I grew up in what seems to me to be a much different environment than today. I lived with my two parents, two sisters, and one brother in a lower to middle class residential neighborhood in North Portland, Oregon. The grade school I went to was about eight or ten blocks from my home, there was a large beautiful park with a swimming pool about the same distance away, and a small commercial district also within walking distance. 

I led what was a “Leave it to Beaver” very free life. Other than the time I spent in school and doing a few chores at home, I was pretty much able to come and go and do what I pleased without parental supervision and control. I’m sure my mother didn’t have any idea where I was most of my free time. Of course, I would usually let her know generally where I was going, or who with, but not always. Especially if she might have objected.

When the weather was nice my friends and I would frequently walk across the St. Johns Bridge to the forested hills at the south end. This forest is a 5100-acre city park that extends west from Burnside Street for eight miles to above where the Willamette River splits at Sauvie Island. There was and maybe still is a steep path at the south end of the bridge that went straight up to the 1100-foot summit. We would hike up to at least a place we called the Boy’s Scout Camp. I don’t know if the name was accurate, but that was what we called the place.

It was a small, flat clearing with a small pipe sticking out of the hillside. There was always cold, clear water running out of the pipe and we would at least stop for a drink. I remember there was watercress growing in the small stream that flowed away from the pipe. Sometimes we would play war there and sometimes after a break we would continue on to the top. There was an east-west dirt road on top probably for the park rangers to keep track of what went on in the park.

Once when Joe, Billy, and I were at the top, we got the bright idea to build a cabin or fort. The next time we hiked up there we took an ax, a shovel, and maybe a saw. After finding what we thought was a good place to build, we dug a flat spot out of the hillside and set about gathering some small logs to build our fort. After we stacked two or three logs high on two walls, we got tired and called it a day. For lunch that day we had taken a can of pork and beans and a container of yellow mustard. Why we thought that was a good lunch or where we got them, I have no idea. Since I always carried a pocket knife, I suppose that is what I used to open the can. That was a pretty lousy lunch for the three of us.

The next time we went there to continue the construction project, we found our handy work was destroyed. I suppose the rangers found it and made sure it wouldn’t go any further. That was just as well as we were probably thinking of another just as crazy adventure anyway. Maybe try to ride our bikes down German Town Road. 

Stay tuned.

Ken Kaiyala
11-25-2023