Johnny Franco has become known in Portland as the weekly host of a summer-long concert series in Laurelhurst Park, along with various one-off appearances at music festivals and local bars. Recently, his band has been landing indoor venue gigs in cool spots like the Hopscotch immersive art installation and The Old Church Concert Hall.

For his first ever New Year’s Eve special this year, like many of his shows, it wasn’t limited to strictly music performances. There’s always various improvised comedic elements and theatrical experiences that happen throughout his concerts. I don’t even quite know how to describe these in detail, but there’s a reason he’s a self-proclaimed “Professional Entertainer” and not just a musician. You’ll just have to go watch him to find out what I mean.

One of my favorite parts of the show was a video screening that he and his brother Dom wrote and directed for the special, which was an endearing ode to Portland. Set on some gloomy beautiful stretch of the Oregon coast, Johnny perfectly captures the essence of Portland in a monologue about the city’s lesser noticed features. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but a couple of my favorite moments he describes are the smell of bread that rolls out of the Franz Bakery and the tap water here.

As someone who has also lived in Portland for about as long as Johnny Franco has (close to seven years now), the video serves as a pleasant reminder for why I still love being here for as long as I have been. For however long you’ve been in Portland, if you ever feel jaded about this city, I hope these small details help you remember why it’s still a fantastic place—especially as we come out of another winter.

You can fast forward to 2:45 if you want to get straight into the monologue.

Back in 2018, I had just opened my little shop — Kiosko.

It was small. Honest. A little naïve.

Portland felt different then. Smaller. Quieter. There weren’t a lot of us — not openly, not loudly — celebrating what it meant to be Mexican-American in business. There wasn’t a blueprint. There wasn’t a playbook. You either assimilated quietly or risked being misunderstood.

That’s when I met Levi and his brother Martin.

A Mexican family. Living in Portland. Running a small leather shop in Old Town.

At first, it was just support. They came by. Encouraged. Bought coffee. We talked shop; theirs smelled like leather and dye and work. Mine smelled like Oaxaca in a Chemex.

As our friendship grew, I started to understand what Orox really was.

Four generations deep.

Oaxaca to Oregon.

A lineage stitched into everything they touched.

The first time I walked into their shop, I remember stopping at the door.

Leather has a way of announcing itself. Warm. Earthy. Permanent. The lights hung over a massive cutting table. Tools laid out like instruments. Tiny scraps in the corner that, in the right hands, could still become something beautiful.

Nothing wasted.

Don Pepe was wearing a denim apron with leather pockets.

It wasn’t decorative. It wasn’t branding. It was armor.

I asked him, “Do you sell these?”

He laughed.

“No. Too much work. Too expensive.”

I told him, “If you ever make another one, make me one.”

He hesitated.

“We don’t usually do it… but I’ll see what I can do.”

A few days later they came to Kiosko — the brothers, their wives, mom and dad. I remember exactly what I served them: Oaxacan coffee.

It felt intentional. A quiet nod.

Portland didn’t yet know how to receive businesses like ours. And to be honest, even Orox was still figuring out how loudly to exist. They didn’t want people walking in expecting charro belts and cowboy boots. That wasn’t them. They made refined handbags. Subtle goods. Durable pieces.

They were careful.

Almost neutral.

That’s what makes this story matter to me.

Because I’ve watched them choose not to stay neutral.

The Apron Becomes a Standard

Between 2018 and 2020, that apron idea grew.

Slowly. Responsibly. The way they grow everything.

By the time we opened República in 2020, the first thing I did was make sure my partner Lauro had an Orox apron. Olivia had one.

We weren’t making a lot of money back then. Not really.

So the apron became something else.

It became a trophy.

You worked hard? You earned one.

You stayed late? You earned one.

You carried the team? You earned one.

One by one, people got them. And if we couldn’t gift them, they went and bought their own.

It wasn’t about fashion.

It was about belonging.

Today, you walk into almost any serious kitchen in Oregon — especially one trying to say something beyond just “restaurant” — and someone’s wearing an Orox apron.

Baristas. Bartenders. Chefs.
Even the ones who don’t particularly care for me. Even the ones who’ve tried to replicate pieces of what we built.

The apron doesn’t take sides.
It outlived the noise.
It became a staple of Oregon Latino hospitality.

And I think back to that coffee shop, to that first custom piece, and I realize how lucky I was.

I didn’t just get an apron.

I got a front-row seat to a family growing into themselves.

The First Story I Ever Told

The first professional short I ever wrote — the first time I thought, maybe I can do this, maybe I can tell stories — was about Don Pepe.

About an eight-year-old boy in Oaxaca who asked his father for a pair of basketball shoes.

Instead of buying them, his father pulled out a last, leather scraps, and a pencil.

“Ven. Te voy a enseñar cómo se traza.”

That moment — that drawing — changed everything.

I shot it as a short film. Tiny. Imperfect. But it was ours; myself and my partner at the time, Brau Diaz.

To this day, it’s one of the most special things I’ve ever created.

There was Rose City ’Til I Die in 2022 — if you love Portland, you should be watching it. There’s an episode where I walk into the workshop and talk to Levi and the family. It’s all there.

And last year, Maestros. Diego Valeri sitting across from Don Pepe, talking about baseball on the radio in Oaxaca, about Japan, about origami, about mastery.

Two maestros meeting.

It felt right.

Watching Them Take Hits

Growth isn’t romantic.

I watched them open downtown and struggle.

I watched them get broken into. More than once. Same location.

That kind of thing takes something out of you.

I remember one night seeing someone running with a large Orox backpack. I chased them.

I don’t even know why.

It felt personal. Like someone had broken into my house. Like they’d taken something from my family.

They ran faster than I could.

They got away.

But that’s how deeply intertwined our stories had become.

This wasn’t just a brand I liked.

This was bloodline.

The Airport

Then came the airport.

Of all places.

I have my opinions about the airport — everyone does. But I won’t deny what it feels like to walk through PDX at 5 a.m. and see that Orox storefront. Or land at midnight, exhausted, and see the gate down but the name lit.

Orox.

Oregon + Oaxaca.

Still there.

Still standing.

After break-ins. After political turmoil. After pivots from leather to sushi to leather again. After starting with keychains and a borrowed press.

Still there.

That gives me joy.

Portland is lucky to have a business like that.

A business that grew responsibly.

A business that didn’t abandon craft for scale.

A business that made systems without killing magic.

This City, This Moment

Now we’re heading into 2026.

I look around at my staff wearing their aprons. I look at the chefs. I look at how far we’ve all come — all of us who didn’t have a template for what Mexican-American business could look like here.

Back then, we were careful.

Today, we’re clear.

Orox didn’t become loud.

They became rooted.

And that’s louder.

If you haven’t been, go.

Go to Old Town. Walk in. Even if you don’t buy anything.

Just stand there for a minute.

Smell the leather.

Look at the cutting table.

Look at the scraps.

Look at the piano — because that’s what it is. Don Pepe once called it that. His piano. The table where he composes in thread and hide.

And understand that cities don’t survive on headlines.

They survive on families like that.

On fathers who draw instead of dismiss.

On sons who count stitches.

On mothers who say, “Let’s try.”

On aprons that become armor.

This city is lucky.

And I am proud — not because I helped make an apron popular — but because I’ve had the honor of witnessing a family build something that will outlast trends, politics, and whatever Portland decides to call itself next.

That’s a portrait.

And it smells like leather.

I’ve always slightly cringed at the term “content creator,” or worse yet, “influencer.” So to be writing this Substack entry, labelling myself as such, is really a step towards confronting reality - good job, self! Anyways, my name is Jonathan Yentch, and I’m a *slightly shudders* content creator based in Portland. I feel that I should specify, however, that I don’t typically create said content in Portland, but I rather use the city as a home base while I venture into the whimsical Pacific Northwest wilderness to film and photograph my adventures outdoors.

I’ve been creating videos on YouTube for about 7 years now, this being my 6th year doing it full-time. When I was first starting out, I lived in the greater Los Angeles area - the place where I spent most of my childhood. Creating outdoor adventure content in Southern California was certainly doable; there’s plenty of picturesque landscapes to traverse through, mountain slopes to trek up during the summer with a backpack strapped on, and a place to carve down with a board fastened to your feet come winter time. The thing that was missing, for me at least, was the tremendous ease of access to pristine wild playgrounds that we enjoy here in Oregon. As a YouTuber who strives to upload weekly videos, it sure is helpful having the ability to point the compass in any direction, drive about 1-3 hours -sometimes even less- and find myself in a prime wilderness location, worthy of the big screen.

We’ve got Mt. Hood, Oregon’s crowned jewel, which I affectionately refer to as, “Papa Hood,” a mere hour and a half away. Arguably, some of the country’s most idyllic beaches and coastline lie about the same distance to the west. Fly fishing in cold mountain streams, mountain biking, and world class snow sports can be enjoyed in just 3 hours when you head to the high deserts of Central Oregon. The Columbia River Gorge, which happens to be in Portland’s backyard, is a giant playground for a multitude of water sports and hiking trails that people from around the world travel to to experience. Oh, did I mention that we have great beer? So. Much. Great. Beer.

Needless to say, as an outdoor adventure content creator, living in Portland sure makes it easy to get out there and create content that hopefully inspires other folks to get out there themselves and enjoy this beautiful planet we’re inhabiting. Then, when I’m done influencing the masses, it sure is nice to return back home to a city with infinitely tasty food, a never-ending itinerary of places to be entertained, and, did I mention a sh*t load of great beer? So. Much. Great. Beer.

Jonathan Yentch is a YouTube content creator based in Portland, Oregon. You can follow his adventures here.

Before becoming a cyclist in Portland, I was just a college student at UC Irvine on a bike, trying to get to class on time. In New York, I was one of the few brave people who chose to ride a bike in Brooklyn to beat the subway delays. There was a certain degree of personal separation between me and my bike back then. Before, it was merely a means of transportation rather than a symbol of my identity. There was my “vehicle” and my personal interests.

However, my bike was still important me, regardless of how much or little I was personally connected to it at the time. It mattered enough that when I moved from New York to Portland, I went to a bike shop to get it deconstructed to a customized size for specialized wrapping and packaging to ship it across the country.

It was a 1997 Bianchi Trofeo racing bike. I bought it for $100 from a Brooklyn mom off of Craigslist. I climbed up hills with this tiny but durable bike for my first four years in Portland. And although I recently upgraded to an e-bike, it still sits in storage as a keepsake now, rather than a basic means of transportation.

One of the first parts of Portland culture that I was exposed to when I moved here was Pedalpalooza, which used to be a month-long event in June that consisted of community-led bike rides (it’s now three months long and it’s called Bike Summer).

Where do I even begin to describe the world of Pedalpalooza? In a city that now often seems so far removed from its “Keep Portland Weird” days, the people who show up for Pedalpalooza rides seem to perfectly retain its early essence. They’re quirky and endearing, bringing out the wildest costumes, loudest soundtracks, and silliest themes. They’re passionate activists and artists who are also inclusive—you don’t have to be a full-time creative or a fixie aficionado to participate in rides or host them. You can also be a person with a desk job who’s just looking for a physical outlet or a way to meet people after work.

The first ride I ever participated in was the “Prom Ride.” People showed up in satin dresses, tuxes, and bow ties, blowing bubbles and dancing to ‘80s music with bikes decorated in streamers and disco lights. Some of the people I met on that ride were the first ever friends I made in Portland, who I’m still in touch with today.

Overtime, I began to see some of the same faces on other Pedalpalooza rides. I would see them on the greenways while biking to work or running errands around the city. I volunteered at events like the Pedalpalooza kickoff ride and the awards ceremony. I even co-hosted a ride, whose theme was “Asian Snacks and Friendship.” All we did was bike to/patronize various Asian-owned businesses in Portland, but the ride eventually grew to 100+ attendees by its third edition. (And we did win “most inclusive ride” one year!)

Despite the several years of biking that I’ve done around the city, I still don’t quite consider myself a “hardcore cyclist.” I revert to other means of transportation during the colder months, and it took me years before I further customized my bike with accessories beyond a lock and helmet, items like fenders, panniers, rain pants, and even high-visibility gear. And yet, it’s still funny when people tell me they saw me on my bike the other day in public, or recognize me by my bike in similar settings.

Associating me with my bike seems to deeper instill that connection I eventually formed with it after years of Pedalpalooza rides, days of commuting, and summer weekends spent exploring paths around the greater Portland area like the Banks-Vernonia Trail, the Trolley Trail, and the Springwater Corridor.

Regardless of whether I’m biking alone or biking with a group, the camaraderie that I feel when I see other cyclists on the greenways or on a ride makes me recognize that community has an expansive definition. It doesn’t mean that you need to deeply know every single person in a group to feel that sense of shared values and experiences. Sometimes, community can come from the unspoken understanding that you have with someone. Maybe it’s the same sense of calm that you both feel when you first sit on the saddle of your bike, or the friendly acknowledgment you give each other when you’re both waiting for the same traffic light to turn green.

Sometimes, feeling like you’re part of something bigger and greater together is all it can take.

To me, Portland is my home away from home.

People say Portland is weird. When I first visited the city in 2018, I remember it was even the unofficial slogan. But regardless of whether or not that’s still true, I knew Portland had a unique personality; it made me feel like I could also be my own unique self. It made this city feel like home away from home, or maybe even something better.

I grew up in Mexico in a pretty conservative city. Everything I got interested in as I grew older was surprisingly not what the vast majority of people here were into. As a punk rock kid who went to extreme shows, horror movies, and got interested in filmmaking and special effects, I was always considered a misfit, a weirdo. But it wasn’t that, exactly. I just knew what I liked and what I didn’t like. It didn’t matter though. To me, all of these things were like a dream—being able to do movies, to do music, to basically express myself and other people through art.

So, what does this rant about me have anything to do with Portland, Oregon? More than you think.

After my first visit to Portland, I sensed that, similar to me, it was also a place with people who were so art-driven—and fueled by coffee, another love of mine. There, I wasn’t a misfit or a weirdo for being into these things. People were popping up at other cafés to sell pastries, tortas, or vegan cookies. The do-it-yourself ethos was alive all around the city! And of course, there was tons of amazing food in almost every corner.

I come to Portland at least once a year these days for work. There’s so much to talk about this beautiful city that makes my heart full of happiness, so I’ll cover them in three categories.

1 - Coffee is such a big part of the city and its persona. Places like Coava, Stumptown and Barista were pioneers who started trends that you now see globally, concepts like direct relationship with the producers, multi-roaster cafés, or even having coffee bag labels with the producer’s information.

2 - Food: There’s something about the simplicity of delicious, unpretentious food that I love. I don’t care if I’m standing while eating, or if the food is on a paper plate. Portland has all of that and more. A few of my favorite dishes that show beauty in simplicity are the chicken peanut dish from Nong’s Khao Man Gai, any pizza slice there (vegan, vegetarian, or meat-heavy), and a pastry from any vendor at the PSU Farmers Market.

3 - The small business community: There’s so many places where the community meets with a DIY mentality that’s very inspiring. One of my favorite examples of this is the Hollywood Theater, a locally-owned business that plays new and old classic movies in 35mm and 70mm screenings. With local pizza and beer options, it’s a truly Portland experience. Powell’s Books is also a landmark that claims to be the world’s largest independent bookstore, who also offers used books, which to me screams HISTORY!

So no matter what you are into, if it’s coffee, cooking, manga, weed, history, novels, films, etc you will definitely find something in Portland. As a bonus, there’s a really good café inside the bookstore, so you can do some work or reading with a tasty coffee or a local beer. Whether I come to Portland for work, coffee, old movies, or photography, I always feel like I can be my true self in the city. Oh, and did I mention the beautiful parks and landscapes? I’ll have to save that for another post.

Editor’s note: This piece has been edited for grammar and brevity.

There’s a particular quality to the light in the Lan Su Chinese Garden on winter afternoons, just after the rain has stopped. The stone pathways shine, catching the red of the lanterns above them.

Beneath the eaves, where the rain still clings to stone, the garden seems to exhale. I feel it happen in my own chest as I pass through the moon gate on the northwest Everett Street side.

I came here to remember how to breathe.

When the world feels like it does right now; too sharp, too loud, too insistent—I find myself thinking, as I enter: this is a dream. Maybe not my dream, but somebody’s.

Back in the 1980s, someone looked at Portland; rain-soaked, rough-edged, still figuring itself out—and imagined that a classical Chinese scholar’s garden could exist here, in this neighborhood. Not a replica. Not a theme. But a true expression of something more than two thousand years old, planted deliberately in the soil of the Pacific Northwest.

I read that it took nearly a decade of dreaming before the ground was ever broken. Sixty-five artisans crossed an ocean to build it with their hands. They brought stones that had rested at the bottom of Lake Tai for centuries; limestone formations so prized that ancient Chinese poets wrote about them. Five hundred tons of rock. Pieces that seem to float despite their weight, holding impossible contradictions: heavy and light, ancient and new, stone and cloud.

The garden opened in September of 2000. I wasn’t here yet. And somehow, when I finally arrived in this city, it felt as though it had been waiting for me.

Many years ago, what feels like another lifetime—I had the good fortune of standing in the Astor Court at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that jewel box on the second floor where Ming furniture rests under controlled light and constant temperature. Exquisite, yes… but also still. Too still.
A garden under glass, protected from weather, from time, from the messy unpredictability of real seasons.

I’ve walked Liu Fang Yuan in Southern California, sprawling across acres of mountain terrain, borrowing views from the peaks that surround it. Magnificent in its sweep. Ambitious in its desire to encompass everything.

Lan Su is different.

Lan Su is here. In our city. Wedged into a single block in Old Town Chinatown, surrounded by buildings and MAX tracks and traffic and all the beautiful chaos of urban life. A scholar’s garden designed not to escape the city, but in many ways negotiate with it. A Ming-era garden designer once wrote that the highest art was finding seclusion in a noisy place; not retreating to distant mountains, but discovering stillness in the middle of everything.

That’s what I need.
Or at least what I’m still learning to reach.
Stillness, carried breath by breath.

The garden sits in a neighborhood that has held Chinese communities since the 1850s, even as exclusion laws, displacement, and erasure pressed in across generations. When it was named Lan Su—Garden of Awakening Orchids—it bridged Portland and Suzhou, creating something that belongs to both and fully to neither. A threshold space. A between place.

That’s where I live, too.

It’s winter now—a season where the gray feels endless and the rain feels personal. I come here for the flowers. The Chinese paperbush. The winter camellia. And my favorite of them all, the wintersweet.

There’s something almost unbelievable about those waxy yellow blooms appearing in the middle of brutal cold, releasing fragrance when nothing else will. Some mornings, that scent feels like proof that I’ll make it to spring. The Chinese prize these flowers for their timing, for their beauty in hardship, for their persistence against the odds.

I understand that metaphor.
More than that, I need it.

Rain changes everything here. It changes your mood. It changes how you move. It forces you beneath the covered corridors, paths that refuse straight lines. The walkways zigzag deliberately, unwinding you with every turn. The ancients understood this. The shortest distance is rarely the most important one.

Read that again.

The shortest distance is rarely the most important one.

Straight lines are efficient, but they’re empty. The turns ask something of you. They require patience. Perseverance. Each angle reveals a different view, the garden multiplying itself as you move through it, reminding me that perspective is everything; that where I stand determines what I’m able to see.

When anxiety grips, I go to the stones.

The banyun—half of a cloud—stands in the outer courtyard, so heavy it required machinery to place, yet suggesting nothing but lightness and air. I trace its surface, the wrinkles and hollows, the way it holds contradiction. The Chinese revered these stones as mountains where immortals lived. I’m not looking for immortality. Just perspective. Just the reminder that I am small, the world is large, and somehow both of those things are a comfort.

When sadness comes, I need the water.

Lake Zither takes up only part of the garden, but it feels vast because of reflection—because of how it multiplies everything it touches. My sorrow comes back to me there, acknowledged but softened, spread across a wider surface. Held, but not trapped. Seen, but no longer singular.

When anger burns, I walk.

The rhythm of columns. The repetition of frames. Each leak window offering what they call a cultured view—nature shaped, contained, made comprehensible. When rage makes me feel wild, even dangerous, I need that containment. I need to see the world through frames until it starts to make sense again.

When joy arrives, I watch.

Parents crouching with children to count koi. Couples discovering the moon gate, their faces shifting as understanding dawns. Wedding parties gathered in traditional dress, trying to hold this beauty in photographs, not yet realizing it’s the kind of beauty you can only keep by letting it pass through you.

And when numbness descends—those stretches of neither good nor bad, just absence—I go to smell.

Osmanthus. Gardenia. Roses that feel almost impossible. Scent bypasses thought, goes straight to something older and more animal. When I can’t feel anything else, fragrance remembers for me.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how much of my life has been lived against this garden. Breakups. New love. Professional despair. Small, quiet victories. Every version of myself since finding Portland has walked these paths, crossed this bridge, sat beside this water. All the moods. All the seasons.

What keeps me returning isn’t escape. It’s the opposite.

It’s learning that seclusion doesn’t mean isolation. That quiet doesn’t require absence. That the deepest stillness can be found in the middle of noise, if you know where to look—and how to enter.

I used to think of the moon gate as decoration. Now I think of it as something else. A threshold. A portal. An invitation. Passing through it isn’t like walking through a door. Its roundness, its sense of completion, makes you aware that you’re moving between worlds. You have to choose to enter. You have to arrive with intention.

And if you do—if you slow down, if you notice, if you bring your full attention—the garden gives something back. Not happiness. Not answers. Something older than both. A reminder that we knew how to be human before we learned how to be productive. That beauty isn’t a luxury, but a necessity. That contemplation isn’t an indulgence.

At least not for me.

For me, it’s survival.

I’ll be back tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever I need to remember who I am beneath the noise. The wintersweet will bloom or it won’t. The stones will stand in their patient, improbable way. Lake Zither will hold whatever sky it’s given. And I’ll pass through that moon gate and feel my chest release.

One world giving way to another.

Sometimes it’s the orchids.
Sometimes it’s me.

But always, always—it’s the awakening.

Like many people, I decided to move to Portland for its summers. I ignored the warning signs about relentless rain, and instead chose to bask in its near-10pm sunsets at their latest. I deeply inhaled the oxygen pumping out of the hundreds of flowering trees, and dipped my toes into the lakes and rivers that gushed as the snow melt forced the mounds of water downstream from the mountains.

Summer visits to the Pacific Northwest romanced me during my first few years out of university, so it made the most sense to make a beeline for this region when my time in New York City came to an end. “It only drizzles here year-round,” I had heard in passing. I moved to this city at the end of May 2019–just in time for one last perfect, “normal” Portland summer (which has changed every year since, due to climate change), characterized by mild temperatures in the low 80s, dockside hangs in swimsuits on the Willamette River, and themed bike rides across the Southeast quadrant. I intentionally and blissfully avoided the reality of what Portland’s year-round was like until it hit me in the face later that November.

The rain was certainly not a drizzle. It pounded the roads and eroded them, and induced moss within the seams of rooftops and sidewalks. I couldn’t step outside for longer than 30 seconds before getting drenched, heavily resenting the umbrella-free lifestyle of the Pacific Northwest. My toes stayed frozen in my drafty century-old duplex off of Belmont Avenue while our “energy efficient” Nest thermostat pumped hot into the apartment and out of the cracks of our windows within minutes. I felt trapped by winter, forced to endure the cold both inside and outside my home.

I remember being so angry the first three winters here, so much so that my partner at the time and I took a road trip one winter through the Southwest sometime in mid-March—only to be met with equally cold temperatures across Utah and Arizona. It goes to show you that, as a native Angeleno, how naive and ignorant I was about seasons across many parts of the United States. I even strategized my own sabbatical around a Portland winter, having left the region completely for four months while I traveled through warmer regions of Asia.

However, I eventually found ways to cope. During later winters, I took up indoor-friendly hobbies to keep me sane. One year was knitting. The next was baking.

However, it wasn’t until my last two years that I truly began to embrace, rather than endure, winter. Why is that, you might wonder?

It’s because I started to slow down.

In a society where constant productivity and stimulation is valued, my own active nature couldn’t comprehend stopping for any reason. Any moment of forced slowness in the last decade had felt like a personal attack on my own desires for constant stimulation. I felt personally victimized by Portland winter my first five years here for that reason.

Later on though, when changes in my personal life had forced me to slow down, I eventually began to find the beauty and value in Portland winter. I spent more time developing simple routine things like eating a balanced diet, exercising, and stopped making as many social plans. And while the 4:30pm sunsets still leave me feeling drained, I’m finding more joy than feelings of being trapped indoors during this time.

This isn’t to say that because of this slowness that Portland becomes a ghost town during winter. The number of patrons frequenting businesses certainly decreases. Like me, more people are opting for takeout or prefer to cook a comforting soup at home.

And yet, there’s also a different set of activities that we partake in. We’re finding any chance to soak and sauna in the dozens of spa facilities through Portland. Early risers are hitting the slopes at Mount Hood to ski and snowboard; the outdoor enthusiasts of the Pacific Northwest continue to stay active, simply changing their format. And on those rare sunny days that we get sprinkled throughout the winter months, everyone is on a neighborhood walk recharging their solar batteries, or hiking on any low-elevation trail in the Gorge and beyond.

Overall, learning to enjoy winter meant learning to embrace that shift not just in temperature, but also in mindset. While I was initially allured by Portland’s incredible summers, I later recognized the frenetic influence it has on our lives here. The pace of life picks up at an alarming rate as everyone is scrambling to reserve their coastal campsites through September, enjoy every picnic opportunity in the park, and spend every weekend in our natural areas during that sweet spot–just after the snow melts and before it catches fire.

After eventually being consumed by that chaotic energy to the point of mental exhaustion, I finally began to enjoy the way that winter gives everyone a break from that pace. Everything moves in slow motion. The trees shed their leaves so that less energy is spent creating new ones. Animals go into hibernation. As humans who are still “somewhat” a part of this natural world, this is also our cue to follow suit.

On a grander scale, Portland winters are also not nearly as extreme as other parts of this country. Wind tunnels aren’t punching me in the face when I take walks, and we aren’t shoveling piles of snow out of our driveways in January. We have it relatively easy in that regard.

Despite our recent victory lap past winter solstice, I still continue to relish in this pace. Although I understand the value in a winter birds trip now, and when I can I still make a trip somewhere nice and warm for at least a few days during this time because…well…as much as we can try to make the most out of winter, we all deserve a break from it when possible.

So here’s to Portland winters–may they continue to teach us to rest and recharge, as well as encourage us to find the beauty of slowing down in an increasingly fast-paced world.

- Katrina Yentch, TODOS Media