Young summers by the water in Oregon

Press, 26 February 1977, Page 14

Young summers by the water in Oregon

STA A DARLING, with affectionate family memories, writes of . . .

Dad came siam-banging down the mountain, sending us into fits of fleeful fright Scaring the living daylights out of young sons must have been a joy to him. He taught us it was fun to be scared when someone was in control. The Eastern Oregon dirt roads were little more than two ruts and swirling dust, squeezed between Jack pines. They were hardly wide enough for a car, but he knew their lurches well. On the downhill runs, we twisted between trees so close you could almost feel the bark scrape your face as they went by. The road seemed to lead straight into them, and they came up at speed before being narrowly missed. We couldn t have been going more than 30 miles an hour, but it seemed too fast. Dad said we had to keep moving or be

choked by the dust spewing up behind. There were to be no fisticuffs or grabbing at the driver as he gave us our thrill. That was above the Metolius River, one of three summer places that shaped a lot of what my brother and I are today, probably, in ways we’ll never quite understand even if we go back. Our father understood because he was born in the high country. He took us there often, to places where you could have dust in your nose and snow under foot at the same time. Where you were buoyed up by the heat and brushed by feathers of cold in the forest shadows. Summer in the mountains was that time of year that never took hold for too long. Winter always teetered on both sides of it.

One cabin was beside the river, a stream that flowed magically fullgrown from beneath a mountain. Magical things were always happening there.

Footbridges moved swiftly upstream, waterwheels creaked in the moonlight, islands seemed to change positions in the night and the world sank visibly into sunlight if you watched carefully. The other cabins were on lakes, one below the Three Sisters mountains and the other on a wooded bench above the King Columbia River. At the mountain cabin, you could lie and watch tiny fish move like leaves falling in in a high wind. They flashed in the sunlight.

Those cabins were much better than paradise ever could be — it’s still hard not to think that way. Going back many years later, nothing much had changed.

The Metolius cabin, where we had willingly jumped to the commands of Grandma Foley, was burned to the ground, but the feeling was still the same. It was easy to remember leaping off .the front porch and running to the river cooler, sunk in the icy water.

Cold drinks were kept there with the other food, but the water always tasted better. It tasted best when you were patient with it, settling slowly with your stomach on a plank thrown across a riverside pool. Then you dipped your mouth to the surface, barely breaking it as you drank. It was suction, like a horse’s draw. And you made no slurps. Any noises, and the Indians might come. That was one of the rules. Foley's cabin was built around an elephant fireplace that reached to the rafters. It stood in the

middle of the main room, with a wood stove and kitchen on the back side. The other sides were open to the room, stones curving down to the floor at the edges to make it seem you were looking between the legs of an ele= phant.

Many summer nights were cold in the mountains, and we would have baths in a metal washtub set beside a fire going lickety-split. If we had been sliding over old logs during the day, we had to put up with having our crevices searched for wood ticks.

Knowing the perils of yellow fever, we tried not to squirm even when one was found, and our father had to coax it out with a lighted match.

When it was time for the grown-ups to have a bit of peace — even though their two sons were nearly angelic, as we recall it — we would climb, the ladder to the

loft. Two feather beds with lots of quilts waited there under the rafters, small caves where we could burrow. If there wasn’t too much commotion, we could get away with talking and watching the fire's reflection in the room below. One night, a bat got in. Our mother remained calm —- no screaming — but she gave it hell with a broom before it decided outdoors was a better place to be. In the mornings, we could sneak down early to shoo, chipmunks from the woodpile or watch Dad tiptoe out for some dawn fishing.

All the time, there was the constant rushing of water. It was so swift it just seemed to skim in plances over the rocky bottom.. Ail along the river were footbridges leading to islands of grass, where the ground was spongy and felt like walking on an air bed.

On those islands, the waterwheels turned and turned in the sun. Standing still on the bridges and concentrating on the fast water, you would get a strong sensation of floating swifly against the current —the same way a car will seem to move sideways when stopped at a crossing to watch a train whiz by. Because there was no river, the Elk Lake cabin was a tamer place than Foley’s Cabin. Quiet laps against the shore took the place of sliding water. It was an easier place to goof without purpose. A place where you could spend lovely chunks of wasted time collecting water dogs, or salamanders, and watch them wriggle away in backwater lagoons. The lake was a few miles across, surrounded by hills smothered in trees. South Sister, the resident volcano, rose up behind the cabin. She

couldn’t be seen until you boated out into the lake. One evening, my brother and I wanted to swim out so far we could see the whole mountain before quitting. Dad tried to talk us out of it. saying there were too mam relaxing things tn do. before the sun went down. But he rowed alongside anyway. My brother gave up first, and 1 wasn't far behind. Soup and sandwhiches in the boat were much more welcome. The third cabin was probably the best. It was the place we were able to take out father a few years before he died. There was no way of knowing they would be his last years, so the visit was natural. When you’re not knowingly saying good-bye to a place, nothing is forced. Above the Columbia River, Wauna Lake was a quiet place. Even outboard motor sounds were muffled bv the bush.

The smell of fires was always near, and you could row for hours in a tiny boat, slipping off the sides for a swim Our memories of the place had stayed true — it seemed as good as ex er. Only one thing had not quite made it through the y ears, a i< w h. >a' , .L < u Dinky. We used to take it through bayou channels between lakes. Turtles sunned themseleves on logs. and plooped into the water when we got too close. They sounded like fat raindrops hitting the surface. The last time we visited. Dinky lay flaking on the shore, water in its bottom. Wauna Lake was smooth as gelatine in its sheltered basin. Sometimes, you had to poke your hand in to make sure it hadn't hardened. Later, when we went back to the boathouse, it was the same as it had

been when we were boy s. We wc: e iftet halt isl and had to be carried to the car, when it was time to go. There was a ways a sad tune, a last night of holidays when you couldn't make the last night wear on forever and avoid going home. Morning was always a wrench One summer, mv brother and 1 went deep under the covers and made a pact. We would have a long dream that night If it seemed we were leaving the cabin in the morning, we would only be dreaming No matter what happened m the dream, there was nothing to worry about. Il would all bv over after a while. Even if the school days seemed long, times were bad. and we grew older, the dream would be over Someday, we would wake up tc» more days by the lake.