The Rose City has holiday charms for any agenda written by James Sinks Oh, the rumors outside are frightful. But the Rose City? Actually, pretty delightful. If you’re among those who’ve been avoiding Portland of late, there’s no better time to get reacquainted than during the happy hubbub of the holidays. Business windows twinkle, lit-up Christmas ships bob in the river, Nutcracker ballerinas twirl and a festive tree shines over Pioneer Courthouse Square. As you wander the famously walkable cityscape, you may wonder where exactly is the hells-cape that people keep warning about. With apologies to Mark Twain, reports of Portland’s demise have been wildly exaggerated. Yes, the pandemic and aftermath were tough in spots, as some businesses moved out, people without homes moved in and litter spread. Now, thanks to an all-hands campaign by civic, business and nonprofit leaders, streets are cleaned daily, tourist foot traffic is approaching pre-pandemic…

As the days shorten, the Rogue Valley’s dramatic hamlet is a little spooky and a lot awesome written by James Sinks With its renowned theatrical festival, international culinary scene, public university and smorgasbord of outdoor recreation pursuits, it might not feel fair to call Ashland a ghost town. Then again, you might not be wrong. Paranormal reports abound in the hamlet in Southern Oregon’s Rogue Valley, from the ghost of a 1930s actor lurking at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, to one that stomps the hallways at the Columbia Hotel downtown. “Based on the stories I’ve heard, the spirits here are more mischievous than murderous,” chuckled 74-year-old Peter Finkle, a local historian who leads art and history walking tours. His most popular, by far, explores Haunted Ashland. Even if you don’t bump into apparitions, you’ll still be spirited away—and quite busy—in Oregon’s drama capital. Zigzag from dusty mountain trails to U-pick…

Adventures beckon in Black Butte country written by James Sinks It is a transcendent place, where Central Oregon’s Metolius River materializes out of nowhere. So it was no surprise to Sam Johnson on a day in the 1960s that a woman had set up an easel near the riverbank on his family’s property, and was brushing an oil painting. The Johnsons allowed free access to share the wonder where the water, crystalline and always 48 degrees, gushes from basalt springs. Johnson, like he often did, was gathering trash, his daughter Betsy Johnson recalled. One of her childhood chores was picking up tourists’ cigarette butts. Then, a bus arrived and lurched to a stop, and the artist—and her painting—were engulfed in a cloud of dust. “He said, ‘We need to do something about this, it’s getting loved to death,’ and that was when he first started talking about giving it away,”…