Well, I have now survived almost a week straight of family, more specifically my father, and I am still feeling good about things. It is amazing how you learn to know your parents, as you get older, and they stop being these blurred whisps that guide your life but instead become focused and still. I enjoy this, though the child in me wants to leave them more squished and ethereal, but it is a blessing indeed to get to an age when you really see the people who raised you.
I will spare you all the details of certain grumpy evenings or blistered feet, but I will tell you briefly about my time on my trip thus far. My father and I started with a seven hour drive (originally thought to be a brief five by our navigator, whose blood relation I won't go into) and both marveled at the way Shasta jets out from sea-level and rises like a white-hooded spirit toward the sky. Surrounded by the almost overflowing blueness of Lake Shasta, the drive through the Cascades almost veered us off the road several times.
*Note:While frightening, swerving can sometimes be a strange applause for beauty.
After a few hours we made our way through the high-altitude desert and I noted that sometimes, a lack of trees can open up the sky, and though I prefer trees to surround, nurture and be with me at all times, I must admit there is an awe in wondrous lengths of unabashed earth. We stopped at a diner in an unmemorable town about 40 miles from Bend, thinking it would be charming and at the very least filling. The strange part was that it was owned and run entirely by a Chinese family who, after serving us fish 'n chips and fried chicken, proceeded to serve their own daughter (the hostess and fill-in waitress, naturally) a bowl of Chinese noodles. Perhaps that diner was the epitome of the American experience, or perhaps it is the breakdown of cultural autonomy, I haven't decided which.
The next morning we awoke in Bend, which, in case you were curious, is named because it is located where the river bends (how I do enjoy intentional names). The air was crisp and the sky was cloudless so naturally my dad and I gorged on eggs and toast and were on the search for a bike shop. We ended up renting mountain bikes and blazed through town and around for almost two hours. Bend is one of those towns that you wonder, why doesn't everyone in the world live here? The river is perfect and wild when you want it to be and then serene and glass-like by the park, where the bushes and flowers are so bright you wonder if someone secretly spilled oil paints around the city in the middle of the night. There are adorable local shops all around and everyone seems to be laughing and smiling as though they have hooks in their cheeks. But truly, the biking was great, and I even got the mountain-bike-thrill of going over rocks and zipping around semi-dangerous corners. It is a strange kind of liveliness that makes your blood sort of salsa through your body.
Naturally, I needed a beer afterward, so my dad and I went to a downtown brewery and feasted, or decimated, several plates of food including a very nervous colony of sweet potato fries who had no idea their lives were in such danger when we arrived. After lunch, we drove up and over another set of mountains and very questionable mountain roads where we watched with wide-eyes as the temperature dropped further and further down until it wavered around 58. Thankfully, by the time we reached Hood River it was a little warmer and we checked into to our hotel with a great view of the massive Colombia River Gorge and stood on the balcony, silent, just wondering how all that water can stay in one place when it is capable of such greatness.
Hood River is an adorable town, too. I guess my dad knows that I like these kinds of kitschy places where you want to squeeze their cheeks and eat caramel apples and such. The big thing there is to kite-surf and windsurf in the baltic waters of a river that secretly thinks it's the Atlantic Ocean. I suppose when you grow up around that kind of strength you want to be a part of it or something. I am happy to report that I also had some Oregon berry pie while in Hood River and loved every morsel, the way people should, where the granules of sugar hover on your tongue. Enough about the food....why must I always focus on that? Anyways, the 'big hike' that has been one of the benchmarks of our trip was scheduled for the next morning. Per usual, we tanked up at breakfast and then waited for the rain to pass.....it didn't. We went anyway, though, on one of the most incredible hikes of my life. It was about 12.5 miles and had some of the most incredible waterfalls I've ever experienced, ending of course with Tunnel Falls, which is nothing short of sensational.
My favorite part of hiking with my dad is that he tells me colorful stories. He talks about what it was like when he enlisted and stood in great lines waiting to be punctured by a nurse and watching grown men fall like dominoes from whatever poison they injected in their arms. He tells me about his backpacking trips from years ago, when a skunk let loose on a tent, or when he played wiffle ball with his buddies and drank vodka and gatorade. My father, the accountant, did all of these amazing, crazy things! These are the kinds of anecdotal gems he won't divulge in real-time living. I don't know what it is, but he is like a punctured milk carton on hikes, he just spills all the good stuff right on out. But there is a a quiet that exists between us that is also important. He doesn't bother me (too much, except for the odd geography/history/horticultural comment) when we are trudging through the awesome greenery. I get to have peace. I need that smallness that comes with hiking and nature, being so inconsequential in a thriving ecosystem while at the same time never feeling so connected in your life. I am grateful that I can feel this, next to my father, and know he's experiencing the exact same thing.
A highlight of hilariousness on this hike was seeing my dad try and put on his absolutely abused poncho. I swear a that thing spent the night with a Bobcat or something. Hearing him curse while putting his pale arms through the hole where his head should go is an image I will gleefully carry with me for some time. Also, bless his heart, his limping from the car to the hotel in Portland just an hour after our trek was certainly worth a few blisters and battered toenails that I was experiencing.
I will end by saying this: I have been utterly spoiled to see these pockets of pure beauty that exist in this country, and even luckier to share it with a great man like my father. I am forever amazed by just how vast our land is, how diverse and how awe-struck I continue to be by the landscape.
I suppose that is all for now....stay tuned for Vancouver and Olympic National Park.....and TEASER ALERT: we have to leave someone in my family behind in the border crossing.
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