A week ago I hopped on the train from Seattle. My sister and brother-in-law got on a plane and my brother took his car. We managed to coordinate our arrivals within a half hour of each other in Portland. Shockingly there were no delays. We then proceeded to make the 5 hour drive south to Port Orford where we have spent the week lounging and making the most of family time.
A couple days ago we woke up to a gloriously sunny day and knew it was the perfect day to find our christmas tree. Throughout my childhood we spent hours and hours driving the logging roads in search of the “perfect” tree; of course, this rarely happened and we could never agree on a tree. Usually the search would end in desperation as the sun dropped and the rain fell and we were left with a scrawny Charlie Brown tree. Honestly, the tree doesn’t really matter; it’s the adventure and tradition that means the most.
We all packed into the truck and began the drive up China Mountain. Not ten minutes passed when my brother spotted a nice tree on the side of the road. We inspected it and knew it was perfect. Luckily, my conscience was eased when we noticed it had a disfigured trunk and was growing a steep hill not suitable for survival.
The speed in which we found and cut down the tree was unheard of so we spent the remainder of the afternoon seeing the sights and going to the beach. It’s times like this when I so happy to be an Oregonian.