scenic route home

We made our way through the Lookingglass Valley. It is a very picturesque, verdant place made even more beautiful by the sun sinking slowly down on the horizon, enhancing the landscape’s rich colors and hues. The road often turned at sharp angles following the property lines of the ranches, farms and homesteads, but the slower pace allowed us to take in the serene, bucolic atmosphere. I said to myself “I could live here”. We came this way from Green, looking for a “short cut” to highway 42 and our home in Myrtle Point. A short cut that didn’t necessarily have to be a shorter route, just a more scenic, alternate one to the well traveled highway. Before too long this path brought us to a crossroads where we turned on to the “Coos Bay Wagon Road”. Finally traveling in a more westerly direction than before we felt we might actually be able to take this road all the way to Myrtle Point, or at least to communities and other roads that would get us home. So we just continued along even as we climbed . . . and climbed . . and climbed some more. The road continued up as we passed a small roadside park, and an open valley with mountain views beyond the clear-cut foreground.

Then we started down. And down. The canyon became small and tight. The wet road seemed to change from pavement to gravel but it was hard to tell since it appeared to be a bit snow-covered. . . no, alas, it’s packed ice. With the sun very low and out of sight, the whole canyon was in shadow. As we passed through the dense forest the light was very dim but we could still see beautiful cascading waterfalls and pools of clear, no doubt, very cold water.

The trees were laden with a thick moss coating that resembled strips of heavy, dark green velvet fabric, like that from parlor drapes or a settee of a bygone era. At first glance, I was consumed by the beautiful richness of color and texture, but as we continued along this narrow, ice-packed road (to who knows where) the moss took on a smothering, almost menacing quality, and I lamented “Why don’t we have a road map in the glove box?” Frankly, my imagination began to run wild as I half expected to see the flying monkeys from “The Wizard of Oz” appear and circle around us as the hillsides seem to close in on us. Mentally chastising myself for not having some warmer clothes, a sleeping bag and some food stashed in the old truck, my husband casually says to me “Looks like a well traveled road”. (Yeah, well traveled by flying monkeys maybe.) I’m now wondering if one could get cell phone reception out of this narrow valley, even though we don’t own one and have no real plans to get one.

Just when I think we will be seeing a “Road Closed in One Mile” sign, we leave the canyon, like Jonah being coughed up by the whale. We enter an open valley with cattle grazing, rural volunteer fire department signs, and chimneys emitting swirls of wood smoke. Civilization! I look out at the homes and wonder what the inhabitants are doing: knitting, cooking dinner, talking on the phone, reading a book, or watching television? That they were otherwise engaged in their safe and cozy abode and totally oblivious to the perilous adventure we just had (or could have had!) above stream of their homes.

Now, I am home too. We’ve got the wood stove warming up the house, while dinner is simmering, and JPR’s musical programming floats through the air. Now that I am safe and warm and soon to be well-fed, I want to go back and photograph those waterfalls, touch the thick velvety moss and hear the ice-packed road crunch beneath my feet. I guess that’ll just have to be another day. (This story was originally written January 29, 2007. We traveled the route again February 14, 2010 - this time with a camera and a picnic lunch.)