Homeward Bound

With my son and two Oregon daughters, we set out on our last morning to compact as many of the varied landscapes and cultures of this large state as we could into a few hours. The day was gray and mild, but our spirits could not be dampened and the views were enhanced by the rapid hide and seek of sunshine and mists.

The first stop was Multnomah Falls, tourist destination of busloads and perfect post cards at the gift shop. It is the most spectacular sight along the way, cascading straight downwards, with access so easy we could walk and talk, waking up to the beauty around and in each of us.

So suddenly as we were in deep forests and plummeting crags of cliffs along the wide Columbia River, the trees dried up and disappeared and the steep walls of the Gorge were bare and shapely, imposing. My son’s camera clicked incessantly and his utterances awed by this landscape completely unimaginable to the Easterner.

We drove an hour east into the high country, canyons opening north and South away from the River. Just to say he set foot in the state, we crossed over to Washington and drove up the side of a mountain to a plateau, getting out at a monument imitating Stonehenge to walk some more and drink in the air, the apple orchards and river stretched out below us, giant wind turbines on the ridges above.

Back in Oregon, we drove south from the river base at 1000 feet to the plateau at 5000’ where the land rolls on forever, like a quilt on a bed, barren of trees but rich in wheat and alfalfa, miles between farms. Scrubs and tumbleweed, then dipping into a deep canyon. No cars, no people, few beef cattle, broken and rotting barns abandoned, tiny windmill pumps in the middle of nowhere, spinning in the dry wind. Miles and miles of fence that finally gave the context to my son of the joke about the Vermont farmer who listens to the Oregonian describe the several days it takes to circumnavigate his property, and the uncomprehending Vermonter answers that he once had a truck as slow as that.

A little sign was the only warning for our descent off the plateau four short miles down into the Deschutes River Valley. Two small lanes bending around outcrops and no guard rail over the 1000 foot precipice, we wound our way down, exclaiming around the dramatic turns and drop, and relieved to reach the bottom where we found Native American fishing platforms hanging over the rushing river.

Now moving westward again, the scrub grew into scraggly trees and on into straight, regally red Ponderosa pines, nearing the Cascades and the more fertile wetlands that grew out of the volcanic ash. We climbed higher once again into the massive mountains and deep forests, tribal lands, up onto the side of Mt. Hood, temperature dropping as we gained altitude, rose above the tree line, overcast skies beginning to spit.

Timberline Lodge had been a special place for my Oregon family, the magnificent structure built by the CCC of Roosevelt’s New Deal, a work of art that had hosted birthday and anniversary dinners for us, housed us while I wrote an article for Skiing magazine. In the Day Lodge, there were chairs with each of our names, and a photographic mural with our pictures. My daughters had learned to ski here.

The meal we had on this waning afternoon, including my son, was punctuation that a new chapter had begun in our lives, one of openness, joy, celebration and sharing; a father with his children, confident in our love and so very proud of the paths we are each currently on.

As I fly away today, fondling the piece of Italian marble picked up off the driveway/studio of the first and dearest friend I met arriving in Oregon so very long ago, the links with past, present and future seem so profound, yet difficult to articulate. I tried to come with heart wide open for adventure and insight, but without preconception or expectations. My work feels so poised on the verge of ecstatic satisfaction, opportunities abundant and exhilarating, yet so much of the stories and vistas here focused on an obscure and distant past: a fire and the death of an artist I had only known for six months.

Yet this intensive look at the past is really no surprise to me, who had glossed over the emotional losses of those events, being so swept up in the immediate repercussions of suddenly having a ready-made family to care for. This new energy of mine, so closely resembling the dreams and aspirations of the young naïve kid who first wandered onto the side of Neahkahnie Mountain, to release the constraints properly and move forward once more, this journey backwards had to be completed. Matured by these many years of hardships and ecstasies, sobered by the lessons of being side-tracked and distracted, it seems vital to sort through and discover what is worth keeping and what should be left behind.

That the Mountain holds a sacred and inspirational energy for me is undeniable, that a wealth of friendships are intact despite so much time is comforting, that I could be so freely and openly with my son and daughters is magnificent, but I do not feel urged to pack up and move out here. Rather, it seems more likely that dreams that regularly assailed me in my sleep over these many years may actually become a lifestyle in reality. Represented in the mode of a construction business which is all I could envision at the time, I dreamt that I settled from coast to coast regularly, a job lining up on one as another finished on the other, calling each place home and joyfully rediscovering the benefits of each periodically.

Lane and Tom’s acre serves as a magnificent retreat, her little T-house, “the Womb” , a place to linger and meditate, a place of rejuvenation as I have used it this week. Perhaps this change of focus from construction to writing and music will allow this, bring an impossible dream into fruition. In the meantime, I fondle my little piece of white marble chipped from one of my artist friend’s evolving sculptures, the jagged edges already smoothing from my finger’s caresses as it hides in my pocket and reminds me of the grounded inspiration I received this week in the Nehalem Valley, my place of peace.

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The Whale Within

This last morning of our visit to the Coast, as grey settles out of darkness, I sit in the hot tub, a light drizzle--more like a mist--floating down. My eyes roam the ocean surface, vast and calm so far today, waves rolling in roars of long straight lines along the shore.


Having concentrated so hard for so many years on this vision of whale spouts and flukes as representative of my return, I realize this is my last chance. From the top of Neahkahnie yesterday, my son glimpsed one while I was turned away, the excitement in his voice allaying any doubt, but any possible sighting of mine has been vague and unconfirmed.

Likewise, I know eagles soar overhead, their white crown stunning against the backdrops of sea and mountain. Later, on a walk alone along the beach, my son also was privileged yesterday to see that beauty clearly, while this morning I have heard the unmistakable screech, but seen nothing but gulls.

The mighty Sitka Spruce, four to six feet thick and 200 feet tall, branches akimbo and floating against a century of stiff winter gales, surround me, eternal sentries on the mountainside. The ocean roar as steady as invisible cars on a nearby highway, but so much more dense with spirit, accompanies the stillness of the awakening day.

Each morning here at this predawn hour, I have opened my eyes to the beat of my heart racing so swiftly, nearly painful with the ache of joy and inspiration. Ambivalence and doubt about my determination to write this story are erased with a certainty profound and indisputable, as clear as the eagle's cry, yet I reach for no pad or pen, but lie still, absorbing the silence. the stars above companions whispering their message.

Words are flowing plentifully in this environment, more in my mind than on this page, but flowing with a spirit unstoppable. They come not from me, but through me; the danger, in fact, being that my ego gets in the way, interrupts the deluge by too much effort to twist, manipulate or censor the naked beauty of pure thoughts.

Intuition is easy to trust here on this mountain, in this home where Lane and Tom have spent three decades opening the portals. Shrines natural and human, discovered serendipitously and placed ceremoniously, ground the energy safely even as we learn, experience by experience, our purpose is to allow our spirits to soar. The creation of a community of like-minded souls who feel drawn to this power has been intended, substantial and amorphous, continually evolving around those who come, go and stay. Like rappelling over a cliff, one who dares becomes giddy with trust, playful amongst the awesome sobering reality of such an immense and cohesive Universe.

True to her nature to stimulate and challenge, Lane invited me to pull Tarot cards around certain issues at the forefront of my journey. Surrounding one, in particular, the major card was "Strength", an image of a woman peacefully closing the jaws of a lion. The interpretation speaks of taming the wild spirit with an internal assurance that can allow the passions to flourish, feminine natural instincts, intuition and emotion releasing the passion to move forward with courage and strength, undertaking great risk with inner calm.

On each of these mornings, I have lain awake, intrigued and inspired, empowered and rejuvenated, determined to listen better with my heart and less with my mind. Trust with complete faith that our basic goodness will overcome hardships, love surmount fears, patient intuition over power manipulations. These attributes of spirit are so difficult to hold centered in our beings in this busy world, but resound so clearly when we allow ourselves to let go and float among the whales.

On this trip, I do not have to see them actually; it is a lesson more valuable to be reminded that the true leviathan lives always within.

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Fire Mountain

As we approached the coast, the tone in our voices amplified the excitement for my daughter and I. My son absorbed the foreign landscape with interest growing towards awe, his camera shutter clicking rhythmically.

Rounding the bend, I recognized the spot a half second before actually seeing the ocean for the first time, an exclamation of joy leaping from me, echoed by my son. My daughter, who had just been here two weeks ago, was no less excited, having yearned so long to be here with her Daddy once more and to share with her brother the place she calls home.

Like crossing a border, we celebrated at the end of the bridge when we were truly on the Mountain, and the two of us silently, smilingly enjoyed his gasp at sight of the Punchbowl and the vast Pacific expanding ever outwards, and at the long, long coastline stretching south. We stopped at the best look-out to peer over the edge 600 feet straight down into the calm, inviolable roar of ocean against rocks.

After all this time, I had no hesitation to make a quick stop at my old home, now remodeled nearly beyond recognition; in fact, wanted to get that visit quickly out of the way. The interior, now a second home, held no magic and few memories for me, so little of the shrine still preserved, its rustic charm covered over by sheetrock and elegant trim.

Off to the side, the little T-house, a 10 x 10 studio that I had remodeled, besides being emptied of its sparse furnishings, looked and smelled like the day I had left it. Although my first marriage began in that space, its lure for me was the hours I had spent alone there in writing and contemplation, at first as a Kerouacian troubadour adventuring, and later as a young father capturing the essence of joy and longing on page after pages that were eventually burned at start of the second marriage.

My sister’s home has settled into the Mountain in a way that is so sacred and soft, the vision of her architect husband, and so representative of the spirit they have absorbed. The acre of land with paths weaving and shrines sprinkled, hot tub and separate small spaces is a paradise for contemplation and celebration, magnificent on its cliff ledge and humble in its size and aspect.

Because we first lived here together, built it stick by stick by hand, suffered the fire, tore it down to build it back up again, birthed and raised children as next door neighbors (across a treacherous ravine), we share a remarkable bond between us. They were so pleased to walk behind us on the paths as I discovered the changes and talked about the past to my son, who was not only seeing the evidence first hand, but hearing much of the lore for the very first time.

Out of necessity, to keep peace in the family, most of this part of my life was not talked about with my Vermont children. As the week has progressed, my son has met many strangers to him who had once been good friends to me, and in the process discovered a father who was much freer, open and exuberant than the one he has known prior to this long year of change.

After brief trips into the little town of Manzanita at the bottom of the mountain and walks along the beach, I find I am most interested in retreat and renewal on the property. Along each path through thick tangles of new growth spring greenery, there are places to pause, rock seats to ponder the magnitude of earth and spirit. So beautifully designed, the house at night offers a forest of stars gleaming beyond skylights, and always there is the sight and roar of the perpetual ocean.

In all these years away, my dreams have regularly been supported by whales, the leviathans visiting me in my sleep and wistful daylight musings to remind me of a deep calm and connection that was always available. As I shed the skins of my fear and unhappiness, I looked forward to the sight of their spouts in reality, choosing this season as the most likely to ensure visible confirmation of their presence.

Yesterday in particular, we took machetes and cleared a long abandoned path to the campsite where I slept the first months on this mountain. Hands bloodied from the cuts and swipes, breath sweaty, ripe with the sweet smell of the slashed vines, we paused constantly to gaze out over the water. On the tiny ledge itself, I squatted where I had once slept, absorbing the memory of that young man who awoke each morning to journal his dreams and drifted under stars at night, who played music at the fire pit and crafted a home out of pluck and determination, and mostly the thoughtful design of his newly met brother-in-law. Squatting there now with my son, I was moved to consider how much water had crashed on those rocks below, how much had changed and how little, and how much was so much better than I had ever imagined.

As if the Universe wants to remind me once again how much is beyond our control, no amount of vigilance has revealed the tell-tale spouts and rolling flukes I remembered seeing so regularly. Having promised so much to my son, my flawed humanity is once again so humbly visible, the attainment of my desire just beyond my reach, while a wealth of experience is gained with every step.

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Feet on the Ground

The shift of time zones creates a marvelous suspension for this unaccustomed traveler to better see this place both strange and familiar. Having known it once so well, I catch glimpses of what I knew, but the adrenalized weariness forces me to witness all that is new.

After so long a time away, some corners are faintly recognizable and so much is lustrous with change. I had been warned, but not really imagined, how Portland had grown from a comfortable little city to a bustling metropolis, sprawling and vital. Quickly, it is clear that the more I look for what I knew, the more I miss of what is right in front of me.

Naturally, my impressions expose my personal prejudice: a kid of the suburbs who ventured to the city for special events, traveled a particular route and scurried safely home again. New York City overwhelms me with a stimulation I have trouble absorbing. Especially after so many years in tiny Burlington, my comfort level has been our main street and the numerous restaurants on the side. This trip shakes me out of that routine.

When I first came to Portland thirty years ago, with guitar and sleeping bag and a job paying room and board, I had few options but to walk around town, exploring the streets and parks. For a day a week, we returned from our Cliffside campsite for my bosses’ business and I twiddled aimlessly getting to know the city and some musicians who gave it life.

As my summer turned into a decade, we crossed regularly the fifty miles from coast to town, driving in and staying with friends for events, workshops and celebrations. The city life created a vital balance to the coastal meditations and I felt I knew it well.

On the final leg of the trip yesterday, I reminded myself of my know-it-all grandfather who could strain the patience of strangers with his insistence upon offering information. I love to gaze from the window and map the world below, identify the towns and rivers I can recognize. Also, like my father, I have the obnoxious tendency to speak with such confidence that people willingly believe me. Unlike my forbears, however, I am often completely wrong and scramble to right my embarrassment with a good-natured shrug and laughter.

True to form, a seat away from the window, after confessing much of the shape of my midlife crisis in answer to the probing questions from the woman next to me, descending out of the clouds, I began pointing out mountains and valleys, and a large body that could only be Crater Lake. I recommended two days of adventure down the coast to my old town and state parks, a little further off the beaten tourist path.

A hundred miles northwards, the pilot announced a magnificent view of the real Crater Lake now below us, negating all that I had said. When my good-natured new friend checked her coastal reservations, we had a good laugh that she had already, in fact, made plans to stay in the very same village, and her googled print-out listed all the same sights to see.

This lesson of modesty was a perfect set-up for me to approach the city I had once known so well. Arrogantly confident and full of expectation, it is important to remember the isolation in which I have lived these many years, the focused attention paid to one aspect making me miss so much more that has gone on around me. It is so very obvious, but still worth acknowledging that the world has changed probably even more than I.

As I sat over dinner, my Oregon daughters and their half-brother re-united and dissolved in laughter, in my state of waning adrenaline, suspended by the time change and surrounded by blossoms in full-bloom instead of nascent buds, I could remain open to absorb the wonder of how much is different and how much still stays the same, and especially how wonderful it all truly is.

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