Mountain tops and truck stops
Partnerships and package deals, and also a cool new vocabulary word
You take the good
You take the bad
You take them both
And there you have
The facts of life
Is the theme music from a particular 80’s sitcom1 running through your head now, too? You’re welcome. It was one of my favorite shows. But those opening lines, right?
After a lovely day of blue skies and sunshine and meeting up with old friends, gunmetal gray clouds swooped down on the little town of Sisters, Oregon and followed us east on Hwy 20. We’d been having such a lovely time with our friends that we opted to bend our own rule: FIND A PLACE TO CAMP BEFORE DARK, and we only had a rough idea of where we might camp for the night. The app we frequently use to find free wild camping sites, iOverlander, said several informal campsites dotted the Mt. Washington Wilderness area, only a few miles from the main road, so we pressed forward into the twilight. The windshield of Walter, our big yellow adventure truck, needed a good washing, but the random spatters of raindrops were not enough—not at first.
We pulled off the narrow highway at Corbett Sno-Park and started up into the hills. Within our first few minutes on the little Forest Service road, the dark clouds linked arms, leaned in, and covered us with a foreboding gloom; the wind increased from a whisper to a howl; and the sprinkles of rain intensified until they were sheets of tiny liquid needles. The red dirt road, almost as wide as Walter’s broad shoulders, devolved rapidly into deep ruts punctuated with sharp rocks and formidable boulders.
“I’m not sure about this,” I confessed to Andy, my seatmate and husband of 32 years. I am generally the first one to cringe and hesitate.
“Walter can absolutely do this. He was made for this.” He is generally the first one to grin at adventure.
I am gradually growing into the whole going-four-wheeling-in-my-house thing. Andy is a skilled driver and has a good feel for Walter’s strengths and weaknesses. He is growing into the whole on-the-fly-risk-benefit-analysis thing.
We stopped and Andy climbed down to lock the hubs, squinting against the storm as the headlights and windshield wipers teamed up to carve a path of visibility ahead of us. When he climbed back up behind the wheel and tried to shake off the rain—not nearly as effectively as the Labrador Retrievers of our past—I inquired about the condition of the road surface.
“It feels good,” he replied. “The soil feels loamy, absorbent. It seems like it will hold a lot of rain before it becomes a problem.”
“So, it’s not silty clay like that hill we tried to climb last week?”
“No, not at all. That one just turned into deep mud. We made the right decision to back down on that one, but I think this road is fine.”
I’d hate to face such narrow, winding ruts if our current path were to become slippery mud. If the rain unexpectedly continued to the point of saturation, we’d have to just stay put and wait it out. But the last I’d checked, the forecast called for the storm to pass quickly. And it was not a heavy rain; just a steady, light one driven by a fierce wind. The road should be fine overnight.
We are adding reading-the-soil to our collection of new life skills.
Three miles is surprisingly far at such cautious speeds—over rutted roads in the dark—and the route seemed to take an impossibly long time. Our communication, however, was solid the whole way. Andy approached each obstacle in our path with a level of caution that kept my need for Lamaze breathing to a minimum. I jumped out several times to check the surface or help navigate a tight spot with our walkie-talkies, calling out my assessments over the raucous wind. We came to an agreement about each decision to continue, each line to take over a particularly sketchy section of terrain. Teamwork. Progress.
When the GPS said we’d finally arrived at our intended campsite, though, we found it already inhabited by a pickup truck with a camper, a cozy golden glow emanating from its windows.
Strike one.
We considered continuing up the trail to another one a mile further on the map, but we both agreed the added risk was not wise. The trail was completely dark and only growing steeper. We would instead make a six-point turn and go back the way we’d come in and try to find something on one of the little side trails we’d passed. That way, we would at least be pointed downhill. If we couldn’t find a space large enough and reasonably level, we could just park in the sno-park lot near the highway. No one would bother us this late, in this weather.
Each time we came to an off-shoot, I hopped out again to assess the situation and see if it would be a good campsite for us.
Strike two.
Strike three.
It’s a good thing we weren’t playing baseball.
Eventually, we found a suitable spot, tucked back into a grove of trees, hardly visible to any other vehicles that might likewise be out under the less-than-ideal conditions. By the time I’d blocked our tires to level us out and keep us from sinking, I was chilled through, anxious to change into cozy pjs and climb under the covers. It was late, we’d already had a big day, and the low-level stress of navigating our house through a storm and over such rough roads had proved exhausting.
I drifted off still thinking about the amazing partnership I’d felt that evening as we worked together to find a place to camp. After nearly 32 years of marriage, we are still learning how to be a functional, cooperative team. I think this new nomadic lifestyle is fast-tracking us toward improving our communication. We are getting better.
Halfway through the night, my bladder called. I answered, glancing outside just long enough in my sleepy state to notice stars in the blackness outside. Ah, the storm had passed, as forecasted. I smiled, silently predicting Andy would launch his drone up into the sky for a look around, just as soon as the sun cleared the horizon. The Golden Hour—the first hour after sunrise and the final hour before sunset—is the best time of day for aerial videography. The imagery that overgrown robotic bumblebee can capture is spectacular.
I was right, of course. The familiar buzzing sound started soon after I’d awoken, right on schedule. With its elevated perspective, far above our view from the ground, the drone found the glassy blue ribbon of a lake, very near where we had parked. We pulled on fleece jackets and beanies, grabbed our coffee and tea mugs, and started out in search of a trail to take us to the water.
Eureka! After a bit of trial and error—much more pleasant than the trial-and-error escapades the night before—we found it. We sipped our morning glory and basked in the little lake’s beauty, then returned to Walter to make smoothies for breakfast before resetting the rig to head back down the road.
Two of the next four nights, while we visited friends from our teaching years in Salem, Oregon, we stayed in truck stops. We nestled Walter securely between the canyon-like walls of 18-wheelers, listening to the idling engines and generators and the occasional toot and hiss of air brakes.
The other two nights were spent parked outside the homes of friends in their residential neighborhoods. In settings like this, we listen to other vehicles passing, pedestrians commenting about our truck, (unaware that we can hear them through the roof vents), occasional sirens, barking dogs, and booming car stereos.
Urban camping is a far cry from the peaceful seclusion of the mountains and clear, blue lakes. But life—nomadic or otherwise—is a package deal. You take the good; you take the bad; you take them both, and there you have the facts of life.
Sometimes I wish it weren’t so—this package-deal thing. I wish visiting friends in the city didn’t mean I had to camp in truck stops or neighborhoods. I wish cooking an elaborate dinner didn’t create a mound of dishes. I wish a good sweaty workout at the gym wasn’t a sure indicator of sore muscles later. I wish petting big fluffy dogs didn’t mean pants covered in dog hair and slobber. I wish living in the southeastern United States didn’t include the threat of devastating hurricanes each autumn.
But here we are, taking the good and the bad and piecing them together into one life—a little of this beauty, a little of that challenge—all of it shaping us into who we are, all of it helping us to grow and learn and mature.
I recently learned a new word about piecing together odds and ends into something beautiful and/or useful. The word is bricolage2—a French-derived term for puttering about and making something significant out of the bits of miscellany of our lives. Bricolage. Think: bricks of Lego. The term is used most often with crafting, tinkering in a shop, and even cooking, but I think it applies also to this package-deal life we live. We take the bits and pieces, the mountain tops and the truck stops; and from them, we cobble together our personal growth, bits of community, and valuable partnerships.
7 Questions
The person who taught me about the concept of bricolage mentioned above is Meggy, a woman on holiday with her daughters who I met on a small river safari boat on the island of Borneo. We were in search of various species of monkeys during our daytime cruise, then went back out after dinner in search of trees full of fireflies in an intricate mating ritual that causes entire trees to light up like flashing Christmas twinkle lights. We were able to successfully locate both the monkeys and the fireflies, but the real success of the day was found in making a new friend along the way.
Without further ado, here’s my recent interview with Meggy:
1. Where were you born and where do you live now?
I was born in Fukuoka, in the southern island Kyushu and now I am living in Osaka, both in Japan.
2. Of all the names and titles you have answered to over the years, do you have any favorites, and why?
Sensei. Sensei is the title for teachers, mentors of any profession. I used to teach languages, and I loved to see the unmined talent of the students bloom. I am full of good memories as a teacher and still wish to go back to the teaching profession.
3. Can you tell me about one person who has had a significant positive impact on your life?
I would say it is Nobuyori Oshima, the psychologist. I never met him in person, but his books gave me a big change in my life. I used to have nervous breakdowns when it comes to the attachment issue. I didn't know where it's coming from, and I just could not control my anger. Neither the “10 seconds mantra” nor any other anger management tips ever worked wonders for me—instead they became fuel on the fire.
I was having a tough time, starting up our company with small kids in the house. Then one day I found his book "Mirror Neurons Will Save Your Life: How to Stop Being Controlled by Other People". The title was flickering in my mind for a couple of days, then I decided to spare my lunchtime to read it. He has unique theories to get away from your trauma which enables you to control your behavior. It was like touching the hem of the Jesus Christ's garment3 for me. Ask my daughters—I am no longer obsessed by the fuel of anger. Some of his book got translated in English and is available for Kindle if you are interested.
4. What feels most like home to you?
Snug on my old couch with a bunch of my favorite books and some cloth to stitch.
5. What is one thing that makes you ridiculously happy?
Being a bricoleur—a person who practices bricolage as a lifestyle, a person who creates a work from a diverse range of things that happen to be available then. A man who lives in the jungle might pick up a stick without any particular purpose, but later on he would use it in many ways whenever the occasion comes. I love to think about new ideas to utilize the things around me.
6. What is one thing that makes you terribly sad?
To say goodbye to loved ones. I lost my dad, my grandma, and uncles and aunties in the last couple of years. It happened so suddenly.
7. What is one important thing you have learned over your lifetime?
You cannot always get what you want.
Thank you, Meggy, for taking the time to share your thoughts with us. I love that it brings you great joy to think creatively about finding new uses for common objects, and new ways to piece together the things around you.
May we all find ways to create patchwork beauty out of the random scraps of this package-deal life. May we all learn to breathe through the stresses and grow the partnerships between us and our fellow humans. May we learn to embrace the truck stops as well as the mountain tops.
Until next time,
Sherry
The Facts of Life was one of my favorites from that era. For better or worse, much of what I learned about being a teenager came from that show, haha.
For more on bricolage, check out Merriam-Webster’s entry on the term.
The story of the woman who, in faith, touched the hem of Jesus’ garment is recorded in the writings of Matthew, chapter nine, verses 20-22. Here it is in the NLT:
“Just then a woman who had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding came up behind him. She touched the fringe of his robe, for she thought, ‘If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.’
“Jesus turned around, and when he saw her he said, ‘Daughter, be encouraged! Your faith has made you well.’ And the woman was healed at that moment.”
What an amazing adventure! Your pics are great.
Love your story telling abilities.