Earlier today, guided by a cobbled-together plan consisting of basic knowledge, general guidance and personal perseverance, I ventured eastward from Portland, Oregon through the shadow of the Mt. Hood National Forest. After an hour or so winding through old-growth redwoods, I rather abruptly emerged onto the straw-colored expanse of high desert. Windows down, I caught the whiff of woodsmoke even before catching sight of the mounting haze that had visited often on this trip. Though I hadn’t encountered a live burn at this point, distant wildfires have a persistent way of making their presence known.
When I heard that an old friend was having her MINIvan professionally outfitted for camping, I was intrigued—about the mechanics and the motivation. So when fate found me both 2000 miles from my home and 20 miles from hers within weeks of her taking delivery of her shiny new coach, I was determined to find a time to camp together. She was equally excited. So as the sun began to descend on a warm September evening, we headed out of the city and into the forest.
The sun was setting farther in the distance than this little Indiana girl had ever seen. Between me and the rugged, mountainous horizon was a scene of variegated green that seemed to be rolling my way. Foothills rose in the faded yellow-green of drying grasses, giving way to stately stripes of blue-green pine. Bright green bursts of cottonwoods shedding their wispy down offset the gray-green of Russian Olive and Silver Sage. And all served as backdrop to the stars of the show, the reintroduced bison lumbering their way across an expansive meadow made lush and vibrant by the late-season runoff.
A Brush with Fame
Have you ever had a brush with fame? At the airport, at a restaurant, on the streets of New York or LA? It’s one thing to see a celebrity on television or in a movie. And I think most of us would agree that it’s yet another, even better thing to attend a live taping, movie shoot, or concert. But if you’ve ever had that “brush with fame” in your daily life, you know that experience is in a category of its own. Now imagine you happen to run across that same person and instead of walking away, they come over and strike up a conversation with you and then ask you to rub their back. Well, that’s basically what happened here. Only the airport was a Florida spring head and the rock star was a vegetarian with flippers.
When I was 10, my parents acquired a 70-acre, mostly wooded slice of paradise. And while our prior residences had big yards and afforded me access to creeks and farm ponds full of bass, bluegill, tadpoles, and turtles, it wasn’t until we moved to what local old timers’ referred to as “Pikeville Holler” that I began to find myself in the forest. I was tempted to say “lose myself” there, but that’s not really what happened. When I would stuff a PB&J and a few fig newtons into a tattered backpack with my canvas creek shoes and trek into the shadow of the hardwoods, something simultaneously came alive and settled in me. There was no agenda, no goal. There was only to explore.