Portlandia: There and Back Again

I have a recurring nightmare where I'm driving on a freeway ramp that is literally the height and length of a crazy roller coaster slope, and it's launching me out over a vast, turbulent body of water. When it becomes clear that this ramp to nowhere good is going to plunge me into the cold, dark depths, a clawing, heart-climbing-out-of-my-face feeling pretty much panics me awake to an adrenaline charged sense of dread. (Analyze this!)

For the record, I hate roller coasters. Both heights and deep water still hold serious freak out power. I am Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo, and I'd rather be caught dead than 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I'd die of fright anyway.  

Last week I took my dad to Portland and gutted through terrifying deja vu as we climbed a ridiculous, curving, two-lane ramp held up by stilts. (Just calling it as I saw it.) Higher and higher we crept only to be sent plummeting toward a mammoth, arching, four-lane bridge over the Willamette. Holy white knuckles, Batman! 

Who dangles a Matchbox track in mid-air and calls it a freeway ramp?! Who sets the speed limit at 50 - or whatever ungodly high speed mocked me from the starting gate? Can I just close my eyes till we get to the other side? Can I wake up now and make this all go away?!

As I'm squeezing the life out of the steering wheel - 15 mph under the speed limit - my dad, the perpetual commentator, was completely silent. God bless him! He knew I was terrified, and he let me know later that he was none too enamored with our precarious state of suspension. So, as I'm clinging to the wall of the left lane willing normal people to "pass me on the right, already!" I am muffling an anxiety attack while simultaneously picturing myself as a white-haired, 90 year old granny creeping along with a death grip, eyes riveted on the center line. Somewhere in the recesses of my rational mind, I find this funny, but rational was not winning at the moment. 

Surviving this gauntlet and, thankfully, merging into a middle lane on the bridge, we navigated through the remaining tangle of Portlandia hillside streets without incident. 

Arriving at our destination, Dad checked in and we settled ourselves in a quiet corner of the sky lit waiting area. Adrenaline still washing over me, I begin texting my husband about this heart-arresting experience. His humorous response was met with, "No. You don't understand. I'm seriously traumatized and am trying not to cry!" 

You see, this day's episode had been preceded by yesterday's nail-biting drive on a pitch black, rain-slicked I-84 West, where I had also hugged the left lane divider to avoid the right lane's vertigo-inducing drop off to the river, while driving at or below the posted trucker speed to avoid hydroplaning, and realized much too late that, with all the rain, headlights, and lane divider reflectors, my night vision is pretty whacked. So we'd pulled in to the hotel around midnight with me thinking I'd already faced the worst.

Now, sitting in the waiting area I'm hit with another sinking thought. We'll have to return to the hotel... No way am I going back the way we came! So, I began searching for an alternate route. Did you know there are eight bridges spanning the Willamette in Portland? Fancy that! An eight-fold crapshoot to either pass over with ease or certain terror. Therefore, and literally at the end of a day that saw us through a harrowing drive, a successful appointment, and a lovely dinner with my niece, I chose none of the above. 

Needing to travel from the southwest side of the city, over the river somehow, and up to the northeast outskirts of town, we headed even further south until we met up with another freeway that let us circumvent the entire city and all it's suspect ramps and bridges.  

Sometimes you just gotta do what it takes! 
Go for it! 
Get 'er done!

So, mastering the map instead of my fear, I drove us thirteen, blissful miles out of our way, and motored into the hotel parking lot, safe and decidedly more sound.

The next day's long drive home held two more historically troublesome bridges for me. I tucked all thought of them away as we took in the beauty of the Columbia gorge on the now wonderfully sunlit I-84 East. 

A few hours later after lunch and a fill up, the bridges loomed. 

But, you know what? Even with my dad teasing and trying to rile me, I cruised on over them with nary a wince or white knuckle. Maybe I did manage to toss a few fears into the Willamette. 

And later, as we crested the hill for that first glorious glimpse of downtown Spokane, I was never so happy to be safely wedged in with a bunch of frantic, lane-changing yahoos trying to race each other through rush hour. 

Home sweet home! This is my town! Bring it on!