matt werbach
I had the pleasure—and at times the pain—of taking a trip down through California and across the desert to Scottsdale, Arizona, just a week ago. It had been a few years since my last great excursion and I was nearly giddy with anticipation of the open road. My fiancé and I packed the car in the waning evening hours as we prepared to drive through the night. We did so quietly, our minds already drifting toward that moment when the sun would come up over the southern California hills and engulf us in its spring glow. Route 5 was not the preferred choice, but we had a family wedding to attend and we couldn’t waste the hours along the coastline this time.
I truly embrace the environment that I’m blessed to live in, but there are times when the mind and the spirit need the respite that a long trip away from home can provide. Each season in the Columbia Gorge brings different pleasures, activities and opportunities; each season also brings different challenges. While this winter had not been too harsh, the weeks of seemingly endless rain in parts of February and March had long ago started me dreaming toward this trip. I romanced the desert sun, the wildflowers, the warmth. We had planned long walks and hikes through the martian landscape of central Arizona with the late March heat ebbing down on us. We were incredibly excited to see family and friends we’d too long last hugged. We were ready to push through the familiar Oregon landscape and to bust into the ever changing and adventurous California terrain.
There’s a refreshing feeling to breaking free of that southern Oregon border in the dark of night. We had no immediate timeline, no predetermined stop. It was us, the Cascades, the road, the darkness. Mount Shasta seemed asleep as we rounded her curves. Sacramento was a quiet, dark mystery at nearly 4 a.m., and just as we began to pine for that sun we’d been so long dreaming of, it crested over the rolling bluffs north of Bakersfield.
I struggled to sleep, anxious for both time spent with family and the next unvisited environment. Sometime around 9 a.m. we headed into Los Angeles. Neither of us had ever been, though we felt we knew the city well thanks to the television shows and movies that call this enormous urban jungle home. I think that’s about where it started, this feeling that though we wanted to break free for a few days, we were incredibly lucky to call the Columbia Gorge—a National Scenic Area—home. The San Gabriel and San Bernardino Mountain Ranges are not nearly as lucky as the Cascades. While they provide a stunning backdrop to the nation’s second largest city, they’re almost lost in the hustle and bustle, the smog, the blinding sunshine. The Angeles National Forest backs right up onto this city known much more for its Hollywood district, restaurants, crime and crazies, than the natural beauty surrounding it. The environment—when I could forget about the city we were now speeding to get through—was absolutely stunning, but it was a total afterthought. Take your focus off of the surrounding terrain for a second, and you were simply in the middle of a crowded city rush hour. The mountains, the gorgeous blooming flowers and the snow-capped, towering peeks all but disappeared just moments after entering the city of angels.
As we pushed across the treeless landscape well east of the city and on into Arizona, I began to think about the fact that we’d have to come back home. I wasn’t tired of the sun yet, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I already missed the white puffy clouds gliding across the blue skies of Southern Washington and Northern Oregon, and I longed for the shadows of the towering Douglas Firs. As the temperature continued to climb near Palm Springs, my mind drifted to those pleasant afternoons in the moderate high deserts just east of the Cascades.
Though just the day before I couldn’t wait to take in the desert heat and the blooming flora, I now found myself reflecting on how lucky I am. A few miles into Arizona a large billboard advertised fresh produce and we both chuckled at the notion of farming this dry, brown, barren land. I opened the cooler in the back seat and we ate our sandwiches and drank the cool water we’d put in our three, half-gallon Nalgenes back home. There was something so fresh and invigorating about eating our Washington and Oregon grown and raised meats and vegetables while washing it down with crisp, clean Northwest water. I couldn’t help but think that all those people in the cities off the freeway, or in their cars speeding by on their way to work or the golf course, would be so much happier if they could enjoy this simple pleasure.
We arrived around four in the afternoon amid the early beginnings of a Phoenix rush hour. For as far as the eye could see there were roads, malls, houses and businesses. The entire landscape was spotted with the browns and tans of the local buildings. The sun shone brightly and warm, and although we were approaching a full 24 hours in the car, our spirits were high with a sense of accomplishment, escape and freedom. As family gathered in the kitchen to greet us, we both poured a tall glass of water from the spout on the front of the refrigerator. I watched as my fiancé took a few sips of the musty soft water and then discreetly poured it down the sink.
We did exactly as we had intended to. We hiked and ran in the McDowell range and basked in the uninterrupted rays. We hugged each and every family member and shared stories of the past year. After a beautiful wedding we stood with a cocktail and watched the orange and red layers of sunshine disappear over the jagged desert peaks to the north. And when Sunday came around we were deeply saddened to be leaving our family and friends, but all the while we were burning inside for the comforts of home.
It was a silent car ride for much of western Arizona and southern California. Somewhere between Quartzite, Arizona, and Palm Springs, California, I broke the silence. “I can’t wait to see a tree, any tree at all.”
“No kidding, right? It’s pretty here, but—”
“Yeah, I’m ready for home.”
As we breached the border of Oregon—almost 20 hours into our drive—with heavy eyelids and a touch of crankiness, we both breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was raining almost the entire way through the state. I cracked the window and stuck my arm out into the drizzling rain, feeling its cool pitter patter on my exposed and slightly burnt skin. A chill quickly filled the car. What 20 hours ago was an 85 degree push across the desert was now a 50 degree drive through the mountains, valleys and plains of western Oregon, with thoughts of home filling our addled minds. “If this is what it takes for the farms and the orchards and the water we get to drink, I’ll take it,” I said quietly, staring straight ahead at the road.
“I know. It was nice to get away, but we’ve got it pretty good.”
One Response to “How Good We’ve Got It”
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Kathy Franz says:
Can’t wait to experience the Columbia Gorge over Labor Day. It sounds wonderful. Nothing like a road trip to both fight the winter doldrums and help you appreciate home. Thanks, Matt.
