We drove into Pendleton yesterday for a bit of grocery shopping and a look around. We wanted to scout out the parking situation before we came into town for the Round Up and I wanted to see the store at the Pendleton Woolen Mills. Pendleton sits in a small gulch four or five miles from the base of Emigrant Hill. The road down the hill was so steep that pioneers would rope their wagons from behind and ease them by hand down the long incline. Stoves, chests, and other heavy goods, which had accompanied the settlers across half of the continent, were abandoned to lighten the load. It was a necessary tradeoff. Down the hill and a few days west ran the Columbia river and transportation to the Willamette Valley. Today, the hill is still a challenge, particularly in winter. Three lanes of pavement zigzag their way to the top, the right two lanes accommodating trucks as “slow” and “really slow” lanes.
The town is surrounded by dry lands of sage and grass and fields of wheat and potatoes. The wire fences are piled high with “free range” tumbleweeds. The town itself appears to be a green oasis that appears gradually down a slope to the left as Emigrant hill is approached. More a large town than a small city, it is distinctly western. Boots are more apparent than shoes. It reminds me of the Wyoming town I grew up in 60 years ago. I could live here.
We shopped, then wandered around the outskirts of the Round Up arena, looking for likely spots to park when we came back. We made our way to the Mill with the usual number of wrong turns and missed signs. We fingered a lot of soft shirts and wooly-rough blankets, but ultimately saved our money and went back to camp. There was really nothing there we couldn’t live without.
That was yesterday and now the sun has come up on a new day. I’ve been sitting here since before daylight, which, for those people who sleep-in, happens long before the sun comes up, thinking and reading. I’ve been hearing trucks on the highway for a while now and a second freight train just rumbled past. I can see the river, grey and rippling, off to my left, a plaid of green orchards and brown fields on the slopes of the hills over in Washington. We’ll have another day in camp, reading, relaxing in the sun and moving into the shade when it begins to get hot.
Since retiring we’ve left much of the running around and gathering behind us. Like the settlers on Emigrant Hill, we’ve decided we don’t need as much as we once thought we might. I’m not sure that it was a conscious decision so much as a natural simplification. We’ve held on to the things that we value and chucked bits off the back of the wagon as unnecessary, one bit at a time.
Tomorrow is the rodeo.
For today, the sun is out and we both have good books. It seems like enough.
Blessings.

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