Many summers have begun by driving up to Oregon with my mom. There was a time when I was a child that she seriously considered moving us up here. We spent a whole trip to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival wandering the streets in a daydream, browsing the homes for sale in the windows of real estate offices and fantasizing over our fictional future life. Had we moved, I think we would have been gravely disappointed to find that Ashland isn’t Shakespeare and sunshine year-round.

I caught a glimpse of what life in southern Oregon may have been like when at 10 I overheard the whispers of another child asking,

“Why is that black girl with those people?” I’d made a habit of looking at my hands back then when I felt nervous, I liked how I could see both of me in them. Palms white, backs brown, palms white, backs brown. It didn’t bother me too much, the elementary school I went to had few black children and I didn’t have any connection to the black community in my personal life. I was used to white people pointing out my skin, my hair, my nose, I was used to white people being confused by me, or thinking I was in the wrong place. But in the Bay Area, even though I wasn’t around other Black people, their presence was known in my life. The Black community in the Bay is vibrant and powerful and even as an outsider, I felt the glow of its brilliance. In Ashland, mostly everybody was white and it was the first place I learned to notice when I was the only black person in a room.

The last time my mom and I saw a play in the Shakespeare festival, there was a pamphlet for a new Black theater company. I promised myself that the next time I go through town, I’ll see a play from the company; but this summer I won’t see a play because I’m not going to Ashland. I decided to instead hightail-it through Shasta and spend my first night just outside of Crater Lake. I parked at a free campsite I’d heard about and was grateful for the opportunity to open Vanna so we could get some fresh air. Twenty seconds of air quickly turned into twenty minutes of cowering in a corner of my bed, swatting at a crazed swarm of mosquitos with my flip-flop. I wondered how I would ever get out of the van to pee, let alone make dinner and figure out my first night’s bed arrangements.

Although the incessant asking of myself why I ever chose to go on this trip alone had long subsided, my thoughts began to disintegrate into worries.

Am I going to eat dinner?

Do these mosquitos have Zika virus?

Do these mosquitos have West Nile?

Do mosquitos carry rabies?

Do these mosquitos have rabies?

Is a bear going to break into my van?

Is a bear going to eat me?

Am I going to have to pee in a jar?

I texted my mom and told her I’d parked for the night. The message failed to send.

I sat for a moment, following a lone mosquito’s final dance across Vanna’s dashboard. It hovered close to the surface and then CLAP the mosquito flew too high and I smashed it between my hands. When I pulled them apart, its body was still, but its wings were still fluttering against my white palms as I flicked it off into a paper towel, overcome by a serious case of the heeby jeebies. Regardless of the icky-ness, the assassination of that mosquito empowered me and I decided to brave the mania outside. I took a deep breath and did everything I needed to do; and I can’t say I’m not proud, because that’s exactly the type of woman I’ve always wanted to be: one who just takes a deep breath and does what needs to be done.

This morning, I woke up naturally at 4.30 and drove to Crater Lake. I made it to a lookout at the perfect moment, when the sun was still behind the mountain. I watched the snow peaks glow orange and then the sun, rise up and stretch into the sky to light the day. As I sat there eating my overnight oats, I thought about a billboard I’d seen yesterday evening right as the road forked away from Ashland and towards Bend. It read:

TROUBLED THOUGHTS? GOD CAN HELP 1(800)CALL-GOD

I’d considered calling the number, mostly for curiosity’s sake. But instead I just kept going, focused on the road ahead.