“It’s like a kaleidoscope,” I say. South Sister Mountain’s gravel faces lay bare above the obsidian-laced volcanic debris paralleling the flow of the creek.
“That’s a nice way to look at it,” my friend A. responds. “Since I moved back to Oregon from Vermont, I don’t get to see my Vermont friends unless I go back there. It feels strange to be making new friends here in Bend.”
“Hmmm. Yeah, I’ll have to remember that,” she muses.
Upon leaving Moab, Highway 191 ribboned north to the town of Green River. About four hours to Salt Lake City. The day was heating up, as they had, and I chose a podcast episode of Grammar Girl from my device to listen to through the truck sound system. The air conditioning hummed on low.
A young cyclist, contained in black Lycra shorts and top, tentatively stuck out her thumb from a pull-off on the side of the road—just a few miles up from the Willow Springs Road and my free camping spot. Of course I pulled over. Could have been something wrong with the bike. Or a minor injury.
“What do you need?" I asked through my lowered passenger door window as she leaned over to see me.
“I blew out my knee and can’t ride anymore. Plus I lost my wallet in Texas. I think that’s where I lost it. I’m trying to get to Green River.”
“I’m heading to Salt Lake. We’ll make it work.”
“I’m actually trying to get home to Portland. Would it be okay to stay with you all the way to Salt Lake?”
“Absolutely.” I got out, opened the back of the truck, and moved some things around for her bike and bags, then she squeezed herself into the front seat.
J. and I spent the day together. An old acquaintance of hers lived in Salt Lake City, and every now and then along the highway, she checked for a text to coordinate a stay over for the night. And a Craig’s List request for a ride share between there and Portland the following morning.
The kaleidoscope view shifted, and what was in view was not her blown out knee, or the lost wallet. In her early twenties, like so many other young women who filter through my focus, more is usually at stake. Decisions to say “no” to toxic relationships, the desire for finding themselves, and the weight of that one last pressure, break them. As it should. They are ready.
“I had hooked up with my sister and her boyfriend, and I felt like I was being abused. She’s texting me, but I’d rather find my own way home,” she shared eventually.
Bonding happens without trying. The road of life is sometimes paved, and sometimes the road requires four wheel drive and some courage. Circumstances have forced her hand—the courage took over.
By early evening, I dropped her off to her overnight stay, and a truck driver had scheduled to pick her up in the morning near Interstate 15.
“Take a photo of his license plate and him. Send it to a friend. Trust your gut. Let me know that you are safe,” I reminded her while we unloaded her bike and bags from my truck.
“Thank you for everything,” she said and hugged me. Then the sparkly bits in the viewfinder dropped off as I found my way to a tango milonga a bit north in the city.
Trust in the Flow
Maybe it’s the way the pieces flow in and out of each other through the lens, or maybe it’s the way I perceive the colors, shapes, and patterns within the seemingly infinite options available. Maybe it’s a good deed rewarded, or maybe it’s just me being me.
“Where are you staying while here in Salt Lake,” L. asked while slipping her dance heels on. Barefoot, she had been padding her way in and out of the small kitchen adjoining the room, gathering napkins and finger foods and wine for the refreshment table.
A square wooden floor centered the room between a stage and the carpeted reception area. One row of white fabric-draped tables, each with several chairs, lined the dance floor. The wheeze of a recorded bandoneon eased its way into the room as the DJ adjusted the volume level.
“I have a Couchsurfing stay set up for Monday and Tuesday nights, but I decided to drive up from Moab early so I could dance,” I told her. “I mostly sleep in the back of my truck, and there is either the truck stop over near the airport, or a Walmart parking lot.”
“You would be more than welcome to stay in out spare room,” she offered. And of course, I accepted. A bed. A hot shower. Company, and a brunch tango practica the next day.
Maybe it’s that she and I, intersected beyond the dance form we share, had some gift of life experience to hold together. Maybe it was her desire, not unlike mine, to reach deeper into our humanity. Maybe it was her piano, sitting along a wall in a bedroom, that wanted my touch. Or my touch needed the movement of keys, needed the song dormant within to sing. Maybe it was the trail in the Wasatch mountains wanting to feel our steps on its dirt. Or the exploration between those of us wanting to spread our wings wide, and one way to do it is to offer one’s outstretched wing to another who needs the lift.
Whatever it was, inside the viewfinder, the shapes touched their edges as if holding hands. The colors blended to offset those around them—a palette more vibrant than just the individual colors. If I can trust that the patterns I hang onto out of familiarity only get in the way, then I can practice remaining open to the wing’s invitation. Stay present to celebrate the sparkly bits surprising my eye. Offer the ride to those whose knees have blown out from trying too hard to hold on.
“60,549 pieces?” I pondered as I inched my way closer, but, as instructed on the sign, I didn’t reach out to touch. M., my Salt Lake City Couchsurfing hostess had taken me to the Red Butte Gardens at the University of Utah for an afternoon walk through paths connecting botanical plants and trees in concert within an arboretum. Located on the 100 acres of campus in the foothills of the Wasatch Range, the gardens meander over 25 acres of developed beds, and offer five miles of hiking trails.
As we strolled over dirt and grass, plastic sculptures intersected with bushes, trees, and ponds. A colorful hummingbird made of LEGO bricks dipped its beak into a linked flower. The red and white milk snake sunned itself amidst flowering bushes. The 42, 164 brick praying mantis rose out of the flowers and ferns. And a gardener lovingly worked the soil.
“These are really amazing,” M. mused as she read the sign for the duck family lurking along the pond. All 6,927 bricks worth of lurking.
“Just as LEGO pieces interconnect, everything in nature is interconnected in a delicate balance. Insects and plants have important relationships; different species of animals have special relationships with each other…
And of course, people have a connection with nature, whether you're trimming a bonsai tree or planting a garden, or anything else: you are a part of nature."
To see even more of his playful and educational LEGO sculptures, check out his website here:
http://www.seankenney.com/portfolio/nature_connects/
Spiritually, it’s been said to clean psychic smog from a person's aura, and/or act like a mirror in order to see our faults and weaknesses. When cooled rapidly, with minimal crystal growth, the igneous rock turns to glass, naturally, without any human intervention. Amongst the fissures, rifts, caves, and hot springs, the black obsidian rocks work hard to absorb any invisible smog wafting over the caldera within Oregon's Newberry National Volcanic Monument.
A. and I , after having gently edged the Paulina Lake shore, snap photographs of the “Big Obsidian Flow”’s remnants from over 13,000 years ago—10% obsidian and 90% pumice—at the monument site near the lake.
Just a big, long pile of rocks with metal stairs ascending onto the top of the flow. Paths leading through the slag. But, poking out from within the crumbles, black, glassy planes reflect the diminishing light of the afternoon. Beautiful landscape? No. But, the history of this part of central Oregon lies before us here. The porosity of the pumice prepared the environment for the growth of whatever could secure a seed into a moist crevice. Pines, sage, people.
About fifteen minutes north of the airport in Redmond, Smith Rock lures climbers from all over the world. A. and I take the Rim Trail and find ourselves intrigued by the tiny shapes clawing their way up the crevices slightly splitting the flat rock planes. Everywhere we look. From a bench overlooking the Crooked River lower down, we zero in on one pair ascending slowly towards a ledge near the tip of the rock formation.
They hook themselves onto anchors left by other climbers. They scan the face for finger holes and grips. Like some well rehearsed ballet moves, they outstretch one leg, reach up an arm, and pull themselves up.
“I couldn’t do it,” A. says.
“No. Even with not looking down.”
“Both my brothers climbed here, in their younger days. They said it’s as much mental focus as well as physical strength.”
“Better them than me…”
Fascinated, though, we keep watching until it’s time to move on. Until it’s time for me to say “Farewell Bend” to the visit with a dear friend. Not unlike the pioneers heading west on the Oregon Trail. Not quite to their destination, but just a rest stop along the Deschutes River’s great bends bisecting the state north to south. Until the viewfinder lens gets twisted another time, and I step onto the plane heading back to Utah.