Last month, I attempted to knock out the next trip in my Eugene and Springfield Townscape Walks manual, Pretty Ponds. It has about five different versions, starting with a fairly simple three-mile “box loop” that kicks off to the north at Delta Highway and Green Acres Road. Instead, I opted to do a portion of the southern part of the trail because it 1) begins near my current home, so no driving required and 2) proceeds to the neighborhood where we’re building a house, enabling me to stitch together how these two different parts of the city connect.
I convinced my daughter to join me for the walk; it was her day off from ballet and she had the afternoon free once virtual school wrapped up. With book in hand and jackets loosely zipped in honor of the partly sunny afternoon, we took off from our house on foot, heading to the River Path.
Officially called the Ruth Bascom Riverbank Trail System, the River Path is a popular, nearly 20-mile paved trail that threads along both sides of the lovely Willamette and is one of my favorite parts of Eugene so far. On the weekends, it’s acrawl with runners, bikers, skateboarders, dogwalkers, strollers, bird watchers and wanderers all out in mini crowds or onesies and twosies. During the week, it’s still quite active, depending on the weather. The path shares its name with the first woman to serve as mayor of the city, Iowa-born Ruth Ellen Bascom, whose mid-90s term involved efforts to revitalize downtown with bike and pedestrian paths.
Roxy and I turned south on the path, careful to stay to the right as cyclists and runners sped by. We stopped a fair amount, particularly in the Delta Ponds section of the trail, which passes over several of the river’s overflow wetlands beloved by all kinds of cool birds — heron, egret, osprey and ducks, plus squawking clusters of Canadian geese interlopers. Not only does Rox love taking photos of anything bright and fun we pass on walks (flowers, interesting signs, random objects), but as apparently many dancers do in the world, she requests frequent pauses to demonstrate interesting dance moves; in this case, jutting a leg sky-high. “It’s called a needle,” she’s let Jon and me know on many occasions. And this needle is — stretched? performed? threaded? — by this flexible teenager next to monuments, atop hills, in front of murals, you name it.
We finally reached our first junction and made a left toward Delta Bridge. This striking, red-cabled structure extends up and over more of Delta Ponds from Goodpasture Island Road (a name that strikes me as one part dairy farm, one part golf resort) to a cluster of homes tucked alongside Willagillespie Road (not to be confused with nearby Willakenzie Road or Norkenzie Road or, I’m sure somewhere out there, a Willawilla Road).
This was new territory for us, the interstitial zone between our current home and our future home. After exiting the bridge, we wandered by older, single-story structures on one side of the street that face a new development of closely packed, two-story houses with cute little porches. After crossing Willagillespie, we made a right down that busier street, hoofing it to the next light. The city felt less built up along this flat stretch of road, with empty fenced fields and a few scattered businesses under the enormous, cloud-filled sky.
We made a left on to Clinton — many of Eugene’s streets are named after U.S. presidents — and walked along its bumpy sidewalk. We passed a Little Free Library with its two support posts ending in sneakers; it was filled with children’s books and toys, and I hoped it was bringing some joy to local kids stuck at home.
At Debrick Road, we left the outlined map behind in order to slip by the grassy plot that will someday host our house. It was still grassy and still otherwise empty. “Give it a year,” I said to Roxy, feeling grateful that our rental is comfortable and well-shaped for each week’s boatload of virtual tasks. She shrugged and laughed.
Rox is an easy walking companion. She’s got a long, quick stride and, other than pausing for photos, quietly chugs along with few comments or complaints. She participates in my random conversation starters and appreciates the ways people decorate their homes. I say all this with gratitude. More than a few friends have children who act like family walks are a form of slow torture. “They can barely make it to the stop sign without whining,” lamented one girlfriend in the second month of the pandemic. “You’d think they’d be happy to go outside.”
We looped back to Debrick and then, stepping off route once again, veered on to Crenshaw Road so that I could introduce Roxy to the neighborhood’s eponymous Gillespie Butte. Crenshaw has a satisfying, steep rise to it, reminding me of our former perch in Los Angeles in the Mt. Washington hills northeast of downtown. My legs were happy to dig in to the climb.
Midway up the hill, we spotted a rusty old electric meter box, minus the meter, beneath its own mossy wooden roof.
“This feels very Oregon,” I said to Roxy. She grinned and stopped, steadying her phone to take a few photos.
“Maybe it’s from Gravity Falls” she joked, referring to one of her favorite shows, a smart, funny and totally engrossing animated series (set in a mysterious Oregon town) that I dubbed “The X-Files for kids” after about the third episode.
Near the crest of the hill, we hopped on to the dirt trail that leads to the wild top of the butte. The sun was bright and the wide views across the valley, with higher buttes and hills off in the distance, soul-soothing and fresh.
Alongside the trail stood a cluster of gnarled, impressive oaks. Roxy made a beeline to one of the largest while yelling over her shoulder, “Can you take a picture?” As I snapped quick photos of her stretching and pulling and working her way into a rod-straight “needle,” a mask-free couple hiking down the trail looked over and gawked. We waved and I shrugged. Why not stretch your leg straight up past your ear while standing under a magnificent ancient tree?
Our photo session done, I pointed out a few landmarks, including Autzen Stadium where the University of Oregon Ducks play their football games, normally to a roaring pack of thousands, and the silent bulk of the Hult Performance Hall downtown.
“We can continue back to the route and do a few more miles on this side of town,” I offered, poring over the book’s map. “Or we can retrace our steps and head home.”
“Retrace our steps and head home,” said Roxy. “I’m hungry.”
And that we did: descending from that little top of the world in Eugene, down and around the roads that will someday be as familiar and well-trod as those in Mt. Washington, across the bridge and up the path beside the beautiful river toward home.