Bone-Dry High Desert Dirt
Driving long, winding driveways through the trees,
Going into the woods to smoke weed.
Cross-country ski trips with the middle school.
Sitting in the dirt, imagining an Everest ascent or headlining the Grand Ole Oprae.
Infinite forest service roads.
Fantasizing about digging a hole in the ground so I could show my grandchildren someday.
Friends' parents opening a hobby tea shop because early retirement is boring.
Famous people lounging around bike and ski shops, playing board games in cafes, listening to music, and planning outdoor adventures.
Rednecks, hippies, forest service, witches, and coastal elites.
Red cinder roads twisting up hills and past permanent mobile homes.
Swimming holes, cliff jumping, getting drunk at the hot springs, and being unable to notice how well we had it were some usual pastimes. Pitching tents on the roof of the only grocery store while someone keeps an eye out for the single county sheriff who patrols our town. Sex in the high school parking lot after graduation. Frisbee golf behind the rec center's skate park.
When the festivals begin, you know that the tourist season has come. The rich from Portland, L.A., Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago, etc., begin flowing through to look, spend, and cone-lick. The tourists bring new faces, money, broader connections, and sexual variety while we ensure everything stays running. The tourists get mocked, and folks try to forget they're there. Tourists are treated hospitably and welcomed with open arms. One can't forget where the money comes from, filling a hole left by the regulation of the logging industry, still a source of soreness for many.
The wealth disparity used to be worse in the '90s and '00s. Some lived in structures hardly better than shacks. I've spilled beer on those floors; parents absent, pong heating up. And I've spilled vodka on mansion floors; the only difference is that one costs more. Somewhere in between, smoking cigarettes in a hoarder's $750k home. I made out with my crush on the couch. It was quite alright once you got past the smell of the bags in the dining room.
There may or may not have been makeshift explosives involved. They began the successful career of a man whose family and opinions I respect. But for each of the respectable, a few would-bes didn't make it. Drugs, maladaptation, murder, and suicide; no small town is immune, especially in Oregon.
The middle school "counselor" had a few kids; they're mostly dead or in prison. This "counselor" and I had some differences; I fought with his wife, my 6th-grade teacher. I must have intuited something. They didn't even have to die for their sins; poor parenting collected an early payment.
Of all the variety and drama, there are only a few things that I'll never forget: the serenity of solitude in nature, the high winds (as cleansing as they are irritating), and the bone-dry high desert dirt that's encouraged my nose to bleed many times; that, I will not miss.