May 10, 2026

188. Columbia River Gorge - Nature's Masterpiece: Waterfalls and Wonders Await

Show Notes
Transcript

Travel Is Back episode 188. Johnny Mac heads to Columbia River Gorge. Nature's Masterpiece: Waterfalls and Wonders Await.

Some episodes use AI for research, writing assistance, and occasional voiceover when Johnny Mac is unavailable. His point of view, and his insistence on finding the best local taco remains entirely human.

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It begins with the sound of rushing water, not a trickle,

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not a polite cascade, but the roar of something untamed,

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something primal. You're standing on a wooden bridge. It's plank,

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slightly damp underfoot. Above you, the sky is a quilt

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of gray and soft white, the kind of overcast that

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makes colors below pop with a richness you forgot could exist.

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All around are towering evergreens, their needles and branches reaching

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skyward like cathedral spires. The air here is thick with moisture,

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and as you breathe it in, there's a crispness, a clarity,

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a faint tang of pine, earth, and something else, something ancient.

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This is the Columbia River Gorge, and already it feels

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like you've stepped into another world. The bridge creaks slightly

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as you shift your weight leaning over the railing. Below,

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a stream swirls with purpose, its surface dappled with foam

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from the relentless pounding of water above. You follow the

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sound instinctively, your eyes tracing the rocky path of the

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stream back to its source. Then you see it. Multinoma Falls,

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one of the gorgeous crown jewels. It's not just a waterfall.

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It's a story written in water and stone, plunging in

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two dramatic tears over cliffs draped in moss. The upper

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cascade is taller, almost impossibly so, as if someone up

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there in the clouds decided to spill the sky itself.

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The lower tier is shorter, but no less mesmerizing its power,

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reminder that even beauty can be fierced. You feel the

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mist before you see it, carried on a breeze that

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seems to know exactly where to find you. It kisses

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your skin, cool and refreshing, like nature's own baptism. The

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sound of the falls is a constant roar, yet somehow

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it's not overwhelming. It's meditative, almost hypnotic. You could stand

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here for hours watching the water crash down over and over,

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always the same, yet somehow never the same. The gorgeous

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like that, constantly shifting, evolving depending on where you stand,

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what time of day it is, even what season. It's

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a landscape alive with movement, from the restless waters of

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the Columbia River itself to the way the wind sneaks

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through the cliffs, tugging at your jacket and tousling your hair,

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and It's not just the natural beauty that draws you in.

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It's the scale of the place, the way it makes

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you feel small but not insignificant, like you're part of

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something vast and timeless. You find yourself on a trail

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because that's what you do here. You walk, you hike,

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You put one foot in front of the other, not

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just to get somewhere, but to be somewhere. The trail

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range from leisurely strolls to leg burning climes, but even

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the easiest ones offer moments of awe. You pass by

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ferns so green they almost shimmer, their fronds unfurling like

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something out of a fairy tale. The path is strewn

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with leaves and pine needles, and every so often your

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boots crunch on gravel or snap a twig. The air

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smells like rain, even if it's not raining, and every

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breath feels like it's doing your lungs a favor. At

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one point, you stop to catch your breath, or maybe

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you just stop because you can't help yourself. The trail

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has opened up, and there it is, the Columbia River,

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stretching wide and mighty below. Its waters are a deep,

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slate gray, mirroring the sky, but with a life of

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their own. You watch a barge glide slowly along the current,

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its cargo bound for some distant destination. Beyond the river.

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The cliffs rise again. They're jagged edges, softened by the

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endless green of the forest. You think about the people

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who first came through here, the indigenous tribes who called

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this place home for thousands of years, the pioneers who

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braved the Oregon Trail, the adventurers who saw the gorge

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not as an obstacle but as a gateway. It's humbling

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to stand here, knowing you're just one in a long

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line of travelers drawn to this place. The wind picks up,

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carrying with it the faintest hint of wildflowers. In the spring,

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the gorge bursts into color, with loopines, balsam roots, and

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Indian paint brush carpeting the hills and meadows. Even if

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it's not spring, you can imagine it. The landscape here

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seems to hold on to its vibrancy year round. You

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think about stopping at a vista point. There are so

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many to choose from, but instead you keep walking. The

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trail feels like it has more to show you, and

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it does. Soon you're in the heart of the forest,

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where the light filters through the trees and dappled patches,

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as if the sun itself is playing hide and seek.

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You hear bird song, sharp clear notes that seem to

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echo off the trunks, and the occasional rustle of something

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unseen in the underbrush. Maybe it's a squirrel, maybe it's

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something larger. You smile and keep moving. Eventually you reach

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a clearing and there it is again, the river, this

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time with the sun breaking through the clouds and casting

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a golden glow over the water. The cliffs on the

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far side are bathed in light, their rugged surfaces catching

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the warmth in a way that feels almost intimate. You

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sit for a while, letting the moment sink in. The

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gorge has a way of doing that, slowing you down,

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grounding you, reminding you that sometimes the best thing to

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do is nothing at all. Later, you find yourself driving

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along the historic Columbia River Highway. It's not just a road,

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it's a journey in itself, winding through tunnels and over bridges,

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each turn revealing another jaw dropping view. You roll down

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the windows, letting the cool air rush in, and for

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a moment you feel like you're flying. The highway was

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built in the early twentieth century, a marvel of engineering

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design to showcase the gorge's natural beauty, and it does

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just that. You pass waterfalls with names like Latarell and

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bridle Veil, each one a little different, each one worth

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a stop if you have the time, and you shouldn't

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make the time, because this isn't a place to rush through.

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You pull over at one of the scenic overlooks, where

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a stone wall separates you from the sheer drop to

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the river below. From here you can see the massive

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Bonneval Dam. It's turbines churning power from the same waters

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that have carved this landscape over millennia. It's a reminder

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of the gorges dual identity, both wild and harnessed, a

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natural wonder and a human resource. You take a photo,

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but you know it won't capture the scale, a depth,

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the feeling of being here. Some things can't be bottled

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up by Now you're hungry, famished, really, and the gorge

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has you covered. You make your way to Hood River,

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a charming town perched on the banks of the Columbia.

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It's a place where outdoor adventure and laid back vibes collide,

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where windsurfers and kite boarders zip across the river while

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local sipcraft beer on patios. You find a seat at

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a cozy cafe, the kind with mismatched chairs and a

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menu written in chalk. You order a sandwich piled high

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with fresh local ingredients, maybe some smoked salmon, maybe some

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Tillamook cheese, and pair it with a pint of something

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hoppy and golden. The flavors are simple but perfect, a

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reminder that sometimes the best meals are the least complicated.

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Jah kor if you correct. As you eat, you watch

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the world go by. A group of cyclists rolls past.

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They're bright jerseys, a blur of color. A dog trots

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happily alongside its owner, tail wagging in the distance. The

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wind turbines on the hill spin tirelessly. They're blades slicing

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through the air with a quiet persistence. It's a town

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that feels alive, but not hurried. Like everything here, it

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moves at its own pace. Before you leave, you wander

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into a local shop, the kind that sells handmade jewelry,

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artismal soaps, and postcards featuring breathtaking views of the gorge.

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You buy one, even though you know you'll never send it.

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It's for you, a tangible piece of this place to

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take home, a reminder of the way the gorge made

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you feel. As the day winds down, you find yourself

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back on the river's edge, watching the sun dip lower

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and lower. The sky is a masterpiece of oranges, pinks,

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and purples reflected in the water so perfectly it's hard

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to tell where one ends and the other begins. You

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think about all the places you've been, all the landscapes

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you've seen, and you realize this one will stay with

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you because the Columbia River Gorge isn't just a destination,

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it's an experience of feeling a story. You take one

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last deep breath, letting the cool, damp air fill your lungs.

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Somewhere in the distance, the train whistle echoes long and low,

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a sound that feels both melancholy and hopeful. You smile,

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knowing you'll be back someday, because places like this, places

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that remind you of the beauty and power of the

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natural world, aren't just meant to be visited. They're meant

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to be revisited again and again, and yet the gorge

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still has more to say, more to reveal. You find

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yourself dr on now to Cascade Locks, a small town

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nestled in the heart of the gorge that feels like

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something straight out of a story book. The town is quiet,

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almost sleepy, but it carries an undercurrent of history and resilience.

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This place was once a critical point along the Columbia River,

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its locks allowing steamboats to navigate past the treacherous rapids

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before the construction of the Bonnival Dam tame the waters.

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Today it's a haven for travelers, outdoor enthusiasts, and those

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who simply want to sit by the river and watch

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the world go by. You stop for a moment at

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the Bridge of the Gods, an iconic, cantilevered steel bridge

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that spans the Columbia River. Its name comes from a

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Native American legend about a natural stone bridge that once

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crossed the river, a symbol of love, conflict, and the

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forces of nature. Standing here, with the bridge rising above

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you and the water flowing endlessly below, you can't help

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but feel the weight of those ancient stories. The air

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hums with a certain energy, as if the past and

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present are colliding right here right now. Hungry again, you

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wander into a local fish shack specializing in salmon, a

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staple of the region for the thousands of years. You

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order it grilled, the smoky aroma wafting up as the

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cook turns the filets over an open flame. When your

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plate arrives, the salmon glistens, flaky and tender, paired with

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a side of earthy wild rice and a bright tangy

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berry compote. You take a bite and it's as if

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you can taste the river itself, the pure cold waters

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that have nourished this land and its people for generations.

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You savor every morsel, knowing this meal is as much

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a part of a gorge as the cliffs and trees.

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After lunch, you decide to explore a different side of

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the gorge, its wine country. The eastern end of the

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gorge unfurls like a secret, the lush greenery giving way

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to rolling hills and golden grasslands. This is where the

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vineyards stretch out under the open sky. There are rows

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of grapevines soaking in the sun and the unique microclimate

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of the region. You visit a small, family owned winery,

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the kind where the winemaker greets you at the door

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and pours the first glass himself. The wine is crisp,

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with notes of pear and honey, its flavor carrying the

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essence of the volcanic soils and the ever present winds.

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You sip slowly, the view of the gorge stretching out

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before you, and for a moment time seems to stop.

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As the afternoon light softens, you make your way to

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Rowena Crest, a winding viewpoint that offers one of the

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most spectacular panoramas in the entire gorge. The road here

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curves dramatically, a ribbon of asphalts, surrounded by fields of

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wildflowers in the spring and golden grasses in the summer.

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At the crest, you park the car and step out,

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the wind immediately tugging at your jacket. The view takes

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your breath away, a sweeping vista of the Columbia River,

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framed by the cliffs and rolling hills that stretch endlessly

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into the horizon. You stand there silent, letting the enormity

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of the landscape wash over you. The gorge is full

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of contrasts, and as you drive back westward, you notice

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how the landscape changes yet again. The golden hills give

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way to dense forest, the air growing cooler and more humid.

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You stop at a roadside stand selling freshly picked apples

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and pears, their skin smooth and glistening in the late

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afternoon sun. You bite into an apple right there. It's

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crisp sweetness exploding on your tongue, and it tastes like childhood,

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like autumn, like the purest form of joy. As the

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day begins to fade, you find yourself back near the water,

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this time at a quiet beach along the river's edge.

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The sand is cool under your feet, dotted with smooth

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round stones that have been polished by the river's relentless current.

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You pick one up, feeling its weight in your hand,

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its surface impossibly smooth. You skip it across the water,

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watching as it hops once twice, three times before disappearing

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into the depths. For a moment, you're a kid again,

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marveling at the simple pleasures of being outside, of being alive. Nearby,

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a group of paddle borders glides across the water, their

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silhouettes outlined against the fiery colors of the sunset. The

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river reflects the sky in a way that feels almost sacred.

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The surface shimmering with golds and purples and deep velvety blues.

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You sit down on a driftwood log, your feet digging

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into the sand, and just watch. There's nothing you need

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to do, know where you need to be, and that's

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the beauty of it. The gorge has slowed you down,

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reminded you of the importance of moments like this, moments

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when the world feels vast and quiet and full of possibilities.

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And then as the first stars begin to pierce the twilight,

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you hear it. The faint rhythmic rush of the river,

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the whisper of the wind through the trees, the distant

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call of a bird settling in for the night. It's

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a symphony of nature, a soundtrack to this place that

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will linger in your mind long after you've left. You

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stand up, brushing the sand from your hands, and take

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one last look at the river, the cliffs, the sky.

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You know you'll carry this moment with you, a piece

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of the Columbia River Gorge etched into your memory forever.

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I'm Johnny Mack and Traveler is Back.

188. Columbia River Gorge - Nature's Masterpiece: Waterfalls and Wonders Await

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