Trip West, Part I: Ducklings Launched

Our banana-yellow Spirit Airways plane is at the gate and ready to go. This sunshine shade seems today’s travel theme as we were delivered to the airport in a Prius of the same color. One would have thought the driver of such an eye-catching car would be equally bright and flashy, but no. Sour, smile-less and mum, even “hello” was a stretch for this guy.

What a contrast to our three days at McMenamin’s Edgefield Inn! Unlike our Uber driver, McMenamin’s lifts the soul with art, humor, serenity, and food. Once a county poor farm, the long-abandoned buildings and campus were transformed when the two visionary McMenamin brothers purchased the property and sought artists, carpenters, chefs, brewers, gardeners, and vintners to reclaim it. 

 

The former power station now houses a restaurant and pub; the brick building that encased an incinerator is now a cozy, vine-shrouded bar. Paintings throughout the halls and rooms tell stories, some mystical, some poignant, in depicting the lives of those once compelled by age or poverty to live at the farm. Each room pays tribute to a former resident, their names and stories inscribed in murals that adorn the walls.  

    

Edie, my friend-from-birth, and her husband, Dave, have been the spark to several of our greatest trips. In 2018, they recommended McMenamins, and this May, invited us back to celebrate their 70^th birthday along with their sons and close friends. 

 

While chatting at dinner and hiking along the Columbia River, Dave and I realized our lives were mundane and danger-free compared to those of this active and activist crew. We learned about Rick and Sue’s romantic meeting while in Africa with the Peace Corps, Bart’s photography trek on the Chisolm Trail, Shaun’s bone-breaking fall while rock climbing, Bob and Genevieve’s work with Greenpeace and Earthjustice, and Patty and Joe’s plummet over a waterfall while rafting. Lordy! In June, Edie herself flew to Denver to advocate for an assault weapons ban. She has knocked on doors, marched, and made calls, literally sacrificing her voice for justice and the planet following a surgery that was supposed to silence her for weeks.  

As they did in 2018, ably and safely guiding us up Misery Ridge Trail on Smith Rock, Edie and Dave led us, their ducklings, on a hike through mossy forest, past blooming white trillium and pink bleeding hearts, up, up, up to stunning views above the Columbia River. While but a stroll for many in this group, five miles was a feat worthy of pride for Lea and Dave. A soothing soak in the warm water pool back at the inn while sipping Cock n’ Bull ginger beer garnished with lime was our glorious reward.

Now, here at the gate, I am feeling a little vulnerable, uncertain, a duckling launched. In our yellow plane, we fly from Edie and Dave’s care to Las Vegas, hoping there are no glitches in picking up our rental car to drive across the desert to the Driftwood Lodge near Zion National Park. 

 

*          *

 

The delightful shady trail along the surging chocolate tumble of the Virgin River began to climb. Dave and I had just remarked on how nice it was to be able to look up at our stunning surroundings without constant focus on footing when loose sandstone on the steep incline returned focus on footing to top priority. Um, and focus on handholds too. The well-packed sandstone trail surface had surrendered to sand, shifting sand, like beach sand, and uplifted though I was by the magnificence around me, caution demanded eyes downcast to scan for roots to grasp or avoid. 

 

During stops to take pictures – and, let’s be honest, to rest and catch breath - the rewards were bountiful. Towering peaks layered in pink, red, and white thrust from the Earth like whale teeth, marking eons of change in colors and crags. Over millennia, the river had carved its way ever deeper, sculpting paths and crumbling seemingly solid rock faces. 

While evidence of change and endurance were all around me, I was wilting.  Panting, heart pounding, I considered the hateful mental worm whispering, am I too old for this?  We had planned this trip thinking, do it while we still can. Had we, in fact, missed the window?

 

No! Virtually upon conception of these heinous reflections, my second wind kicked in. What is the biology behind that saving grace? Revived, relieved and elated as that miraculous breeze blew away thoughts of age, I strutted on.  

 

We were hiking the Emerald Pools trails at Zion National Park at the recommendation of a helpful ranger at the Visitor Center. With three levels of varying difficulty, it was up to us to assess what we could handle, and with the blessing of that second wind, we made it to the topmost, with its waterfall cascade and pool. While Dave and I gratefully claimed a comfortable rock to relax and drink in the beauty, nimble teenagers – Dave dubbed them “the mountain goats” - leapt from rock to rock, scaling the rock face to stand beneath the tumbling water.   

With their wiry bodies, youthful energy, and no signs or guards to shoo them away, adventurous souls were free to thus scramble. The message was clear in each park we visited: individuals are responsible for their own safety. Still, we found that most everyone was mindful of others. In French, Italian, German, Ukrainian, Japanese, and English, camaraderie, conversation, and courtesy conveyed whatever was needed. People encouraged each other on challenging stretches, stepped aside and waited when the trail was perilously narrow, offered to take pictures where selfies were a stretch, and shared in the wonder with smiles and exclamations. 

 

At one point, a ranger with condor expertise directed our gaze to the skies in search of those massive birds with wingspans up to ten feet. How I yearned to catch a glimpse! The ranger explained that in the 1980’s, the condor population was down to twelve breeding pairs due to poaching and lead poisoning from tainted carrion. While that is still an issue, population restoration has been successful, bringing the number up to 330 birds through zealous protection and monitoring. Condors are trapped twice a year to test their blood for lead: if the level is not too high, they can be treated and ultimately released. The ranger urged us to pass the word along, so, hear ye all hunters, make the change from lead bullets to steel.

 

Skin Deep

The young woman bent at the waist, camera held to a squinted eye as she turned the lens for better focus on a pink hollyhock.  On this sweltering sunny day, Dave and I had taken refuge under a shady trellis in the Edgefield Inn's garden, and had noticed her, a colorful blossom herself, amid the profusion of flora.  

Her head was partially shaved, the remaining hair dyed magenta and pulled in a ponytail. Her arms, chest, and shoulders were a swirl of tattoos.  While her look was exotic, her partner appeared scholarly. Dark-haired, bearded, and be-spectacled, he, like us, sat beneath a trellis, and was absorbed in the large book open on his lap. 

We’d seen the couple in passing before, and now, as we had then, as everyone did at Edgefield, we nodded and said hello as we left the garden. 

That afternoon, it was studious John and tattooed Clarissa who settled in at the steamy river pool, close enough to us that conversation was a given. We were not surprised to learn John was a physicist, a scientist like his father, and Clarissa, a tattoo artist. We reminded them of our brief encounter earlier in the garden and Clarissa said, “Lots of people like flower tattoos, so I keep a portfolio of possibilities.  I like to offer a wide range.”

While floating idly or sitting neck deep in water on seats carved into the sides of the pool, we covered John’s degrees and aspirations, but found we had more questions about Clarissa’s field. What was your favorite project? How deep does the needle go?  How do you control the depth? How do you promote speedy healing? And how do you handle a drunken request for a girlfriend’s name inscribed on a butt?

“I never tattoo someone who’s been drinking.  Alcohol thins the blood and there’d be too much bleeding,” Clarissa stated firmly.

Huh. I’d never thought about blood as a complicating factor in tattoo art, but of course it is. Not easy to “paint” with a needle and ink while swabbing up gore.  

“Plus, the image can change some during the healing process, so I include a follow-up to make any adjustments necessary, “ she explained. 

Dave asked, “What do you practice on?” 

“Humans,” said Clarissa.

“Husbands,” corrected John. We laughed as he lifted the leg of his swim trunks to reveal a graceful, flowing image of a bear and two ravens on his upper thigh. Wow. Truth is, although I’d heard the term “tattoo artist” before, I confess I’d not given much credence to the “artist” part; meeting Clarissa and seeing her work convinced me.  If she lived in Connecticut, I’d get a tattoo.

When Dave asked her, “How’s business?” Clarissa mentioned the spike in requests for tattoos around mastectomy scars. I have not sought that route, but told her I’d had the surgery.

She was thoughtful a moment and said, “Do you mind if I ask about the length and process of your treatments?” 

I did not and gave her a run down.  

“My father had a brain tumor,” she said, and described his surgery and chemo, and the gallows humor he employed to keep the family’s spirits up. 

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

“He passed in December,” she said.  Her sunglasses masked her eyes, but she was quiet and still in the water.  She was about 28 years old and had just lost her father. I was tempted to tell her about Mom’s recent death, but I’m never sure when “I know how you feel because I…” builds a bridge of common experience, and when it’s an intrusion into someone else’s story. I decided to hold back, but I knew her pain, and oh, how I felt for her. 

Tattooed, retired, or trying to be trans; liberal… or even more liberal; aware of the fear of a dread diagnosis; bereft of a father or mother: all of us are doing our best in the hot tub of life. If everyone were required to strip to near-naked and spend time together in a warm, salty pool, maybe we’d be gentler with each other.