Leaving Bend was harder than I expected for two reasons:
1. While I was there, I had the opportunity to see a childhood friend whom I hadn’t seen since our 8th grade graduation in 2005. Fourteen years and yet, so little seems to have changed between us. We were never the closest of friends, but her tenacity and constant strive for joy inspired me even as a young child. There was a time in middle school when another friend and I had the audacity to say to her not-the-nicest-things on AOL instant messenger, a poor excuse for procrastination from our heavy load of homework. Within 48 hours, her mother had called our mothers and we both were given a talking to about being appropriate on the internet. Later, the thought of what we’d done gave me a tightness in my chest that I hadn’t yet learned to identify as anxiety. I don’t remember if I ever apologized to her, but I never did that again— say mean things to another person for no reason at all…is there ever a reason at all? This childhood friend is the first person I visited on this journey.
We promised each other we’d reconnect again soon, I promised myself I’d be better at staying in touch with the people I care about and also that I’d work on always keeping my promises. Goodbyes are never easy, even if they’re just “see you later”s.
2. Driving through the mountains towards Portland on Road 20 made my ears pop in spontaneous bursts of pain nearly as shocking and fierce as the jellyfish sting I got across my chest in the Mediterranean Sea last summer. I thought about turning around to make it stop, remembering that I’d forgotten to drive by the last living Blockbuster which happens to be in Bend. I’d planned to use my selfie stick for the first time to take a photo of myself in front of what soon may be an ancient ruin. However, the realization that my ears would pop just as much if I went back kept me moving toward my planned destination.
Road 20 snakes through the West Cascades along the Santiam and Williamette Rivers. Driving through the trees was beautiful but I felt like an invasive species, like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I thought about how there were once communities of trees living in the same places where the rubber wheels of my car were treading at high speeds, the evidence of their life in the surrounding forest but their own existence suffocated under the road which was paved for me to drive on. I thought about gentrification back home and how entire cities have had their souls extracted by what I imagine in my head as a looming dementor wearing a cloak that is not dark, but covered in app logos and glowing fluorescent like the tip of the new salesforce tower which is in my opinion, the most fascinating and accurate representation of the ways in which the tech industry has fucked the Bay Area.
As I drove along Road 20, I noticed that there were countless parks nestled in the mountains and along the rivers. I chose one to pull off at and found myself completely secluded in a small, open space where I could bring Vanna right up against a path leading into the water. I snapped a couple of photos of the river, mesmerized by the peace in its movement, when I suddenly heard footsteps coming behind me down the path from the road above. I looked up to see an older white man with a long grey beard, overalls, and grey hair peeking out from under a small black beanie.
“Are you a biologist?”
“No, I’m just taking pictures of the river. I’m on a trip.”
“Oh, around this time of year I see folks from the elementary schools collecting water samples. Some end of the year things they do.”
“How interesting.”
“Yup I live right across the road there.”
He motioned ambiguously towards the mountain behind us. I noticed the double holster on his hip holding both a pistol with a carved wood handle and a knife. I tried not to look at it while the man proceeded to give me a very brief history of his life, explaining that he is from Azusa, California. “East LA” he said, followed by a dramatic wink. I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or not, especially when moments later he told me that too much liberalism is killing America.
He also explained that I was driving through bear territory and that bears are destroying both his property and his neighbor’s. “In Oregon,” he said, “if a wild animal is causing harm to your property— POW! It’s your right to shoot em’ dead! I walk through these woods a mile and a half in the morning and a mile and a half at night, I’m on bear patrol.”
I think the man could tell I was uncomfortable because he suddenly smiled, looked me earnestly in the eyes and said,
“You’re gonna have a great trip, kid. You will meet a lot of interesting people.” He extended the “lot” part of “a lot” in a sing-songy tone. As I drove back up the path to the road above, I wondered if the man was truly as harmless as he seemed. I was more curious than scared because although I knew he and I probably wouldn’t have agreed on many things, at the end of the day he just wanted to be able to keep the bears off of his land. He was nice to me, he shared parts of his life with me and he gave me interesting information about the place he calls home. Maybe we were both silently judging each other in our own heads, but it was clear that our differences were irrelevant in the moment and neither of us minded the other’s unexpected company.
Wandering Woman 