River Bend I
We were home just over a month when we felt the need to get back out on the road, or at least outside so we’ve come to River Bend for a week. The site is in the foothills of the Willamette National Forest a few miles east of Sweet Home. Not a long jaunt, especially for us, but enough to be out and doing. We are nearly on our own here. There are a few other RVs scattered around, but no close neighbors. It has been mostly cloudy all day, that high grey ceiling with a suggestion of imminent rain that takes so much getting used to by non-natives of the Northwest. Born in Wyoming it was a long time before I gave up missing the wide blue skies that prevailed on even the coldest of days. A long, overcast day was a rarity. We watched storms approach for hours, lines of thunderheads that took their time to reach us. Here in the Northwest storms arrive quickly, or the grey sky just looms and pours without warning.
In any case, our first day has been a day of leisure, a walk or two with the dog, sitting around our portable campfire reading, or snacking on apples, crackers and a summer sausage for a light lunch. We added a menu item to our list this trip. (Are we the only family that has food traditions such as bacon cheese bread for Thanksgiving morning and Christmas?) I found a recipe for brie melted inside a large, round loaf of bread. Hugely simple just cut a hole in the round large enough for the brie (I used half of the brie) sprinkle the inside with shredded mozzarella, place the brie in the round, replace the top of the bread, and bake for 20 minutes. The result was a round of crunchy bread filled with warm, melted cheese for dinner. Better still, the remaining bread and cheese was rewarmed this morning and eaten with homemade strawberry jam. We’ll be having this again.
It is only a bit after four, but here among the trees the light is already beginning to dim. Winter is approaching. We could see pockets of snow high on the hills as we drove up yesterday. Here we are not high enough for snow yet, but soon. High over-head we can hear the skree of a hawk that has been around most of the afternoon, calling now and then as it circles over our camp and out over the river. A last flight perhaps before dark.

II
The rain plinked on the roof on and off until early morning. It made a comforting sound that made it easy to sleep. Before dawn the pittering sound gave way to the rumble and shake of a hard downpour. Lyd had canted one end of the awning and the resulting stream added a rushing noise to the wild sounds of the morning. I was awake.
I plugged in the kettle to make a French press of coffee and sat to read (my daily pattern). By the time I pushed the plunger down on the coffee grounds, the rain had subsided to occasional squalls. By the time Lydia woke, I had finished the my press of coffee. I filled the kettle for her cup of tea and her time to read. Eventually we ate then dressed. I made a short trip into the town west of us for supplies. The edges of the road were gold with fallen leaves, newly off the trees and undisturbed. An occasional curve would reveal a splash of color in the branches, clusters of leaves yet to fall, contrasting with the deep, wet green of the surrounding cedars and fir.
Town felt strange and out of kilter. Or maybe I was out of kilter, having wandered in from the solitude of the woods, to shop in an unfamiliar market. Items were not where I expected them to be. It threw me off and I nearly said yes to two girls giving away black kittens. Had I not seen reason at the last moment the kitten and I would be living in a drain culvert someplace now, shunned by my wife and dog. The cashier had to ask three times if I wanted my wine in a bag. She did not perceive my slight nods as normal communication, assuming correctly that I might have just wandered in from the woods, though I suspect that the connotation of her thought was slightly less charitable than my own. (How did Thoreau feel when he wandered in from Walden for beer and chips? Did he feel out of place too? Was he treated as a suspicious derelict?)
With civilization once again at my back, I returned to camp bearing red licorice and huckleberry soda for my sweetheart and bacon treats for the dog. Just because we live in the woods doesn’t mean we’ve given up civilized living.

III
The days have settled into a comfortable cycle of short walks, reading, and light meals. We share these things in silence mostly, enjoying our solitude.
Our camp is not far from the highway that winds up into the Cascades and down the other side. Ultimately it crosses the entire continent and ends in downtown Boston. (We know this because we followed it one summer from beginning to end.) From before dawn until dark we can hear the log trucks’ air brakes rumble as they slow for the series of sharp curves that begin just east of here. We’ve become accustomed to the reverberation and only notice it occasionally. Like the sound of the rain.
The sky has remained a blanket of gray and here among the trees we live in a twilight, neither dark nor light.

The Road