How strange that a man from Illinois, Sam Barlow, would leave such an indelible mark on Oregon.
Thousands would cross the rugged fir cloaked wilderness in the mid 1850s; three quarters of all travelers would use his road, developed in earnest and never to turn a profit.
Now in this second generation of these recent centuries, this wagon road still twists through ancient trees. Remote, rutted, sometimes steep, and always magical, the Barlow Road can still transport you to a time of creaking wagons and growing new dreams.
How did the First Nations react to this influx of white invaders? Is Mt. Hood aware of the flurry of insects and steel beams on her flanks? Or do we all lie ignorant of our true fate, ocean and the wave?
And the leaves still change like clockwork, immune to it all.
Welcome to Green Cascadia!
