SAM'S TREE
The weekend before graduation, I was unbelievably relieved to get out of town. Weighed down by final projects and assignments, I hadn't gotten more than 5 hours of sleep in far too long. We threw our bags into the back of Sam's car and headed east for Sisters, Oregon.
Sisters is a little town on your way to Bend that tries to embody the epitome of the wild west. Although it's more of a stop along the highway, it's got that small town charm where everyone knows each other's names. It thrives on tourism, its saloon-type restaurants and gift shops lining the main street while the majestic Sisters mountain range silhouettes the landscape. This year marked its 75th rodeo.
I was a rodeo virgin. Many times I'd sat in Bronco Billy's Ranch Grill & Saloon, a burger the size of my face in front of me as I admired the rodeo posters and Stetsons that decorated the walls. And while the rodeo was a strong reason to visit that weekend, toured by our Sisters-raised friend Kiana, I was eager to have a a couple days of r&r in Sam's grandmother's house.
Mrs. Quigley, Sam's grandmother, currently resides in assisted living in Lake Oswego, and so her grand house sits peacefully in solitude, far from the others in the outback of Sisters. As we opened the door on its rustic glory, I was enamored by its charm. The house was spacious and an I-Spy game of various artifacts ranging from historic pioneer letters to Native American art. We found an old camera still housing undeveloped film, a menagerie of walking sticks, and beautifully carved wood to decorate the mantles and furniture. The deck wrapped the entire back of the house and revealed a clear breath-taking view of the mountains, overlooking the deep, dramatic canyon which dropped not 15 feet from the property. Across this canyon among a kingdom of pines is a barren, twisted and white-washed tree that peeps from behind the scenery. In the house, there is a telescope set to that exact tree in the wilderness. Sam told us he'd wanted to visit that tree ever since he could remember.
That evening we stopped by Three Creeks Brewing for dinner then ventured to the rodeo. This was the closest I'd ever experienced the south. Leather, denim, and cargo print was everywhere, only championed by genuine leather cowboy boots. Belt buckles were said to be metaphorical for men's manhoods and the stands were an ocean of cowboy hats. Each event was accompanied by cheers of all ages, slapstick commentary, and rowdy country music. My favorite was the barrel racing, where cowgirls had to race and weave their horses at breakneck speeds around three barrels in a triangular formation, the winners coming in at under 17 seconds. My least favorite was the calf roping, where the inner animal lover in me winced when the calf was caught, and smiled when it got away.
After the rodeo we went to a biker bar, where we were served our mixed drinks in plastic cups advertising COORS LIGHT. We danced honky tonk and swing to eclectic country and 80s music, pretending we knew the steps, and fell over each other. The band would not play my request of "Sweet Home Alabama."
That night the stars cloaked the sky to each four corners of the Earth. At home, we laid our backs again the deck and counted shooting stars as we sipped our red wine and talked about how small we felt against it all.
The next day, we set a mission to reach the barren tree, Sam's childhood goal. Unprepared with any hiking boots and slightly hungover, I slathered sun screen on my back and grabbed one of Mrs. Quigley's fantastic walking sticks. We began our descent, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes amongst our untraveled route.
We climbed down a wall of basalt and slate and made it to the creek at the base of the canyon: Whychus Creek, formerly named Squaw Creek, but abandoned for obvious reasons. The water was cool and a remedying relief to bright sunshine above. We skipped rocks for a few minutes, trying not to submerge more than our legs up to our ankles in the process, and decided to press on.
At this side of the canyon, we'd lost sight of the tree. The forest was dense and seemed to expand forever in front of us, with no trail or markers to guide us. We tried to find the house across the canyon to use as a guide, and once located, we pressed on in the general direction we had theorized. We nervously joked about how we would fight a stalking cougar as we climbed deeper and deeper into the brush. A couple times we passed over delapidated barbed wire, indicating we might possibly be on someone's property. We then nervously joked about how not to get shot.
The outback plateaued into a soft-soiled clearing, still dense with spiky shrubs and young trees, but far more manageable than our previous trek. We found a deer path and followed it for a little while. Wandering around for a while, wondering when would be a good chance to turn back, Sam persisted to press on. He said he'd caught sight of the legendary ghost pine, and with full hearts we followed him. Then, it came into view.
The tree was far taller than we'd imagined. Its branches were twisted and reached to the sky, deformed by lightening into fantastically disturbing arms to beckon us. Fresh moss grew across its desolate body and a great crack as if by a godly hammer split the tree towards the top. It stood out against the other trees in its formidable presence. But this tree wasn't a threat, a bully, or anything to be frightened by. To Sam it was an old friend.
We watched Sam carve his name into its lifeless bark. Afterwards, we paused to admire its sheer height and dominance, and although it provided quite a sight, we were the ones that gave it purpose. We gave it life by finding this significance. We were likely the first people to venture to it, with only this tree in mind, and find that its presence gave meaning.
As we walked back down the creek and up the canyonside again, the hike felt easier than before. We saw no rattlesnakes or cougars, just the birds and the stillness of it all.
