Glorious Currents

When I was born, my parents were living in Edie’s family’s garage apartment, so Edie and I go back as far as friends can go.  We attended each other’s first birthday party. We suffered the wrongs of an evil science teacher who accused us of cheating (which we had not).  We both adored Ms. Josten, our beautiful 8^thgrade Latin teacher. We danced, over and over, to Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” in our living room at 638.  We drove stealthily past Cliff Pemberton’s house when, at sixteen, I longed for him. We made mashed potatoes for midnight snacks and begged Edie’s mother to make her famous chocolate sauce. And fifty years later, when my Mom received her diagnosis, it was natural to call Edie and weep while curled on the green-carpeted stairs of 638 where, as teens, we’d spent countless hours gossiping about boys. 

Before Mom got sick, Edie and her husband, Dave #2, invited us to their time-share in Bend, Oregon, and that is what prompted our entire trip west.  

Edie and Dave #2 are seasoned travelers and hikers, and after my Dave and I experienced Glacier’s High-Line trail – during which we inched along a foot-wide pebbly path while clinging to a cable bolted in the rock face so as not to be swept to our deaths by buffeting winds – we thought we were reasonably ready to keep up with them. 

On our first evening in Bend, they eased us in with a lovely canyon walk.  The next morning, we were up at 7:00 AM, slathered with sunscreen, fortified with granola and yogurt, and out the door by 8:00 in order to stay ahead of the scorching sun during our hike up Smith Rock. 

Edie and Dave #2 were compassionate to us Smith Rock neophytes.  Yes, they’d chosen the Misery Ridge Trail, clearly designated “Most Difficult,” for our second day, but as I said, my husband and I were secretly preening with unearned cockiness after conquering at least a mile of Glacier’s High Line, and, adrenaline-charged, we were game. Besides, Earth herself beckoned to us, her bones exposed, ragged, red and raw, towering above and before us. Onward campers!

Our Bend Camp counselors were mindful of hydration and stamina, and insisted upon regular shade and water breaks, and, omigod, Chocolate Mint Cliff bars.  Can I tell you how good those things are? Anyway, we didn’t realize how significantly Edie and Dave #2 had slowed their pace for us, and Dave and I thought we were hoofing along just fine; we were solid.  The breath-stealing sight of rock climbers suspended from cables slung from one precipice to another gave us yet another excuse to take a good long pause for pictures and exclamations. 

Ultimately, the sun caught up with us, and our final descent down a series of switchbacks was sweltering as well as challenging, but Dave and I were proud and exhilarated that we’d hiked this “most difficult” trail.  Were we undone by the rattlesnake curled in the rocks to the right on the teeny trail? No! We inched by and took pictures. 

When we reached the end of the trail, mentally, I danced a victory lap that, at 65, I had successfully, fairly comfortably, achieved such a feat. But, I had not remembered, had not considered, the climb back up to the parking lot.  When I gazed up toward the lot - so faraway it seemed! - my body began to protest. 

You know that let-down response when you really have to go to the bathroom and you pull into a rest stop and your body thinks, “Yay!  Now I can go”? And then, the bathrooms are closed for renovations and you are really screwed because your body thinks it has permission to release?  Yeah.  It was like that.  

Agh, I was so close, but my knees said, “no way,” so I sat in the meager shade of a stunted pine while my heart cursed me with a frenzied, erratic, reproving beat.  Wait. Wait. Slow it down. Slow it down. I reflected on an incident at Logan’s Pass, when Dave and I witnessed a rescue helicopter landing to pick up a hiker who’d had a heart attack. Oh Lord. I’d not been charitable in thinking the man had been unrealistic in gauging his abilities.  Breathe.  Breathe. Judge not, lest ye be next. 

When my heart calmed, I stood up, and remarkably, that respite was enough. I crested the final leg to the parking lot where Dave #2, bless him, waited in the car with the air conditioner blasting.  Once seated and cool, my triumph and bravado returned. 

So, what next?  Bring it on!   

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In the morning, rested and well fed, again we were up and out by 8:30 to hike the volcanic cone of the Newbury Shield.  It was forbidding and charred, a vast expanse of spikes and crevices. Surprisingly, berry-studded bushes and yellow potentilla bloomed from cracks in the rock, and chipmunks and lizards scurried about the black surfaces.  How could that be?  Oh, this Earth! So beautiful, bountiful, resilient, and mischievous!  I’m thinking about having her tattooed somewhere on my body.  

In our normal life, a moonscape stroll such as this would provide stories and adventure for months, but this was but one morning at Edie and Dave’s Bend Camp.  For, that afternoon, we were off to the Sun River Resort for a bike ride followed by tubing down the Deschute River.  

After a tasty lunch on the balcony of a club overlooking a golf course, we changed into bathing suits, took a shuttle upriver, and slipped into the water, each cupped in our own royal blue inner tube, at the mercy of the river’s whims.

For three hours we drifted. Three hours to gaze at blue sky. Three hours to admire passing greenery and the occasional bird. Three hours to chat, when our tubes floated close enough, about the wonder of creation, man versus nature, evolution, and the danger of Trump’s roll backs in environmental and species protections.  

Three hours where my control was limited to what paddling hands could accomplish in steering clear of debris or maneuvering toward a promising current. Despite what we like to believe about life, isn’t that really all we are ever able to do? 

McMenamins' Canvas

Dave and I had consulted an oversized atlas to get a sense of locations and distances when we began planning our trip west.  Geography is not my strength, and while Dave retains his fifth grade ability to recite the states and their capitals, we needed visuals to figure out travel times. 

The genesis of this journey had been an invitation to join Edie, my friend-since-birth, and her husband in Bend, Oregon, so that was our ultimate destination.  Since we were heading their way, we wangled visits to our friends Princie and Bob on Bainbridge Island, and my cousins in Seattle. Those were the dots we had to connect.

With ruler in hand, we played with a variety of routes, decided on a southerly course with stops at Zion and Bryce National Parks, and sent our thoughts to Edie and her husband, Dave.  Yes. Another Dave.  This could get confusing. Shall I call him Dave #2 for clarity’s sake? 

Dave #2 emailed back applauding our ambitions and suggested a stop at McMenamin’s Edgefield Inn if we had time, so I Googled the inn’s website.

Picture me, hands on the keyboard, mouth agape, eyes wide in wonder, gazing at the glories of the McMenamin brothers’ vision.  This could not all represent one location.  But yes!  A county poor house transformed into a charming inn. A winery, distillery, and brewery on site.  A meandering soaking pool, gardens, and restaurants!  Bless you for the suggestion, Dave #2!  This place was a must. 

I called the reception desk at the inn with the dates that would work into our tentative schedule. None were available. With desperation in my voice, I pled, “Do you have anything from July 16th to the 28th?”

“Hmm.  Let’s see.  I have one room open the 16^th and 17^th.”

Forget the southerly route! The eons-carved crags and red spindles of Zion and Bryce could wait!  “I’ll take them!” I cried, thrilled, grateful to this young woman, my new best friend. 

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Abandoned schools, failing hotels, former power stations: the McMenamin brothers saw brew pubs and restaurants where others saw fodder for wrecking balls.  In the 1980’s, vagrants, rats, and a legendary black rabbit had taken over the 74-acre property that became The Edgefield Inn. A county poor farm during its earliest incarnation, the land and buildings also did time as a prison and nursing home. In 1985, it was doomed to demolition when the Troutdale Historical Society intervened, hoping to find a buyer who would revive and restore the site instead. Mike and Brian McMenamin took on the challenge, infusing the decrepit building with new life… and providing a wealth of canvas space for local artists. 

The moment our Uber dropped us off in front of the inn, we were entranced.  The Victorian red brick façade with its wide porch and rocking chairs begged us to pause, but there was time for that later.  We couldn’t wait to explore. 

We checked in, chattering like fools to the receptionist about skipping the wonders of Zion and Bryce in favor of Edgefield.  She gave us our keys and a map of the campus, and gestured toward a cask of chilled, flavored ice water in case we needed refreshment before heading to our room.  Lovely! 

Off we went, rolling our bags down a long hallway, slowing to stop and stare as we noticed the murals painted on every surface.

Who knows how many indigent souls, wayward individuals, and neglected seniors worked the surrounding fields, slept on narrow beds, and ate in communal dining halls over the years? What did they long for?  What were their dreams?  What paths had they followed to this place outside Portland?  With paintbrushes, full hearts, and imagination, area artists sought to portray their conceptions of the fantasies and realities of former residents on every door, beam, pillar, and hallway throughout the inn. 

A gray-haired woman spinning in a corner while dancers whirl by – her past?  A black man sipping his coffee, alone while surrounded by others - his present. Newlyweds sneaking a playful peek at a cottage encircled by gardens - their future? Every image tells a story rich with the yearning, sadness, humor, and hope of life’s phases.

            

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It was sweltering hot, and we’d spent much of the day seeking out shady spots beneath vine-laced trellises in the vegetable garden, on benches tucked beneath trained shrubs in the flower garden, and finally, on stools in the air-conditioned tasting room of the winery. The pours of Black Rabbit Red and Black Rabbit White were delicious and generous.  We lingered, chatted with our hostess, Cat, and purchased a case of wine to be shipped home before heading back out into the merciless sun. 

A refreshing dip would be divine, but the only pool - a sinuous, salty, river pool that wound beneath wrought iron bridges and between startling stalks of orange flowers and giant ferns of deep green - held water heated to 100 degrees.  Still, the mind plays powerful tricks, and that pool called to us with the smooth, silky wiles of a seductive siren.  

We donned our bathing suits and cover-ups, deciding to pass on the complimentary white robes provided in our rooms.  At poolside, we ducked our heads under trailing vines to purchase some tasty rum drinks at a diminutive hut before strolling the length of the pool. Given the heat and lush plantings, we might have been in the tropics. Oh, the water looked inviting, but even a toe-touch was intimidating.  That water was hot.  But it was, as anticipated, wet, and once we eased ever so cautiously beneath the pool’s surface, the air felt comparatively cool. 

We’d settled in a spot around the curve of a bend, just past a small island erupting in gaudy flowers and towering bronze lotus blossoms.   Laps were impossible, given the heat of the water, so we lolled languorously, sipping our drinks, and watching people come and go.  We would’ve noticed Stu under any circumstances.

Even swathed in his white robe, we could tell he was a big man, tall and sturdy.  His dark hair was shoulder length, blunt cut, and parted in the middle.  He took long, slow strides as he and his lady friend crossed the bridge and set down their drinks just down the way from us.  The four of us exchanged smiles and nods as they took off their robes. 

With curly, blond hair and the creased skin of a smoker, Pamela was slender and fit, about 50, I’d guess, and she wore her bikini well.  Stu was wearing a woman’s black two-piece bathing suit.  

While partially naked and sharing warm water in close proximity to others, things can go either of two ways: one can ignore or engage.  Dave and I always choose the latter. 

For close to two hours, as our skin turned raisin-wrinkled and the water’s temperature receded from conscious sensation, the four of us chatted about area day trips, our jobs, kids, and politics. Pamela was clearly smitten with Stu, stroking his back, nibbling his shoulder… and of course, we were fascinated.  What was their story?  

She was a nurse; Stu, a doctor. Both were Canadian and disillusioned with Trudeau; they felt he was immature and incompetent. But in that contest of leader critiques, Dave and I were pretty sure we had them beat. Yes, they had to concede, Trump was worse.

Dave and I were bursting with questions... about Trudeau and healthcare in Canada, of course, but above all we couldn’t help wondering what that bathing suit meant for this man. His name, build, and voice were masculine, as was his demeanor, yet at one point, Stu volunteered, “Imagine trying to be transgender in Toronto…”  

We could not, and Dave asked, “So, how’s that going?”

“Not so well,” was Stu’s answer, not enough of an opening, we felt, to ask more.  

But what did that matter? In restaurants, trains, ruins, and hot tubs from Florida to Thailand to Rome to Troutdale, we’ve found people to be friendly; they want to connect. There is always common ground.