A W Clan Adventure

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Oh Oregon~

Rivers and roads, rivers and roads, rivers and roads lay over one another in a lattice work that stitches different planes of life together.  The ribbons of asphalt that laid a path always onward, some twisting and turning, while others push through hills and valleys impervious to the sculpted terrain and simply plow through.  Days of roads are strangely exhausting.  The scenery blurring past in fast-forward, so I never actually see it.  The horizon, a perpetually changing goal that we keep hurling ourselves toward. 
The roads keep us on course.
But the rivers, they have my heart.
The Pistol River, the Rogue River, the Applegate River and Illinois River all swim now in my veins.  They carried me, with my lightness, with my simple happiness at hearing the water lick and slide over rocks.  And they let me leave barges heavy with heartache and grief that they are, even now, carrying to the Great Sea. 
The thing about being in a 16-foot trailer or a truck with my husband and 20-month-old son, and stepdaughter is that there is no escape.  None.  There is no bedroom door to close, no true space to be had when we are all waking up in a little box on top of each other.
And so rivers and roads become medicine.  The river to offer myself into, submerge my entirety and surrender into a current I know by heart.  The roads to lose myself in a wholly different way, I’ve been taking long drives my whole life.  Something happens once the hum of the engine and music blur into a seamless song…I am ensconced in my own nest.  My imagination declares itself ruler and I roam wild and free.
Oregon provides a lot of both of these. 
We just spent 16 days in Oregon.
Rivers and roads carried us.
The coast with its grand altars crumbling into the sea, epic monuments of stone carved by the ocean left me swooning with dreams shrouded in ritual.  Long beaches arching and yawning, provided ample space for us to careen and amble.  One Sunday morning the kids and I took to the beach from where we’d parked for the night on a large pull out from 101.  The ocean was in low tide but had generously left an inch of water for hundreds of yards the full extent of the beach.  The sky reflected perfectly in the sea mirror, clouds lacing sand all dotted with sand dollars and seashells.  Few things are as magical as that stretch of coast near Gold Beach.  Rain forest crawls to the edge of cliffs bravely securing the topsoil, for now.




But all things come to a change, so we hung a right and headed inland.  
For a little pragmatic information, I figured I’d share some stuff, like the fact that we
are driving a 2001 double cab Tacoma towing a 16-foot trailer.  That we had the axle flipped on the trailer to give it a lift of 8 more inches so we could traverse roads less traveled.  We’ve been in some harry situations.  Wayland gets pretty passionate about getting to certain locations, but, so far, so good.  Today we made a U-turn on a highway, but that’s beside the point.  The point is, we are towing a trailer and my husband likes to pretend he’s just driving a 4x4 and playing.  So, we get to go to some cool places we wouldn’t have if I’d been listened to. 
Like Oak Flats on the Illinois River where we woke to rain softly pattering its sweet song against the trailer.  Parked on the rounded cobble stones of river rocks, the sky a soft grey that felt like cashmere against my skin, we got ready to depart and brave the now slick with mud rocky hill we had charged down the previous day.  The air was cool, and the rain even cooler, but my need to be in water drove me down to where Wayland was already waist deep in the river.  I shed my clothes on the willow-covered banks to walk naked into the swollen cold depths of the Illinois. 
Shedding the skins of identity is all part of this course.  That river was kind enough to peel away some old stories and push me back onto the banks lighter, clearer and kinder.

And after 14 days on the road, we landed in a hive of community in the Applegate Valley.  There can be nothing sweeter than playing with life long friends in lakes and rivers and watching bellies swell with babies and getting to celebrate life.  Boones farm nourished us in all the right places.  There is a depth that is missed when hopping from place to place.  Getting to settle into a rhythm with friends, with food, with waking to the same view, and watching the sun set over the same ridge.  All the simple things we call routine, they become so precious when on the road for an extended period.
Boones farm provided all of this and more, so grateful to all the friends who came and played and the life we got to celebrate.
Yet, this journey calls us to keep moving…

Back home we live on a couple acres on a beautiful ridge, I can see a bazillion stars at night and hear goats through out the day.  San Francisco is an hour away, but with a baby it feels more like years away.  I miss city time when we’re home.  And now that we’re living the trailer life I was having a particular hankering for it.  I wanted fancy foods, and murals, I wanted to see some diversity and shimmy around in the pulse that only a real city can provide.  I am ready for Portland. 
We are down to 3 of us, 2 grown ups and a toddler. (The tween is safe and sound; we put her on a plane as planned so she could be at a family reunion)
Three days of food trucks and coffee that made me drool, of fresh ice cream and stunning hikes, of hordes of tattooed men with beards (like, really, HORDES), of bridges and so very many nice people. I felt welcome, and I loved it, it was my first time and I would
have stayed.  But, we have a plan and so we left this morning. 
Our gypsy wagon hopped the 5 north and through some side venues until we landed a few hours ago in the Olympic National Forest.

I may make a bed of fern leaves and moss and snooze to the sounds of ancient trees swaying in a slow dance.

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