East we went, to the the southeast corner of Washington state, as far away from people as we could.
Our plan was to rent a U.S. Forest Service cabin in the Umatilla National Forest. For $50 a night, we'd get a little place, a kitchen, a propane-gas stove, and a place to sleep. It was a great deal. Our cabin sat atop a hill, overlooking the northern tip of the Blue Mountains.
We entered the forest through Pomeroy, a tiny town in the middle of the Palouse. It was rather cute and depressing at the same time. To reach our cabin we drove on 23 miles of gravel road.
As we entered, the obvious smell of a forest fire filled the car. Parts of the road were hazy. Thanks forest service, for the heads up. But things were fine.
We reached the cabin in the dead of night. There was a visitor's log. The last entry was by a woman named Yvonne. In it, she wrote that her family had stayed in the cabin. One night they were startled by a loud shaking of the front door. Afraid, her husband and her took out their guns. She described her girl screaming, and noise coming from outside. The next morning, she described going outside and finding nothing out of the ordinary. Thanks, lady, for the horrible story - especially arriving there at night.
The next morning was beautiful. Granted we were awaken by the smell of propane gas.
All around us, like old sentinels protecting the jagged hills, old pine trees stood, dotting the yellow, sunbathed hills.
Badger, badger, badger, badger, MUSHROOM MUSHROOM
Slow shutter speed and a wrist rotation to create this effect.
An abandoned house on the highway to Pomeroy.
Trusty Toyota - it slaughtered hundreds of bugs.
County courthouse in Pomeroy, Wash.
As a tiny town as they come here in Wash. -- Pomeroy, the gateway to the Umatilla National Forest.
The last time my road trip destination was the Palouse region, I managed to get two speeding tickets in a matter of minutes. Unknown to me at the time, such a feat is apparently news.
Years later, I returned, this time on a trip to Walla Walla, east on Highway 12, and lastly to the Umatilla National Forest in a much needed getaway from the city and work.
The trip itself was put half-haphazardly by Erika and I, conjured up about 1 a.m. two days before vacation days were to start. It was meant to be.
Going to the eastern side of Washington state is always a reminder of how big - how truly big - this state is; how Seattle-centric my life is, and just how good it can feel to hit the road.
Our first stop was in Sunnyside for lunch. I'd never been to Sunnyside either. I've stuck to its older, meaner sister of Yakima on my trips east. Hungry, we stopped at a Mexican diner that was just a few tables and walls away from being a taco truck - and the food was almost the same.
The diner was half-restaurant, half-bus ticket station.Along side the menu was a schedule of buses departing to different cities popular with migrant workers in California.
The food kind of sucked. At least the horchata was decent. We got on the road again and a couple hours later we crossed the Columbia River, just like the pioneers of yesteryear, minus Indians trying to kill us.
We went on a wine tasting tour in Walla Walla that basically boiled down to stopping at every other winery we saw. We had tips, though, as one of Erika's coworkers had recommended the airport area for tasting. I am not a wine guy, so all the wines tasted like wine to me. It was a win.
Wine tasting places near the airport.
Has someone started a 'death row' wine line in honor of the penitentiary in Walla Walla?
Our fancy motel. Not the worst place we've stayed at in our travels. It felt like I was in a scene from 'No Country for Old Men'
The motel's guard dog.
The town of Waitsburg: Cute and seemingly hip, even if it's in the middle of nowhere.
Oh, and a camel:
In Dayton, we stayed with a old German woman who thought her dogs were the cutest. They were actually kinda hideous.
Took a day trip to Mount St. Helens recently, came back with a few shots. Man, it is stunning up there. The force of nature still clear 30 years later. Can't wait for the sequel: Mount Rainier.
The mountain was covered in a haze the entire time.
Steve's son, David, takes a moment after the funeral service to take in his father's grave.
I wrote this for the AP's Facebook page, but unsure if they're going to use it, so here it is:
During a busy afternoon editing, I got the unexpected call. On the other line was Teri Sall, the wife of an Oregon man with ALS I had met three months earlier. Her husband, Steve Sall, had chosen to be buried in a forest, in a so-called "green burial."
When I answered the phone, I asked her how she was. Not good, she said, Steve had died the night before.
Reporters often deal with the aftermath of death. From a brief on a fatal car accident to more shocking events where people lose their lives. Journalist in zones of danger and war see death even closer.
I've covered vigils, funerals, and memorials _ it never gets easy to talk to people who have lost a loved one.
Teri's call was different. The fact alone she called me was different. I had met Teri and Steve in June of this year. Along with their son, David, they had allowed me to follow them with a video camera while Steve picked a burial spot in a private nature reserve in southcentral Washington.
"Green" burials are a small but growing section of funeral services in the United States. People who chose green burials are hoping to be buried in an environmentally friendly manner. That means no concrete vault, steel or extravagant wood coffins and no chemicals to preserve the body.
Steve had been a hiker all his life, a lover of the outdoors. His eyes often lit up while touring the burial grounds.
By the time I met him, ALS had fully claimed the use of his speech and most of his muscles. He communicated using a pencil and a laminated piece of paper with a grid filled with letters and conjunctions. Teri would look at where he pointed and read his thoughts.
Through the process, Steve kept a sense of humor. Asked why he wanted a green burial, he said he wanted to "branch out."
Three months later I met Teri again, this time to bury her husband. All I hoped at the moment was to not get in the way of the family and tried to be as transparent as possible.
For me, seeing a family go through painful, but necessary grieving process, and to see a wife and son lose their beloved father, was something I hadn't experienced before in my career.
They had allowed me and the public into what is a very private ritual, and for that, I am especially grateful.
Rest in peace, Steve _ may your atoms become trees.
