Good Blood, Bad Blood

“Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers …”

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I head south from my house in town. The road winds past the Westside Fire Station and the Catholic Cemetery. Further on, I pass the high school and the airport. Orchards of pear, apple, and peaches come into view. I cross the Hood River below Logger’s Lodge. At this point, I join the Dee Highway. I continue south toward the upper valley. My destination is Lost Lake.

The maple trees along the highway glow with red, yellow, and orange leaves. These standout against a background of dark green conifers. I leave the highway and pass through the Dee community. My wife and I lived here for 35 years. Our sons grew up adjacent to the Mt. Hood National Forest. Their childhood escapades played out in the wilds of woods where private and public lands merge.

The blue sky is cloudless. Memories populate my inner landscape. I recall bike rides on narrow roads. I remember  the sound of log trucks trundling timber to the Hanel’s mill. I smile at our forays into the woodland along the irrigation ditch trail, which passed next to our country home. The boys came of age in a remote Oregon setting. We lamented and bragged that Alder Road, where we lived, was the last road in the county to be plowed in winter storms.

Lately, nostalgia has driven my writing agenda. I canceled a trip to attend my 60th high school reunion. My current treatment plan makes traveling difficult. So, I waived what will likely be the last opportunity to see my classmates. I reason that it’s first things first. The cancer cannot be taken for granted. It deserves attention. In lieu of my absence, I wrote a short essay. Doing so opened wide the gates of reminiscence.

Lost Lake is a jewel situated within the boundaries of the Mt. Hood Wilderness area. Its proximity to our upper valley home meant that we could visit often to picnic, camp, and hike. So, my day trip there transported me through a thicket of times past.

Lost Lake Road winds past barren clear cuts and preserved old growth forest. This incongruous juxtaposition of forest management terminates at a small resort. In early October, activities are muted. Ten days from now, boat rentals will cease for the winter. The road will close with snowfall. The wilderness area will live up to its designation.

The moderate sized lake (245 acres) is shaped like a large arrowhead. Its broad base on the north side stretches to a dull point aimed due south at the mountain. It’s the second deepest lake in the Mt. Hood National Forest at 167 feet.

Power boats are not allowed. Canoes and row boats bob upon the cool water during the summer months. On this day, I saw only two plying the lake’s placid confines. I’d made the trip from town to hike the circumference. The trail is just over three miles. It stays close to the shoreline.

I’ve hiked this loop many, many times. The trail is accommodating. Over the years, it served for adventure, nursing a broken heart, and bonding acquaintance into friendship. As I tread the rocky path and its many boardwalks, I recall these occasions and the nurturing value of its history. As with my high school happening, the hike acts as something of a reunion with memories that had faded.

I accept the poignancy of recollection. Walking acts like meditation. Thoughts appear and disappear. I’ve come to move, not to get stuck in the quicksand of reminiscence. In fact, the trail has remedies for such indulgence. There are tricky spots. For someone like me, with balance issues, it can quickly become treacherous. I must pay attention to where I step. Slimy tree roots and wet rocks are hazards for an aged dreamer.

There are small inclines. Occasionally, shortness of breath demands my attention. I stop to gather myself. A killdeer distracts me with squeals and its wounded bird act. I must be close to its nesting area. An osprey glides high above the lake in search of rising fish. Dragonflies kiss the water. Concentric circles expand into oblivion.

I came alone. I see no one until nearly the end. I savor the solitude. I am rewarded with yet another memory. I think it’s my first time to experience the trail solo.

Upon completing the loop, I rest at a weathered bench. I eat a sandwich. I drink some water. There’s a memorial plaque affixed to the headboard of the bench. It recounts a couples’ love for each other and their dog, Ralph. I bask in the sunshine and the ambience of their remembered lives.