My next clear
recollection of that train trip was when we came down the Columbia River Gorge
on the last day into Portland. We had
been in dry and almost barren brown hills of eastern Oregon then, a few miles
beyond Pendleton we were suddenly on the bank of the mighty Columbia River.
I moved to the
right-hand side of the coach and gaped in awe.
I had never seen so much water in one place before. At home in the Ozarks, especially during the
drought years, I could throw a rock across the biggest river I knew about. Now I was gazing at a mile-wide expanse of
water that was headed for the Pacific Ocean.
The best was yet
to come. After a short stop at The Dalles,
we were into the heart of the Columbia River Gorge. The brown hills gave way to mountains covered
with green Douglas firs and rocky cliffs over which streams tumbled in great
waterfalls.
I moved back to
the left side of the coach and, nose pressed firmly against the windowpane, gaped
ecstatically as we passed Horsetail Falls, Bridal Veil, and Finally
double-tiered Multnomah Falls.
During the final
hour into Portland, I felt a kinship with old Brigham Young as I kept repeating
silently to myself, “This is the place!
THIS IS THE PLACE!!!” That train began
a love affair with the Pacific Northwest that would remain steadfast during the
remainder of my life, no matter how much of the rest of the world I saw.
My father had
borrowed Uncle Austin’s black Plymouth sedan to come to the train station at
Portland and he, holding baby Sandra, and my mother were on the platform to
meet the train.
My principal
memory of that reunion was the reaction of my mother. She had left behind in Missouri a tow-headed
youngster that she could kiss on the forehead but I had grown a full six inches
or more during those months. Instead of
little Conrad, she was looking at a gangling youth, arms and legs hanging out
of that too-small grey suit.
As I stepped down
from the train, I heard my father exclaim, “There is is!” and as I turned
toward them my mother stood stock still as I advanced, her mouth open in
surprise. As I came near, she finally
said “Conrad?” in a questioning voice then gave me a big hug. The top of her head came barely to my nose.
“Conrad Ross
Frieze,” she said in mock severity but with delight, “I swear you have grown a
foot in just seven months! Just look at
you—we are going to have to get you some new clothes!”
Shifting little
Sandra, now a roly-poly one-year-old to his left arm, my father gravely shook
hands with me. He simply said “You are
looking fine, boy.”
The drive to our
new home was fascinating. We crossed the
long Interstate bridge over the Columbia to Vancouver. Below on the water I saw a tugboat pulling a
big raft of logs slowly downriver—just like the picture in the atlas at Bona
School. Upriver there was an honest-to-gosh
sternwheeler steamer thrashing along. My
father pointed out the DuBois sawmill from the bridge where he worked. He had taken the day off to come get me.
It was a wonderful
feeling to be with the family once more.
