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.
I love you.
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