers and Stellar’s jays come say hello. Two American dippers sing a lovely duet in-between dives along the bottom of the small rapids right outside our tent flaps. Our only aquatic songbirds, dippers are such a treat to watch. And, yes… hello to you too, gorgeous varied thrush! Your black & orange color scheme complimenting the autumnal colors of Halloween, splashed across breast and wing. 

It’s early-ish still, and after a cursory walk through the entire campground, Josh and myself saddle up for a reconnoissance mission to see how long of a drive it is to the Tablerock Wilderness trailhead. Our plan is to (ahem) drop acid tomorrow and go for a meandering hike deep in the high country above us. While the paved road switches to gravel almost right away, the distance is not as far away as we thought. Maybe 20-25 minutes from campsite to trailhead. The night thereafter follows a few simple guidelines: campfire, warm food, cold beer, weed, and whiskey.

[Read Part 2 here.]

[acornfeathernosh]

Smoke and Fire and Drift Creek. Part 3. 

[Read Part 1 here.]

[Read Part 2 here.]

Field Notes, September 3, 2017: Harris Ranch Trail - Drift Creek Wilderness - Siuslaw National Forest - Coast Range - Oregon. [Drift Creek is a tributary of the Alsea River.] 

A lush vibe permeates every inch of this jeweled landscape: thick moss and lichens layering trunk, branch, and stem; ferns of all sizes and Oregon grape and salal; salmonberry, thimbleberry, and elderberry; red alder and big-leaf maple; Douglas fir, Sitka spruce, western red cedar, and western hemlock; huge skunk cabbage leaves. It’s no wonder the founders of the now-decayed Harris Ranch wanted to live here—if I could, I’d shed civilization and live in a cabin by this magical creek in a hot minute. This place is sacred. Rapturous. I bristle at the thought that private interests would love nothing more than to steal this sacrosanct space. To hell with the mining, and clearcuts, and oil exploration.

Coming down as the sun slips behind the hills and evening descends, I drink red wine from a box and read more of my book (In the Shadow of a Rainbow). This adventure has been too long in coming. Would that all of us had the opportunity to experience our natural world as a living reality, and not just some abstract concept. To remember how to be a wild creature in a wild place again. These are our public lands, so revel in them, please. 

I settle in for another early night before waking up, rested and rejuvenated, then break camp and head back into the inferno.

[acornfeathernosh]

Smoke and Fire and Drift Creek. Part 2. 

[Read Part 1 here.]

Field Notes, September 3, 2017: Harris Ranch Trail - Drift Creek Wilderness - Siuslaw National Forest - Coast Range - Oregon. [Drift Creek is a tributary of the Alsea River.] 

Rise and shine. It’s Labor Day and the backpackers are breaking down their camps around me and heading back home. With the hubbub of people dissipating I notice a spur off of the trail running downstream along the creek, and of course immediately set out to explore. Ooh!… here are several even more isolated campsites, so I move my own tent and gear down to the last developed site, tucked under the branches of a massive old growth cedar. The duff underfoot is plush like shag carpeting; soft, dry, and slightly warm underfoot. 

I have no schedule, no timeline, and gloriously, no mobile service. I wander. I explore. I soak in the luscious late summer light, filtered by wildfire smoke, and trundle carefully down the path as it gets more overgrown. Wide-eyed and filled with wonder I come across a scene of epic cataclysm where several gargantuan trees have fallen from storm or lightening, some crashing into others creating a tangle that completely blocks the path. I'm totally isolated in montane wilderness on a warm, splendid afternoon; for the first time in my adult life I find a spot to stash my shorts and shirt, then meander down the creek buck naked, but for my water shoes. 

As I cross the stream and look back at where I came from, my mind is blown—an old growth Sitka spruce stands on a lip overlooking a sheet of bedrock, wide as a truck. I feel small in the scale of these surroundings. Not in a bad way, just... humbled. Back on dry land I bushwhack through some brush and find a rusted out tractor, its remains melting into the leaf litter, a leftover from the old Harris Ranch homestead that used to sit on the lowland floor. 

I come upon a nurse log, a favorite forest feature of mine, but i’ve never seen one this enormous. Laying on its side it still towers over me, and from it’s nutrient-rich mass several full-size trees grow out of it. Wow. And did I mention the quality of the light? I feel like time has stopped, and all life around me has been encased in amber. This shit is straight-up primordial. (Full disclose; a small amount of LSD may have been ingested a few hours ago.)

[Read Part 3 here.]

[acornfeathernosh]

Smoke and Fire and Drift Creek. Part 1. 

Field Notes, September 3, 2017: Harris Ranch Trail - Drift Creek Wilderness - Siuslaw National Forest - Coast Range - Oregon. [Drift Creek is a tributary of the Alsea River.] 

While Oregon burns during one of the most devastating summer fire seasons on record (there are 54 active wildfires as these events transpire), the day after I turned 52-years old I load up my backpack, gas up the Subaru, and set forth toward the only seeming section of the state presently not on fire—Harris Ranch trail off of HW 34 near the coastal town of Waldport, and to the cool waters of Drift Creek. 

The trail heads straight down for three miles through a gorgeous woodland, and I reach the creek in short order. The big attraction here during summer months is a long slab of bedrock, 20’ x 50’, dotted like swiss-cheese with potholes of varying sizes. Splendid. There’s plenty of space to throw down a blanket and lounge away a lazy day, away from the heat of the city. The creek runs through a deep canyon and is surrounded on all sides by lush woods and trees so big as to stagger the imagination. 

I had imagined that I could escape the smokey skies of the Willamette Valley—choked from the Eagle Creek wildfire—by diving deep into a sliver of ancient rainforest in the Siuslaw National Forest. Alas, even here the air is thick and humid; the smoke pervades. On a positive note, there’s barely a mosquito to be found. 

On this particular day, i’m joined by two small families and an older couple. Kids are running up and down the creek with small nets catching crawdads, while the adults just, lounge. And oh my, the crawdads. Clinging to and climbing over rocks and boulders in the rushing water, in their bright candy-apple red armor, the Signal crawfish (Pacifastacus leniusculus) are legion. Dozens, hundreds even, move slowly about, out in the open and easy to see. Where are there predators licking their lips at this potential feast? If one were to lug of large pot down to the creek, a sizable crawfish boil could be had. (Don’t forget salt, pepper, and butter.) 

Even more abundant, though less conspicuous because they look like pebbles, are periwinkles attached to river rock in boundless stretches. Scores of water-skippers scoot around in the shallows, doing their walking-on-water show. These critters always amazed me when I was growing up, and they still do now; I can sit and watch them dance for hours. Scores of tiny fish scurry about. Life in a wild stream is so cool. 

At the turn of a bend upstream, I hear a noisy kingfisher—he seems upset. But then, I don’t speak the language, so it’s hard to be sure. Suddenly, careening low and fast another one swoops up from behind, bombs overhead, careens onto a tree branch, screams loudly right at me, then jumps over the creek and disappears into the thick canopy of a huge spruce. My heart races from the encounter. 

It’s been a long day. I nosh on some trail food, chill out stream-side with a book, and hit the hay early. I’ve been looking forward to sleeping in deep woods, the sound of running water singing me to sleep. G’nite.

[Read Part 2 here.]

[Read Part 3 here.]

[acornfeathernosh]

Make your own pesto, like i did. Easy! 

- Huge bunch basil (I used essentially the entirety of the plant pictured), de-stemmed 

- 9 oz. grated parmesan cheese 

- 5-7 cloves crushed or diced garlic 

- 7 oz. crushed walnuts 

- 2 cups olive oil 

- 4 tablespoons balsamic vinegar 

- 1 tablespoon sea salt 

Mix all non-basil ingredients in a large bowl to combine, then slowly stir in basil. Once mixed, fire up your food processor, pulse 1/4 of mixture until smooth, add one more quarter, pulse, and so on until entire batch is smooth. Makes a few pints. Save a couple for yourself, then put the rest in 1/2 pint jars for a perfect gift of yummy.

[acornfeathernosh]

(Wrote a long post about a hike on Mt Hood last week, foolishly didn't save it, and it seems to have posted into a black hole. Luckily, i still have some photos to share.)

[acornfeathernosh]

Field Notes: Oaks Bottom. August 2, 2017. 

A spotted towhee is underbrush absolutely yelling. Is he yelling at me? I’m down under towering cottonwoods at the edge of the pond at Oaks Bottom. Easy there, little fella… i just want to jot down a few notes, I’ll be out of your hair presently. 

The south meadow today has a very high wow quotient. Sure, the dried grass is brown and flat, but the chicory and the sweet pea and the Queen Anne’s lace are having nothing less than a hot-dang hoedown, clearly the life of this party. Do I hear music wafting my way from within the swaying weeds? That’s taking metaphor into the realm of metaphysical. Twenty steps further along I see a path beaten down in the grass and a bicycle tipped over on its side. Then, under a small tree, some dude with his shirt off and a transistor radio on, soaking up the morning sun. 

A dragonfly stumbles by. It's one of those unfamiliar ones I’ve noticed this summer, so different than the normal big bomber blue-eyed darner I’m more familiar with, more delicate. And weird. Glassine wings I can see right through and a thick, rusty-brown stripe running horizontally across the width of the wings. (A later perusal of Insects of the Pacific Northwest is inconclusive.) 

Meanwhile, a second towhee shows up, echoing what sure seems to be displeasure at my presence, even making a strange rising shweep sound heretofore unheard in my wanderings. I’d better scoot on—I don’t want to cause any ruckus. Besides, the ringing bell of the tourist train across the tracks at Oaks Park fun center now draws my attention. A steady ding, ding, ding, ding… 

Then, crunch, crunch, crinkle… the first crunch of leaf underfoot of the year; more the result of trees stressed out from the heat dropping their leaves than any portent of autumn, still months away. The forecast calls for temperatures upwards of 106 degrees today. Ouch. The purple loosestrife [a non-native invasive marsh grass I have a decidedly love/hate relationship with] is quickly losing any ground it had made during an otherwise temperate spring and early summer. 

A mob of unruly crows are presiding at the dumpsters at the midway between Oaks Park roller rink and the woods, picking fights with one another, stabbing at plastic bags of garbage. On the Springwater bike path now, I stop and watch a great blue heron, several young mallard ducklings and their mom, and a single crow enthusiastically munching on whatever it is that spills out from the pond’s drain pipe into the Willamette River. Algae, small aquatic plants, fish fry? Whatever the particulars, it’s a veritable banquet at this confluence. They squabble a little over who gets the best spot at the table, but in the end the heron clearly rules this feast. 

The riparian zone here is lush and thick, unbroken only by the occasional foot path or game trail; and the sounds of machinery, traffic, civilization. One of Portland’s more heavily trafficked roads sits just 100 feet up on the west slope, taking me out of my nature reverie. What I see next, though, helps me slip right back into my fugue. Just off of the bike path, I come up on a blacktail fawn, slowly walking parallel to me. I’m mesmerized by her gentle movement, grace, and stunning beauty. Her spots are fading and she’s no longer a wee little baby, but I don’t recall having ever seen a fawn up close and personal before. I’m in awe. Startled by a cyclist, she bounds gracefully behind a huge bank of thistle, their fuzzy seed-heads exploding like cotton ball fireworks across the hill. 

There are so many birds, in spite off the heat: noisy scrub jays, bustling chickadees, dabbling ducks and geese and all manner of waterfowl, belted kingfishers chasing each other, a downy woodpecker. I’m a little surprised; I always thought it more common that wildlife slept during the heat of the day. And boy is it hot. It’s just now noon, and already 88 degrees. Still, that doesn’t seem to slow down life at Oaks Bottom, my home away from home. Anyone who knows me might call me a broken record on this count, but every time I come here, I’m blown away that we have this priceless natural oasis, the very definition of urban green space right here, smack dab in the middle of our growing metropolis. Regardless of its value to the population at large, its place as a wildlife reserve, as home to glorious trees and wetlands and pond has an intrinsic worth that is truly priceless. Amen.

[acornfeathernosh]

Field Notes: Oaks Bottom. July 21, 2017. 

I've just dropped off my 12-year old at the last day of his last summer camp. I'm presently unemployed and slightly anxious about what the future holds, but ready to take advantage of the free time I have on my hands. A walkabout at Oaks Bottom seems in order. It's early still as I drop down into south meadow, on fire with morning magic. Chicory, sweet pea, and Queen Anne's lace fill the grassland, thistle and teasel, vibrant and rich, exploding up, taller than me.

Pollinators, bees of all shape and size, out in droves and spreading their goodwill. Dragonflies I don't recognize patrol the area, hunting in their sporadic style. Song sparrows, chickadees, bushtits, robins, wrens, and Swainson's thrush. Cedar waxwings, resplendent in their fancy headress, play in the brush. Corvids out too: scrub jays, Stellar's jay, crows of course, and even ravens. The more I learn about this family, the more fascinated I become. I wonder, how do the crows feel when ravens show up from deeper woods? Are they non-plussed by their larger cousins, or are they a threat not to be tolerated? 

Across the pond from the Springwater bike path, the purple loosestrife looks to be coming in. The crazy weather these past couple years had seemed to have quelled its expanse, but this mild summer might give the invasive yet gorgeous wetland grass a new lease. Two wood pallets drift lazily on the still surface. On one, a cormorant stands motionless. Almost if, by his non-motion, he's somehow invisible. I see you, dude. On the other pallet--which looks a raft straight out of a Mark Twain novel--a great blue heron patiently grooms. And high in a towering cottonwood, just 30 meters hence, another great blue sits perched, looking quite sleepy. How the heck can they balance so easily, even in slumber? 

A small gaggle of geese are seen through my field glasses, lounging in the distance. Seems a little late in the season. Maybe they're coming up north from way south? In fact, how far south is their range? Great drifts of fluff float in the air falling in slow-motion and pile up along paved paths and dirt trails, like low-laying clouds, or a dream, gifts from the regal cottonwoods. 

Down along the bluff trail the spring runoff high-waters have receded, revealing the glade in its summer splendor for the first time in months. The brutal winter snowpocalypse took down dozens of trees; windfall--huge limbs and entire trees--is layered around the bottoms like an elephant graveyard. Revealed also: rusted out oil drums, chunks of concrete, and massive timber beams. Reminders that this spot was once an industrial waste dump. Imagine that... a one-time garbage dump, now widely acknowledged as a venerated natural area and part of the Pacific Flyway with countless bird species, right in the heart of Portland. Shows what humans are capable of when they get right with the world and put their mind to it. 

I hear what sounds like an upset kingfisher, and the much quieter song of a barred owl. A smattering of mallards, greenwing teal, and a black duck with a white bib (domestic mallard?) gorge on a thick blanket of plankton in the shallows, loudly and audibly feasting. Chow time! Red-winged blackbirds jump around and say dee-doo, and dwee-dee doo, while a downy woodpecker male throws down infectious rhythms. Turn off your device and take out those earbuds, folks, there's music to be heard in these here woods if you but listen. 

Western redcedar flush with ripe, green fans of cones. Fat buds hang heavy on Nutka rose. Big-leaf maples glowing, brighter than neon, telling me in no uncertain terms, Be here now. A gang of squirrels swing like gymnasts through the canopy of a hazelnut tree flush with fuzzy-jacketed shells, gleefully noshing the nut flesh then discarding the remains to the floor below.   

Just twenty feet away, I stop and watch a blacktail doe, part of a larger group hidden behind a thicket of huckleberry and ocean spray. She's one of the most common large wild animals to share space with humans, and also one of the most beautiful creatures I've ever laid eyes on. I am humbled by her stature and her bearing. 

I meander back to the car, filled with gratitude, present, and ready to take on what life throws my way.

[acornfeathernosh]

Fair, Food, and a Meander in the Woods: Oregon Country Fair, July 2017.

Most people associate Oregon Country Fair with barefoot hippies, drum circles, tie-dyed shirts, and patchouli. And these things are true. For one weekend every July, thousands of volunteers and civilians descend on an area that has been used by native peoples as a meeting place going back thousands of years. 

I’ve been volunteering here for five years now as part of the “Hospitality” crew, responsible for feeding the throngs of volunteers delicious, healthy food for their efforts. For the first three years I was a blade-slinger, prepping case after case of organic fruit and veggies donated to us by local vendors. The last two years I’ve been driving a golf cart schlepping goods from one of two makeshift kitchens to the other, and the walk-in cooler in between. 

But what many don’t realize is the natural bounty of the site itself, which runs alongside the lallygagging Long Tom River. In the winter months the volunteer campsites are often underwater, part of a wetland. (And responsible for thick clouds of summertime mosquitos.) Woods and prairie also make up part of this landscape, rich with natural wonders. 

From the melodic song of the Swainson’s thrush in the cottonwood canopy to the sweet, intoxicating smell of pennyroyal underfoot, this hill and dale is a delight to the senses… if one but breaks away from the hustle and bustle of the throngs to disappear quietly into the underbrush. I’ve discovered fire roads and trails that I meander every year, where I’ve never seen another human being. 

This year I did see, however, a sharp-shinned hawk!

[acornfeathernosh]

Field Notes: Oaks Bottom, March 22, 2017.

Spring came around finally, after a hard winter. Real hard. Hail had been raining down earlier this afternoon, but the sun is mostly out now as i leave work, a fresh breeze and the bracing smell of negative ions charging the air. A slight chill bites my nose. I do believe today would be a fine day for a walkabout at Oaks Bottom. I’m off! 

I arrive at the north-end parking lot, lace up my boots, grab my field glasses, and drop in on the paved bike path that leads to both the single track trail that follows the base of the bluff as well as the main segment of the Springwater Corridor trail. As per usual I immediately adopt scatter-vision and look down onto the big flats that run parallel to the river, eyes peeled for movement. It's swampier than usual, so I half expect to maybe see a heron. Instead, in the far distance I see three deer casually browsing, a row of scrub brush and young alders the only thing separating the ungulates from joggers and cyclers on the path. 

An above average snowpack in the Cascades, coupled with warmer temps and heavy spring rains have the Willamette River's riverbanks swollen higher than I’ve ever seen them; the resulting flooding and landslides have made stretches of the trail along the bluff’s bottom impassable. I backtrack north on the Springwater towards where i saw those deer. 

In among the cottonwoods on the riverside woodland west of the bike path, normally dry ground has become a swamp, rich with nutrients and filled with hungry waterfowl. Late evening light reflects on the magnificent iridescent collar of a male mallard, as he hurries across the path to meet with his mate. Ubiquitous in these parts, their common status hardly diminishes the handsome beauty of their princely visage. I see you, good sir! 

At the frog pond, bushtits gather almost in arm's reach. Two or three seem almost interested in me, friendly and gregarious, even following me for 20 yards or so. Thank you for your enthusiasm and lyrical song, you delightful little creatures. 

A jumpy female hairy woodpecker—showing very little fear—dances her way to a bird-feeder. The black and white pattern of her coat reminds me of lush Japanese ink and brushwork. Gorgeous. Small cottonwoods, slender and slight, sport buds as sticky and large as any of the mature trees that dwarf them. Cottenwood pollen cones are scattered underfoot like small macabre mammal spines. 

I turn into the woods on the riverside path, make it a couple hundred yards then get trapped again by floodwater and turn back. Then, so may deer. Five, six, seven. I walk twenty more paces, then even more. Eight, then nine. One of them a buck, with just knobs on his forehead. I’ve never seen more deer gathered together so close to the city. I am humbled by their magnificent presence. 

The sky turns neon pink and blue and gray. Two geese low overhead hauling ass and loud. Crows are making their nightly pilgrimage westward across the Willamette to their roost, while the light of the golden hour fades and the sky slowly darkens. In mobs and gangs, in pairs, in bushels the crows gather and fly. 

Legions of chorus frogs sing goodnight to the sun.

[acornfeathernosh]

FLYING FISH Part 3 

[Read Part 1]

[Read Part 2] 

Meanwhile, our crew has vacated Nevør and is gathering around a picnic table at Cape Lookout State Park. Lyf and his wife Natalie are preparing a seafood feast, while their kids Juniper and Miles explore piles of driftwood on the beach and chase each other on massive sand dunes. Salmon is cooked over the campfire on cedar planks, while a herd of corn on the cob are wrapped in foil like space blankets. Restaurant quality side dishes are set out, wine is corked, and we lick our fingers clean while a splendid August sun sets slowly over the upper left edge. 

After a long day of spirits and nosh, the small talk slows down considerably. The rest of my Kickstarter backers filter out pair by pair, hitting the road back to the city. Just Lyf and myself are left, so I help clean up and load gear out to his car. We stick around long enough for a smoke break and a bit of philosophy talk, before he too heads home. 

Constellations soar above me in the crystalline night sky and I lay out my sleeping bag to sleep under the stars. Pondering the day behind me, I realize what a treat it’s been to meet seafood providers who work their tails off, love what they do, and whose mission is sustainability. They're my new heroes. 

Champagne mignonette: Champagne vinegar, Minced shallots, Fresh cracked pepper, Squeeze of lemon, Hint of fresh grated horseradish

[acornfeathernosh]

FLYING FISH Part 2 

[Read Part 1]

We saddle up in our cars and head twenty minutes south to Netarts Bay, where we gather at Nevør Shellfish Farm headquarters on Whiskey Creek Rd, with the broad expanse of the bay acting as backyard. We’re greeted by Rita “the Oyster Hugger” Welch, the right hand woman of owner Travis Oja. (The two met as students at the Hatfield Marine Science Center in Newport.) 

Rita is larger than life, with an infectious enthusiasm, full of knowledge and gumption, and a huge passion to science the shit out of oysters and facilitate unique, sustainable seafood. “I touch every oyster at least three times,” Rita tells us, not a hint of exaggeration in her voice. Welch, Oja, and their small team have been the driving force behind bringing Oregon’s only native oyster—called Olympias, or “Olys”—thought to have been extinct, back from the brink. 

Our tour of the facility includes a large, Rube Goldberg-like contraption connected to a conveyor belt which separates oysters by size. Through huge glass windows late afternoon light spills into a lab; beakers and flasks and other sciency equipment fill expansive table tops; and enormous tubs with tubes like octopus arms are spread throughout the room. This is where the research and development happens, a shining example of the possibilities between the union of science and sustainability. 

The afternoon is slipping into early evening as our tour winds down, and we find ourselves at yet another picnic table, with yet another cooler full of cold beverages, and this time, a feast of oysters to savor. We sample various types which I fail to write down, too enrapt am I with these delicate members of the family Ostreidae. And beer. 

Conversation is reduced to mostly groans of pleasure as we slurp down oysters raw on the half-shell, some with only their own “oyster liquor,” and some accompanied with a small dollop of acidic champagne mignonette. Some among us have a preference for one or the other—myself, I can only say it truly divine to alternate between the two. The unique, proprietary Nevør oyster has a flavor and texture that is suffused with the specific merroir of this special tidal estuary. Mineral, briny goodness. Washed down with more beer. If we end here, it would still have been a most splendid summer day. 

My head is spinning, not from beer and champagne, but from the knowledge gleaned from The Blade, from Mike Shirley, and from Nita, the Oyster Hugger. The thing that unifies these vendors, and why Lyf’s vision is so necessary, is that the food is sourced in a sustainable manner, respecting the animals and ecosystems that feed seafood lovers in our region and beyond. 

These are people who are making a living whilst respecting the limits of the mysterious and moody Pacific Ocean. Considering the world-wide problem of overfishing and depleted fish stocks—how is it, every grocer and convenience store has tins of tuna on its shelves—we must make every effort to be stewards of our great oceans. These fine human beings are as tough as nails. This is their life. The next time you eat your albacore tuna sandwich at Lardo, or slurp down oysters at Little Bird Bistro, you can thank people like this for the privilege of eating sustainable seafood.

[Read Part 3]

[acornfeathernosh]

FLYING FISH Part 1

Two rugged dudes work in unison, cutting into a pile of rock cod on the fillet table behind an unassuming retail shop called The Spot. A luminous blue sky swells as far as the eye can see, the sun bright on this Sunday late summer afternoon, the air fresh, brisk, clean. I’m in the Port of Girabaldi, the closest seaport to Portland, talking with purveyor Kelly “The Blade” Barnett, as he wields a knife with dizzying speed and tells us about his fish processing operation. 

Name the species, and Kelly has almost certainly filleted it: black rock cod, sea bass (which he calls “black bomber”), ling cod, albacore tuna, king white salmon, chinook, and all manner of other salmon species. He’s one of the handful of pros who process large volumes of fish for commercial fisherman as they roll in off their boats, tired, cold, and hungry after hours, or days, or even weeks at sea. 

The salty dog finishing up beside Kelly looks a storybook grizzled fisherman, with a weathered, unshaven face and beat up old baseball cap. He’s seen and done it all on these docks, in the canneries, on the ocean. Off to the side, a huge, rickety-looking homemade kettle is boiling up dozens of Dungeness crabs, steam spilling out from under the rusty lid. Seagulls, drawn by the blood and guts, hover on updrafts close by, hoping for a nibble. 

I’m with a handful of other people like myself—foodies who backed the Kickstarter campaign that helped open Flying Fish Oyster bar inside the new Providore Fine Foods marketplace at NE 23rd & Sandy Blvd. We backed the campaign at a level that landed us all an audience with owner Lyf Gildersleeve, a decadent mid-day snack, a tour of three of the sustainably-minded vendors with whom Flying Fish works, and a sunset seafood dinner. 

After finishing up at The Spot, we meet and have a brief conversation with a semi-retired commercial fisherman on his magnificent vessel, then vacate to a nearby picnic table where Lyf has chilled beer and champagne already waiting. He proceeds to whip out a small gas grill and wee little cast iron skillet, just large enough to accommodate a stick of butter. 

Convenient that, as he lifts open another larger cooler and verily, I hear angels singing, three Dungeness crabs await their destiny as our culinary delight. We feast on cracked crab dipped in the melted butter and nothing else, our fingers and faces dripping. In moments like this, all is right with the world. 

After stuffing our faces, we amble fifty yards away for a visit with Mike Shirley, who runs Garibaldi Landing Fishermen, another landing station/processing outfit/retail shop in the port, and sister company to the Ilwaco Landing Fisherman operation. In their small retail space/office two enormous tanks are filled with dozens of crabs tumbling over and fighting each other in an attempt to feast on chinook salmon carcasses. 

An old run-down warehouse has been painstakingly renovated, in which is installed the most impressive walk-in smoker I’ve ever laid eyes on. As we talk Mike opens a cooler from which Lyf gleefully grabs several gorgeous albacore tuna glittering silver, ear-marked for Flying Fish. 

As he operates a hydraulic lift and offloads a cooler from a small commercial craft boat, Mike chats up the owners, who talk with us about their passionate love for fishing. One of the two, a petit woman with an outsized personality, says there is nothing she’d rather do in life than fish off of the Oregon Coast, such is her devotion to the sea and its bounty.

[Read Part 2]

[Read Part 3]