The road followed the McKenzie River, winding through the school-bus- yellow big-leaf maple leaves standing out against trunks that are finally almost black with rain. The soundtrack for the scene is a mix CD that Patrick made when he lived in Hanover – mostly country, with some zydeco and late-80s alt rock thrown in because it’s Patrick. Patrick. He’s getting married tomorrow, marrying Sibel, who is smart and beautiful, but, most of all, good to Patrick. And we won’t be there. Chris can’t leave work this week because his employees are at a conference through Wednesday, and I simply couldn’t imagine traveling to South Carolina alone with Sylvan and enjoying a wedding while chasing around a toddler. I can’t believe we’re missing Patrick’s wedding, though. After all these years!
Patrick loved living in Oregon. Listening to his music, driving through the rain and the autumn colors, I started thinking about all of our great friends who are scattered across the country, many of whom we rarely see, and I wondered if I truly appreciated being with them when we spent every day together in high school, college, or grad school. Then I think about the amazing places out there that I’ll never see – places right outside my back door and places half a world away. What kind of cruel joke is a dinky 90-year lifespan (if I luck out and follow in my grandmoms’ footsteps)? Okay, maybe that was a leap, but that’s what I was thinking about. I spent 2.5 hours driving today while my one passenger and listener slept, so I did a lot of thinking.
I looked in the rearview mirror at Sylvan, his lips puffy and pursed with sleep. I love it here, too. I wish my family weren’t so far away. Aside from that, I just want to hug this place every day. Sylvan and I were headed up near McKenzie Pass today to hug a place before the snow came and closed the road for the season; Chris said that the snow level is supposed to come down to 3000 feet on Tuesday, which means that Sylvan and I were probably the last folks
to hit Benson Lake without skis this season (and my guess is that the ski up the highway is a little much even for dedicated winter campers). It also means that, yippee!, ski season is right around the corner. After some time spent playing in the parking lot puddle, we set out for a little 1.3 mile walk up to Benson Lake, which was gray and rippled with wind. As you can see from his gravelly fingers, the beach was a hit. Sylvan stomped and splashed in the water (thanks for the hand-me-down boots, Silas) and had a full-blown, arched- back toddler screaming fit at Benson Lake. Was he too cold? Hungry? In need of breastmilk? Frustrated that I insisted on helping him in the water? I don’t know, but I layered him up with a puffy jacket under his hunter orange rainsuit, breastfed him in a rain shower while conducting all my heat to a hunk of basalt that darn well better have appreciated it (Yes, the rock, not Sylvan. I know what I’m modifying here.), and shared 5 ounces of tasty sharp cheddar with him. He smiled his charming smile and agreed to happily chatter with me for the first half of the 1.3 downhill miles. Then he conked out, not falling over in the backpack because, with his layers, he resembled the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
In the parking area, at an old quarry, the leftover boulders proved a good hiding place for pikas. One eeped at us as we stripped off our raingear. I explained that pikas are related to rabbits, that they cut, dry, and cache plants for the winter, and that I’ve rarely heard them in Oregon. Sylvan just wanted to get into the car, point at the lights, and devour Cheerios.