resort town, small town

Turn Out the Lights—The Season is Over

By Tomi Owens, 10-28-06

The Columbia Gorge put the finishing touches on another tourist season last weekend. An estimated 20,000 festival-goers converged at the fruity finale, Harvest Fest, to eat, shop and take in the country air. Although the event is centered at the Expo Center of the Port of Hood River the droves quickly spill over to the downtown, the valley, and all along the Gorge. Day trippers from Portland are the bread and butter of the Gorge tourist economy

I am sure I was first lured to the Gorge by one of the countless festivals. Was it Blossom Fest? Maybe Hood Fest? I can’t remember. As the years go by I notice festivals less and instead find myself irritated by the busy streets, crowded beaches, booked-out restaurants. I used to love being in the middle of such a happening, frenetic hotspot. But lately, I find myself migrating up-hill during the busy season. Yes—despite the all the benefits of this booming economic engine—sometimes it’s hard to share.

Hood River has more in common with a beach town rather than a mountain resort town like Aspen or Jackson Hole. The waves of summer people dry up when the weather turns chill, the wind junkies’ pack up their RVs and head south to Baja and, when the last leaf falls, the sleeping orchards no longer appeal to “Fruit Loop” sightseers. Here in HR, there is a true off-season when our resort town reverts to just another small town getting on with the banalities of daily life. But, even though the crowds are gone, it seems to me, the town becomes populated once again. Locals trickle down from the Heights, taking back the Hood. And I see many more people I know (or at least know I will see again.)

Tomorrow, the clocks roll back and the Northwest will be enveloped in long, dark nights. But before fall gets serious about shutting nature down for winter, before dull gray settles over the Gorge, we get a week when the muted light, soft and fragile, holds more magic than a thousand festivals. We stroll down quiet streets, crunching the rust-colored leaves that blur the lines between lawn and sidewalk. A haze of pungent wood smoke hangs in the air and there is still a bit of warmth left in the sunshine.

Today, we found the beach mostly deserted and only the dull hum of the freeway belies the sense of solitude. Across the river, changing oak and maple paint the hillside a burnished gold and Mt. Adams is dusted with early snow. Gone are the garish kites, the darting shoals of windsurfers—only a few gulls ride the breeze. My two boys build castles in the wet sand, oblivious to cold tinge in the air and lost in their own little make-believe world.

I suppose we never really grow out of make-believe. So, for the rest of the day I’ll just pretend the beauty of fall can go on forever—balanced between the hoopla of summer and bite of deep winter—full of long afternoons and brazen foliage and a simmering, mellow quietude that I can only appreciate now I have learned the difference between a resort and a town.

Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.