Almost to the Event

Day 7, August 1: Grants Pass to Ashland, Oregon (41 miles): Home Again and Preparations

I woke up in the comfortable bed, still happy to be at the Motel Del Rogue. I wanted to go meditate by the river, to hope for peace and calm in all the tumult to come with the memorial event, so I made my way in the early morning sun to the riverbank. I was watching the mighty Rogue, placid and calm at this spot, thinking of all the Rogue trips I had made with my Dad, when I saw something in the water, then another something, then I realized it was a group of somethings. At first, I thought it was salmon swimming up the river—not enough coffee—but I soon realized the somethings were river otters making their way upstream, passing just like a pod of dolphins off Malibu.

I didn’t even try to take a picture having long ago learned one of the essential trip and life lessons, you can’t take a picture of the things that matter most and last the longest, but I did give my thanks to the universe for this brief glimpse and was buoyed by the sense that I was blessed on this trip, and that what would follow would also be blessed.

I did take a picture of Robert’s heritage, the flower of Scotland!

We bid farewell to Kevin the Innkeeper and hit the road on the old 99 Highway that follows the Rogue, a road I wanted to drive because my father loved it so. In fact, he had a hobby of trying to travel only on the old 99, the “freeway” before the I-5 came in, the road he had first known here. He especially loved this stretch of the Rogue, taking me for frequent picnics at Valley of the Rogue State Park, feeding me apple slices and cheese cut with his Swiss army knife, offering me his favorite crackers, Wheat Thins.

We stopped in the town of Rogue River so Robert could get more coffee, then followed the 99, ignoring all the signs that said, “Road Closed Ahead.” How could this dad road be closed? Sure enough, there was a bridge out, so we backtracked back to the I5 only to regain the 99 in Gold Hill. I wanted to drive this stretch because it is home to the Oregon Vortex, one of my Dad’s favorite places on earth. The Vortex is like the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz or Confusion Hill near Garberville (about which more later), a place that is a vortex or mystery because of something something ley lines, but really a place of optical illusions, like bottles that roll uphill. I actually have a leaning laundry shack in my backyard that offers similar delights, and I have joked of opening “Jenny’s Laundry Vortex: Land of Lost Socks” back there. My father, however, loved the Oregon Vortex, and I spent many a hot afternoon there with him, stopping at the Valley of the Rogue later for lunch.

Then we found ourselves on the I-5 proper, in the smoky valley, right by Table Rock, hurtling (well, doing at least 55) towards Ashland. I joked that the Bus could probably drive us home from there, and I imagined he would drive to the old Vista street house on the hill, the place he had lived with my father for so long. But instead of going to Vista street, we arrived at Paula’s house in Quiet village, saying hello to Paula and the wonderful Scherri who were doing party chores, and of course greeting Tucker the dog. Bree (my stepsister) was still driving, and Tom the Magnificent (Bree’s betrothed) and his amazing kids were still driving down from Portland in the Hobbit camper, and Jake (my stepbrother) and his daughter Misho were out doing capitalism, so I set down to finish up the crafty bits.

I was adding tags to the fans I had made from dad’s old lists (now xeroxed) and Topomorpher prints, tags with Dad-isms like “Have a Gneiss day!” or “Well, hole in the ground (deep thinking for a shallow mind like yours)” and “Macht Nichts!” while Robert started working on setting up tables, fans, and misters for the after memorial picnic. We discovered we would need to go to the hardware store, the first of many trips there on this trip and all others, and when we stopped by I scored an amazing find: a Dad hat. My father had some very nice Panama hats that Paula bought him, but he often wore a simple straw hat from the Hardware store, one he would repair with painstaking care using shoe goo and superglue, saving a thing meant to be discarded every year, which was a very Dad thing to do. I was proud of my Dad hat—it even had little green palm trees on the band—and I would wear for the rest of the trip and even now that I am home.

Robert and I checked in at the Stratford and I had a swim, looking at the sky I had first watched with the autumn when Dad was home after his fall, the leaves so brilliantly scarlet against the sky, or the sky I had seen swimming those endless laps as Dad was drying, watching the battle of the snowflakes and blossoms from the trees, but now it was a smoky haze. We got ourselves cleaned up and headed out to a family dinner at Hearsay, and while it was hot, it was a lovely dinner. I got to meet Tom the Magnificent’s Amazing Kids, Alex and Oak, and I got to see my family gathered together, enjoying good food and drink. I kept thinking that Dad would have loved to be there, and so the empty space set for my sister Ariana, who could not attend, became Dad’s seat for me, and I imagined him there, proposing a toast to “Turbulence!” and shining in that way he had, through the eyes and mouth.

Back at Paula’s place we had an impromptu and music practice with Tom on the banjo and me distracted by doing getting ready stiff, and it went “about as well as could be expected,” as my Dad would always say, and then we headed back to the Stratford to crash into oblivion, me thinking of the Rogue River again, and missing the frog and cricket song.