Refuge

These marshes are a designated wildlife refuge, and a refuge for a couple of authors manqués.

The man from California who is running the resort this year walked down to my campsite to greet me in the afternoon. He wasted no time in telling me he wrote books, which I pounced on, of course, to see what information I could glean. Most interestingly, he described spending three years on the road, going into any town, and any business in any town, and showing his printed copies and asking if they would buy them to put out for sale. He said he would leave flyers, talk to anyone, do interviews, do book talks, anything, and it was all (so he said) done with good old-fashioned paper and face-to-face contact. He told me that he had sold enough books to pay for his time on the road. I, and others, have been feeling like this was the best path to take now, so hearing about his experience felt especially timely. What might be left out of his account is anyone’s guess. But it made for a nice visit.

I watched two white pelicans feeding with their heads underwater, and noticed they always dunked themselves at exactly the same time. You’d think one would want to keep watch. I took many pictures of them, but the telephoto lens on my iPhone is so bad, they are worthless. Then a skinny little friend came by, and learned to like being petted, between forays around the site to look for bugs to eat. He or she was very vociferous about something, but I never knew what. It was either the cat, a blue jay shrieking, or an eagle screaming that kept me company while I read my book. As the sun got lower it cooled off quickly, so I got ready to go into the restaurant for dinner.  

I was surprised that the perimeter of the modest, wooden-floored dining room was all windows looking east and south over the marshes and hills, in a local 70’s style that is now nicely rustic. It was rustic then, frankly, because this part of the United States is as far from anything happening that you can get without going to Alaska. When I really want to feel left behind by society, and I do, I think of moving to southeast Oregon.

Anyway, the sun had gone behind the mountain to the south, a perfectly smooth peak that made a perfect black triangle shadow on the silvery-violet water. There is not a good word for this kind of light in either French or English: crépuscule and gloaming are both uniquely ugly words. But it was gradations of cool violet with wisps of rose and edges of darkening grey blue. So utterly peaceful. I was alone in the restaurant until I was almost finished and an elderly couple came in.

The perfect triangular shadow got longer and the silvery water got dimmer and I finished my ribeye steak and glass of Cabernet and stepped up to the bar to say goodnight to the author/manager. He’d spent the entire time I was there at the bar, leaning against the wall with his feet up on a barstool. I was rather blatantly, though very thoughtfully, propositioned, but I can’t see having a tryst with someone who declines to tell me his real name. He must have thought we were kindred spirits, still finding our way in the world.

This morning I was jolted out of a dream by the crash of some garbage man up on the road. It was just becoming light, and I got up and turned on the heater and opened the curtain in time to see the lake in the soft light before the sun appeared, the sky all pink and blue, and a bit of orange. The mountains were almost black. I got to watch the sun come up, then a flock of about forty white pelicans flew in and landed on the water. They clustered together right on the path of gold made by Phoebus as he cleared the mountain across the valley. I took no pictures. It was just too nice to live it, rather than document it. I am sorry, a little, and feel guilty for depriving you of the gorgeous moment.

After coffee, I discovered the bathrooms were paneled entirely in knotty Ponderosa pine from the 70s, and had that lovely warm smell.

I love this landscape and always have. Southeastern Oregon. It makes me so happy to be here, at sunrise, with so few people.