ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Ouray, Colorado, snug in the middle of the San Juan mountains of southwestern Colorado, has become my winter home for the past six years. I migrate down from Anchorage, Alaska, each fall to my friends' home where I store all my winter climbing gear. Ouray, where I climb the frozen waterfalls in the ice park, take a backcountry ski tour in the high mountains about Red Mountain Pass, or scoot over to Telluride for a day's downhill skiing. I had driven from Salt Lake City on Sunday, arrived late, and checked into the "Chalet" above Jim and Angela's garage.

The view of Corbett Peak out my front window

It took a full day to haul out all my camping and climbing gear from the basement, take inventory, and repack it into my newly acquired pickup. Angela and I caught up over dinner, talked about her pending retirement, and exchanged the latest information about our mutual friends. It is always relaxing to hang out in Ouray. Jim arrived the next day from climbing in Yosemite, so I stuck around, and Angela and I had dinner at Dr. Debbie's with some fine old friends. Finally it was time for me to head to Indian Creek. I took the long route over Red Mountain Pass, through Durango, so I could see the fall colors and visit friends.

An avalanche bridge over the Million Dollar Highway up Red Mountain

The fall colors were at their peak, so my camera sat on the seat of the truck next to me. The speed limit is only 25 mph for much of the winding two-lane road with its huge drop-off on the river side. I stopped several times to get photos, and I even shot some out the car window.

Prime fall colors: yellow aspens, pines, cottonwoods

I looked up at the high peaks and cliffs. Several of the peaks in the area are over 14,000' high. Red Mountain Pass itself is 11,099' high. Up, up, up!

limestone cliffs

I had left Ouray in brilliant sunshine, but as I ascended the mountains, the weather changed. Snow started to blow, the temperature dropped, and I began to swivel my head looking at the white caps on the highest peaks.

First snow

By the time I got the the top of the pass, I was driving in an inch of slush and blowing snow. A huge semi-trailer crept up the hill ahead of me. No chance for speeding now. The driver was generous and pulled over at the summit to let me pass. It was such a terrific day I didn't need to go any faster. The trip down the other side of the pass to Silverton is fast, but winding and dangerous, particularly in the winter when it's snow covered.

The snow deepens

It's not a long drive to get to Durango, but it's a steep and windy one. Down the hill to Silverton, then up a long incline to Molas Pass, 10,910' where snowplows were already at work the first of October. I passed carefully. Still one more pass to go, Coal Bank Pass at 10,640', then down the long, long, long incline to Durango. I stocked up on groceries at the supermarket, filled the cooler with ice and decided to have lunch at the Serious Texas BBQ, where my daughter, Daphne had taken me a year ago. I opted for the pulled pork sandwich.

The stark decor of the Serious Texas BBQ, Durango

My goal was Indian Creek, my twice-yearly home in the desert south of Moab, Utah, home to rock climbing, hiking, and camping. over the next three weeks I spent most of my days climbing the splitter cracks in the Wingate sandstone cliffs, hiking the trails in Canyonlands National Park, and cooking great food. The next four episodes of the road trip take place her.

Indian Creek: the greatest crack climbing in the world

North Six shooter as seen from my campsite

MOTORCYCLES & RESTAURANTS

The candy-apple red bike caught my eye. Thor, Sarah, and I were walking up the street through Truckee, California, to meet Garry and Linda at "Burger Me", our favorite watering hole. Although there are millions of motorcycles, and some very cool ones, I couldn't help taking a photo. There must have been some great gathering, because everywhere I looked, groups of bikers were tooling through town. I think they must have been lawyers and doctors dressed in headbands and leather, because the bikes were just too elegant. I couldn't afford one, I know, so we wandered up the street and ordered a beer and a burger.

A beauty seen on the street

Garry and Linda at "Burger Me"

Just a few blocks from my brother Tony's home in Salt Lake City, is The Blue Plate Diner, a regular breakfast stop on my migration route. This little Honda 125, totally restored was sitting in front. A group of guys were hanging out in front and as I admired the bike, they told me its story. They had found the bike and totally restored it as a present to the owner's daughter when she graduated from school. I told them my brother had a Honda 50 in about 1970...a similar vintage. Now this was a bike I could love! I drooled over it for a minute and stepped inside for the Blue Plate Special and a cup of coffee, wondering where I might find an old beater to restore.

The little restored Honda

The Blue Plate

My friend Heather Sanchez owns "Eggs in the City", a favorite breakfast stop in Salt Lake City. It's close to my old friend Ted Wilson's place. Ted was may of Salt Lake for 3 terms, and I often meet him her for breakfast when I'm in town. This particular morning, I sneaked over to grab an early morning breakfast and spied this little gem. Not exactly a motorcycle, but I'd love to take it for a spin. I tried to figure out the owner inside, since the polka dot helmet was maybe the coolest ever. It would certainly turn my head if I saw it driving down the street. More in my price range, too!Check out the polka-dot helmet on this classy scooter

Eggs in the City

I BUY AN OLD TRUCK

"A good pickup is a thing of beauty and a joy forever." John Keats

At one time I drove a pink Cadillac, but it disappeared to the Kidney Foundation. Renting a car for every road trip has cost me a ton of cash. So! On my recent road trip through the West, I decided to buy a car in Salt Lake City, and spent two days on KSL.com at my brother Tony's house looking for the perfect vehicle. First, I checked out Subarus; I drive one in Alaska, they have all-wheel drive, hold up well, and seem to be one of the two cars of choice for outdoor types like myself. The other choice is a Toyota Tacoma, however, I'm not really a small-car type guy. My last truck was a diesel, so I checked out all the diesel trucks and found a beauty, a long-bed, extended cab 1992 Chevy with a new engine. It drove like a firetruck; I wanted someone to steer the rear wheels around a corner. Harumpf!

I've owned several Ford F150, 6 cylinder, single cab, long-bed pickup trucks, ranging from 1967 to the mid-1980's. I know that engine intimately. After two and a half days searching I found almost the perfect vehicle, except it was a short-bed. I decided that it had other redeeming features, like a short wheel base for driving over desert roads, and a 5-speed on the floor transmission. Perfect!

It was in Pleasant Grove, Utah, a 45-minute drive south. So, my lovely sister-in-law, Shelly, hopped in her Jeep and drove me south to check it out. There it sat amid a pile of broken glass, trash, and weeds behind a store in the middle of town. It had been sitting for five years, so the tires were hardened and flattened on one side. However, it was otherwise in pristine condition. The guy selling it had put in a new battery, so it started instantly. I checked it out, examined the engine, took it for a test drive and listened to all the sounds it made as I drove it, and knew I had a winner. I do all my own mechanical work; this baby was in very sound condition.

The New truck stares at me from Tony's garage

The price was super cheap! After emptying the ATM at the local bank, I handed the guy a stack of $20 bills (about 75 of them) and drove down the road behind Shelly. Once on the freeway, the set in the tires rattled the truck all the way home. Only one fix: new tires. There was still time that evening to buy them, so for a few more bucks, I had a brand new ride. Awesome.

My new baby!

This would be my new 'home away from home', so I needed a cap to contain all my gear: my 1975 Stella French racing bicycle, a gigantic tub of climbing gear and ropes, a box of tents, sleeping bags and clothes, my stove, a box of cooking gear, and a grub box. These were stored between Tony's garage, and my friends, the Donini's basement in Ouray, Colorado, my next destination. Back to KSL.com. I found the perfect cap; unfortunately it was also in Pleasant Grove. Bummer! Back on the road with Tony. On the way we stopped at an auto parts store to score four C-clamps to hold the camper on. It was night when we arrived at the home; the fellow called his son, "I just sold the camper top. Where's the key?" The son arrived, we lifted the cap onto my new truck, exchanged a hundred bucks, and I was off.

The cap on the bed of the truck.

Insurance next; a phone call to my agent, then to an agent in Salt Lake, decided to register it in Utah; I know Alaska plates are cooler, but Utah is great, too! I dreaded the visit to the DMV, but it was smooth as could be. The clerk ushered me through the whole registration process which turned out to be cheaper than at home. Then she wanted to know about traveling to Alaska for a fishing trip. Now we were bonded.

A trip to Home Depot found the basic tools, and for $19.88 I bought a 4" foam pad for the back so I could sleep in the truck while I went climbing in the south-west desert. A 5-gallon bright orange Home Depot water jug, and a big tarp completed the gear. My brother lent me his huge 5-day cooler, and I was pretty set.

It had taken a week to get the whole rig together, but now I was a happy camper. Sunday Morning was special for Tony and Shelly: the LDS church conference was in session, so they invited Shelly's father and wife to brunch. The two spent the morning making crepes with two kinds of filling: fruit with cream, whipping cream and yummies, or sausage and onions. I had two of each. Now that I was fueled, it was finally time to hit the road.

The previous week I'd flown from Anchorage to Portland to meet my son, Thor, and daughter-in-law, Sarah, ridden south to Lake Tahoe with them (on a wild mountain biking and camping trip), and then hitched a ride with Tony to Salt Lake City. I'd been on the road only a week and had covered about 1,500 miles already. The second half of my road trip was about to begin. My friends Jim and Angela were expecting me in Ouray, Colorado, a 6-hour drive from Salt Lake.

Memories began to fill me as I flew south on I-15; I felt so free, so full of life. One of my favorite books is Jack Kerouac's "On the Road", a volume that has spoken to me many times since I first read it at was age 14. As soon as I got my drivers license I began driving north to the Tetons to go climbing. Then far south into the desert to Shiprock, New Mexico, with my friends Milt and Dave to climb the famous volcanic plug "Shiprock". My parents likely didn't have a clue about my road adventures. During the '60's I drove across the country at least twice a year to attend graduate school in Baltimore, rarely stopping for rest on the 44-hour lightning push before the advent of the 55 mph speed limits set by the Nixon administration. In those days, neither Nevada nor Montana had speed limits, and my 1959 Chevy Bel Air ate up the road on 25 cent/gallon gas. I turned up the radio, searching for good rock and roll music. Today life was good, and I was going climbing.

The old Ford cruised past American Fork, Orem, Provo, then up the Spanish Fork on US 6, over Soldier summit and down the long glide to Price where the great coal mine disaster took place a few years ago. I turned off and grabbed lunch for the road. Another hour and we were past 9-Mile Canyon full of petroglyphs and the Cleveland-Lloyd Dinosaur Quarry and turned east on I-70 towards Green River. I wondered if the truck would make it to 75 mph; no problem! I searched for a station playing rock and roll, but it's tough in this part of the country to find anything but country-western.

I had my sights set on Ouray, but the hour was getting late, and I'd gotten a much later start than I'd planned. By the time I reached Grand Junction, it was dark. Angela had wondered if we would be having dinner together, so I called and said I'd likely not arrive till 9:30, so I stopped in Delta, Colorado, and choked down a McDonalds, but not the whole thing--what wretched fare. It was pouring rain. The wipers afforded me a changing screen of the black road littered with deer at this time of night. Flashing signs told me to slow from 65 to 55 from Oct 1 to May 1 for deer on the road. I know; they are everywhere from Montrose to Ouray. I turned up County Road 14 and into the driveway. The Donini's were in bed, so I slipped into the guest house and lit the fire. The old truck had done a days work and we were both ready for a rest.

THE HIGH UINTAH MOUNTAINS

In the mid-1950's my uncle, Bill Hurst, whom we called "Dee" by his middle initial to distinguish him from his father, grandfather, and son, was a forest ranger on the east side of the Uintah Mountains of eastern Utah. I and my sister Judy spent part of those summers living with Aunt Dolly and Uncle Dee, playing with my cousins. My cousin Bill J. and I often tagged along with Uncle Dee on his horse patrols in the Uintahs. Those days were a major influence on the rest of my life and career.

Dad, who was a doctor in Salt Lake City, would meet us and we'd end up camped at Tamarack Lake where Dad could fly fish for cutthroat trout. The horses allowed us to pack just about everything: a wooden grub box full of food, canvas tepee tents, the Dutch oven, and coffee pot. I can still smell the boiling coffee, the trout frying in butter, and the smell of browned biscuits from the Dutch oven as the coals were brushed off the top and the lid opened.

They are huge mountains: Kings Peak, the highest point in Utah rises 13,528 ft. It's the highest east-west range in the country; its quartzite rock is is about 700 million years old; the range uplifted between 70 and 50 million years ago. I learned all these things when I was a young boy and fascinated by geology. Vernal, Utah, where the cousins lived had a fantastic museum, full of dinosaurs, and Dinosaur National Monument is just a few miles away.

I hadn't been to the Uintahs since I was a boy. While I was in Salt Lake City on my most recent road trip, my brother Tony and his wife Shelly asked if I wanted to drive up to the mountains and check out their cabin site they had purchased. It had been a dream of theirs to build a little cabin there and retreat on the weekends. We hopped into their Jeep and headed east, up Parley's canyon, up, up to the town of Kamas, up the Provo river to Smith-Morehouse canyon.

Tony and Shelly walk up the road to the homesite

The magic key to the gate didn't work, so we parked outside and walked the mile up to their property. It was pretty overgrown, but Tony looked for the corners, while Shelly wandered through the trees. Tony's dogs, Pepper and Jack, ran amok, picking up thousands of prickly burrs. I was careful but still managed to be covered with the sticky seeds. Lots of work needed here to build a cabin.

Shelly in the aspens

Tony finds a corner post

I can see why they fell in love with the property; perched on a hillside, it had a great view of the surrounding mountains. Memories of an earlier era flooded through my mind. My first Boy Scout camp was near here at Camp Steiner. The last time I saw my T-shirt, my daughter Daphne was wearing it.

We hiked back to the car, drove up Smith-Morehouse for a hike. I was amazed at the number of people here and the variety of motorized equipment they carried: 4-wheelers, motorcycles, jet boats, motor boats. I never remembered seeing anyone when I was a kid.

Tony drives past the reservoir

We parked the car and started hiking. As I walked, I looked up at the peaks, the quartzite and shale shown pink and gray through the vegetation. These mountains are very old, so there are very few sharp cliffs like my beloved Teton range, a young pile of granite only 10 million years old.

The mountains peek through the pines and aspens

As I headed up the trail, the fall colors were just at their peak. I constantly turned on my camera and snapped shots of Tony's and Shelly's butts ahead of me framed by the brilliant golden aspen leaves. I could smell the pine gum on the lodgepoles and pinions which took me back again. I would break off a piece of dried sap and chew it into gum, which made my breath smell like turpentine, but was a great fun for a kid.

Shelly and Tony hike ahead

Tony and Shelly were preparing for a huge hike the next weekend: they and friends were hiking from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon to the South Rim, the equivalent of a marathon, but with several thousand feet of elevation change. I hustled along behind them, the high altitude making me pant like a chicken that is too hot.

Red scrub oak

Every now and then scrub oak would give a brilliant red contrast to the green and yellow of the pines and aspens. Even though it was late in the year, purple daisies were still in bloom. We stopped at an open meadow and took photos of the panorama, then each of us posed atop a large boulder.

Shelly, Tony, and Jack pose on a boulder

Yours Truly atop the boulder; the aspens in full splendor

Jack, Tony, and Shelly share lunch at the forks

At the forks of the creek, we stopped and sat down on the flat boulders over the tiny trickle of stream still flowing late in the dry year. Jack rooted around looking for a handout. I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the staple of the mountains, full of calories and taste. Tony and Shelly looked like marathon runners. I, of course always look like a mountain climber.

Tony, Shelly, and myself in the stream bed at the forks

Time to turn around and head down. Tony, Shelly, and Jack left me in the dust. I hoofed the five miles as fast as my senior legs could carry me. They were on a mission; I was just having a great time. Every scene needed a photograph. I looked over the edge down to the stream; Jack was gulping a bit of water. In an instant he was back up on the trail.

Jack runs down to the stream

As I rounded a bend, a huge caterpillar was lumbering across the trail. His gold and black 'fur' shown in bright contrast to the dirt and leaves on the ground. I had to take a final photo.

A caterpillar crosses the trail

CAFE RIO

Fresh Mexican cuisine is my favorite. Cafe Rio on 33rd South in Salt Lake City is the consummate fast food bar. They have all the traditional Mexican dishes: burritos, enchiladas, tostadas, and it's along the lines of many fresh taco restaurants. You walk in, get in the queue, decide on what you want, start down the line explaining to the server what ingredients you would like on your food. I ordered some giant enchilada special, with the pulled pork, pinto beans, tomatillo salsa, and fresh cilantro thrown across the top. All in a little aluminum pie pan. It takes such a container to hold all the ingredients
The colors of the furniture and walls are as fresh as the food. I walked across the room, checking out the customers, their choices, the smiles on their faces. Salt Lake has a large Hispanic population, and they seemed to visit in abundance, a sure sign of authentic border food. The locals had brought their whole families. I'm sure it's as cheap as a traditional fast food burger place, but so much healthier.
I sat down at a rickety table, watched a young couple wolf down their towering tostadas, and dug into my tin of goodies. I could taste every ingredient, not overly spicy, but full of good, natural flavors. I'm a cilantro fan, so the big sprigs brought out the flavors of the pork, beans, rice, and salsa. Cafe Rio is always on my migration route through Salt Lake.

VISITING THE SINCLAIRS

Pete and Connie are the coolest folks. Pete is a gentleman, scholar, father, husband, author, mountaineer, and was the senior Jenny Lake Ranger when I first worked in the Tetons. Connie comes from an old Jackson Hole family and worked for the Park Service when she met Pete. They are two of my favorite people and dearest friends, although we live 2,400 miles apart. Each year when I visit my son Thor in Portland, I have managed to take a day, drive up to Olympia to visit them and their three very grown children: Kirk, Melanie, and Summer.

Our annual Tingey family reunion was the occasion for my latest journey south. Monday morning I borrowed daughter-in-law Sarah's car and headed the two hour drive from Portland to Olympia. Connie said everyone would be there. Pete greeted me at in the yard, a beautiful piece of land shaded with towering spruce trees. In the back sits Connie's old Ford pickup in the corral for her horse. Their deaf dog followed us around as we headed into the kitchen to give Connie a hug and catch up on a year's supply of news while she prepared for dinner with the clan.

I first met Pete in 1961 when I drove to the Tetons to climb. Pete was a ranger at Jenny Lake, one of three mountaineering rangers who performed the mountain rescues in the Tetons. Pete had made the first ascent of Mount McKinley's West Rib in 1959, and I was in awe. I remember him giving me some advice on the climb I was proposing, then signed me out; in those days you had to register for each climb in the Tetons. By 1965, I was a ranger myself, and Pete was the senior ranger. My friends Bob Irvine and Rick Reese, both close climber friends from Salt Lake City, were the other two rangers. The four of us were know as 'The Jenny Lake Rangers' and constituted the mountain rescue team. When an accident happened in the mountains, we hung a little sign on the door of the ranger station "Station Closed - Mountain Rescue Underway".

The four of us bonded as only life and death situations can bond; where we literally depended on each other for our lives all summer long. We lived next door to each other in Lupine Meadows in the old Kimmel Cabins, now the ranger residences, the Tetons just a mile away and 7,000' above. It was the most idyllic setting in the country, and we were in heaven. Pete and Connie lived in the old lodge with a giant cast iron stove and a stone fireplace. Kirk and Melanie their two kids were tiny. Janet and I lived next Door; Rick and Mary Lee on one side; Bob and Marie with their two kids, Stacey and Craig on the other.

Then, in 1967, Gaylord Campbell and Lorrie Hough were struck by rockfall on the North Face of the Grand Teton, and for three days, we lowered Gaylord 2,000' down the sheer granite cliff of the north face in what was considered the most technical mountain rescue ever in North America. It was in all the newspapers and magazines at the time. If ever an experience could produce a permanent bond, this was the crucible that could do it. We have never forgotten the experience. Pete, a professor of English at Evergreen College in Olympia, wrote a book about us and these times: "We Aspired: The Last Innocent Americans". So, I've always held Pete and Connie in the highest regard. I cherish every time we meet.

The mountain rescue team after the rescue on the North Face of the Grand Teton, from the left: Ted Wilson, Pete Sinclair, Yours Truly, Mike Ermarth, Rick Reese, Bob Irvine

Later in the afternoon, we gave Connie some room and shifted into the back yard to await the arrival of Kirk, Melanie, and Summer. Unfortunately Melanie got waylaid in the eastern part of the state and wouldn't make dinner, but Kirk and his lovely wife Debbie and Summer and her husband Tom arrived right on time.

Pete in the back yard

The sun was setting, and the light shone through the trees into our eyes. The temperature dropped, but we settled into the lawn chairs and talked about the past year and what everyone had been doing. By now we had three dogs milling around: a deaf blue-eyed collie, a half-blind Pomeranian, and an asthmatic pug. I raced sled dogs for 10 years, so having a lap-full of fur was a treat.

Kirk, Summer, Debbie, Tom, Pete

For the past two years, we have been helping to make a film about the 1967 North Face rescue, and I had just returned from the summer filming session in the Tetons. Connie asked about who was there, what was happening with the film, and when it might be coming out. I had gone climbing with our mutual friend, Yvon Chouinard to the summit of Mount Wister with our friend Amy McCarthy where she deposited the ashes of her dog, Wister. I felt like the village story teller, bringing all the news from afar and spreading it around the town.

Kirk & Summer

I remembered back to 1967 watching the arrival of the Sinclairs to their cabin at Jenny Lake. Pete, Connie, Kirk, and Melanie with their large German shepherd "Jenny" pulled up in a tiny Volkswagen. Everything they needed was contained in a large trunk, somehow stuffed in the middle. Connie fed the giant cast iron stove in the cabin, cooking great meals in the old style. After work we would all gather around the wood pile in the back, settle onto a log to drink gin and tonics. It was a highly educated crowd: Pete was working on his Ph.D. in English literature from the University of Washington; Bob on his dissertation in mathematics from the U of U; Rick on his in international relations from the University of Denver; I on mine in Near Eastern languages from the Johns Hopkins. Ted Wilson and Mike Ermarth, who lived up the road were studying economics and modern European history respectively. The conversation was always fascinating, the humor dry. It was a party of peers, a group of gentlemen and women. Pete and Connie set the bar.

Kirk, Summer, Debbie, Tom

Their daughter Summer came after Pete and Connie left Jenny Lake and took a job in Olympia teaching at Evergreen. I missed their presence each summer and realized the end of an era. Over the years I divorced, remarried, but remained at Jenny Lake each summer, finally staying on year-round as the place became my permanent home. Pete and Connie became more remote as the demands of daily life took over. I heard from them occasionally, and once in 1979 when we had a year old son, Thor, we took a long road trip in our van ending up at Pete and Connie's place in Olympia. Thor bounced in his "Johnny Jump Up". I met Summer for the first time; she was now a young woman.

Five years ago, Rick, Bob, and I made a pilgrimage to Olympia to see the Sinclairs. It was as though we'd never left. (After the visit the three of us tried to camp at Mount Rainier, but a huge rainstorm filled my leaky old tent, and we returned to find our sleeping bags floating in a deep pool inside, so we ended up in a motel. I paid!)

Summer, Kirk, Debbie, Tom, Pete

After dinner we moved into the living room where we settled in for dessert and more talk. I got to know Debbie and Tom, new additions to my circle of friends. Kirk, Melanie, and Summer are now twice the age I was when I first met and worked with Pete. It seemed like yesterday that they were running around Lupine Meadow.

Pete & Debbie

The years have passed. Connie had lost two sisters and a brother-in-law this past year, so the family had made several trips back to her home recently. I asked Connie how the past 40 years in Olympia had felt. "Oh, Jackson Hole is still home to me". I think we all feel that way.

The whole Sinclair clan:
Kirk, Debbie, Connie, Tom, Summer, Pete

PETITE PROVENCE OF ALBERTA

A trip to Portland, Oregon, is a gastronomic adventure. My son Thor and wife Sarah live there, and on each visit for the past seven years they have taken me to a new restaurant. Every one has been excellent, or as Thor says, 'If they aren't outstanding, they fail; there are too many fine ones in town.' Portland is famous for its farms and produce, and even though it is a port, it doesn't seem to be a fishing port like Seattle. Everything I've eaten there has been delightfully fresh. So, it is always with eager anticipation that I arrive in town.

Sarah's mother, Cathy, invited me to breakfast so we could catch up on kids, gossip, and good times. She had been to Petite Provence of Alberta recently and recommended it highly. It gets its name because it sits on Alberta Street, a fairly nondescript neighborhood not likely to sport a fine French restaurant. I was expecting good food in a funky neighborhood atmosphere. The reality was the opposite. The exterior was a beautiful black with gold lettering. Inside full mirrors surrounded the sides, while the black and gold continued around. Cases full of pastries, pies, cakes, all exquisitely decorated curved around the right side. We were seated and given a huge menu. The waitress returned three times before I could focus and make up my mind.

The Menu

Pascal, Didier and Alain owners of Petite Provence Boulangerie and Patisserie arrived in 1996, and opened their first, La Provence Bakery and Bistro in Lake Oswego. This is the fourth location they have developed. The place looked so new, so clean, so tempting. I rubernecked the entire place, checking what others were eating, watching the waitresses bring the armloads of food. Everything looked good; choosing became more difficult.

Looking around

I hadn't event thought to bring a camera, but I had my iPhone, so I lifted it into the air, pointed into the mirror and snapped away.

I focus the camera into the mirror

I deferred to Cathy's suggestion to order a croissant with jelly, freshly made and warm with a cup of coffee and cream. I think a croissant is an excuse to squeeze butter out of bread. Perfect; I really didn't need anything else -- just several of these would have sufficed.

Cathy with the first croissant, coffee, and jelly

Next she suggested what she and Will had eaten the previous visit: corned beef hash with poached eggs. The waitress recommended the French toast. I went with the waitress. Cathy ordered the risotto with yams. What???? Didn't sound like breakfast to me. She let me taste the risotto. The verdict was 'guilty', and its now on the menu at Chez Ralph's.

Cathy's risotto with yams

The French toast, dipped in a white seasoned cheese sauce was a new fresh taste to my palate, experienced as it was in a thousand years of standard French toast. Two poached eggs garnished with chives and paprika topped the toast. Another Americano to wash it all down and I was set for the week.

The French toast with poached eggs and cheese sauce

Be sure to visit their website and click on the 'Photos' to see the pastries, decorations, and decor:
http://provence-portland.com/