I didn’t know where to go, so I pointed the car towards the coastal mountains. Out beyond Philomath I turned into the little town of Wren, Oregon. “Town” is a generous term in this case: Wren is a tiny settlement, perched with fragile anticipation in the middle of nowhere, on a rail line that must have once carried lumber somewhere. The most notable thing about the place are the signs directing the visitor to a nearby covered bridge.
If you weren’t extremely lost, or in the wood products business, or didn’t live there already, the covered bridge is the only reason you’d show up in Wren. There's something mysterious and compelling about these bridges: they’re an odd gift left behind by the pioneers.
This bridge was actually not in Wren at all, but 2.5 miles outside it. Wren was merely the nearest settlement to the spot in the middle of nowhere where, once upon a time, something was important. I drove, and the pavement ended, and the fog bathed the layers of clear-cut hills, blowing silhouetted trees into existence, and then into oblivion. And there was the bridge. Nearby, an old wooden farmhouse, with not even a tin shed or a car parked outside to cue the year as anything other than 1920. Across the road, a freestanding dive-- a roadhouse-- that looked threateningly ready to erupt with pickup trucks, fistfights and methamphetamine should the weekend roll around.
The bridge is still in service, and traffic still goes over and through it. But there were no cars, and hadn’t been for miles. So I parked in front of the roadhouse and walked up and into it.
The floor-roadway was made of stout wooden planks, and the dark eaves resonated with the sound of the rain. It felt safe and dry and very unlike the middle of a road. I took some fantastic pictures, looking out at the hills, before the camera batteries failed.
Lurching back towards Wren, I passed an old log barn squatting like a colossal Lincoln Log structure near the road. No batteries! But I’ll go back there, and show it to Rob. The timbers are rough-hewn, thirty feet long. It’s something worth remembering, even if you don’t know why you need to remember such a thing. Because that’s once all there was? Because right now it’s just what is?
The rain and the ennui of life in the dark season had led me out of the house with no real goal; I only knew I was looking for something. So I headed north, up the Kings Valley Highway, to the terrain of my childhood.
It was twenty miles or more of unrelenting rain; hills and curves; fear of hydroplaning; and old, old farms. Farms so old that outhouses might be in use. Farms where nothing has changed, or will ever change. Trees crowded the road, and lichen hung from the naked branches in wisps, and then in ropes. The creeks and rivers were swollen, roiling high, creeping up their banks. Alone with the rain and no thoughts, I met no other vehicles until a big truck started riding my tail about five miles south of Dallas.
Dallas. Land of good old fellas and uptight Christian women. I found a little coffee place across from the courthouse. Two boys were playing chess and two older people were having an inane conversation. Some people were going to see Narnia, playing at the Fox movie theatre next door. I had clearly found the heart of the action!
I was famished, and not sure if ordering 1) a veggie burger in 2) a coffee shop was really such a keen idea. But the girl behind the counter piled on fresh lettuce and tomato and sliced an avocado on top! And there was a sizeable pile of potato salad on the side. I inhaled it with great appreciation.
On the way out of town, I tried to count bars, but gave up. Does the pizza parlor qualify? Dallas is notable for its large number of churches and drinking/fistfighting establishments, and a public life that embodies the clash between the two. Hence the well-fortified courthouse with the skybridge to the jail across the street. Does your tiny town have such a thing? I thought not.
From the highway heading east out of town, I turned off onto Ballard Road, and the crunching gravel I know so well. I’ve come back a handful times to drive by the farm where I grew up. But today for the first time, all memories seemed completely unsubstantial. It was beyond obvious: The fields and trees were not the same old ones. Not a single thing was as it had been before; I was in a truly unique and transient landscape, wondering about something that has gone, gone, gone. Nothing in here and nothing out there are what they were before.
Passing the house where I grew up, the structure glimpsed me—I was spotted by a familiar face, by windows like eyes under a cramped roofline. When you recognize someone before you actually see them, you sense them and do not perceive them in a normal way. Without thinking, I said "Hello!" to that alert spirit, to that recognition by inanimate intelligence.
Ray Adams’ kitchen light was on, as it’s been for 25 years and more. The trees are towering, and our old pasture is now vineyards. Along the road, the water was creeping out of the ditches and flooding in several places. Two pheasants stood in the way and looked at the car like it was something new.
Finally, on the big highway, 99W, I joined a long line of traffic on flawless asphalt, and we all sped home at a steady 60 mph, no curves or hazards in sight. Outside the house, there was a shallow mess of mud out front where the tree used to be. Inside, I was a bit startled to find the dishes in the sink, just as I left them.
(Pictures to come, once I buy a new camera cable.)
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