The Canyon Move Chapter 2

The rain was a welcome revelation.  It was early May and so far, it had been a very dry spring, following a desolate winter, devoid of any real snowpack or substantial precipitation.  Thus, the current downpour that had ensued over the last three days was as revered by us as it was wonderfully satiating to the surrounding Central Oregon landscape.  It was with these celebratory vibes that we packed up pb&j’s and thermoses of soup, enough for five and clambered into the truck, outfitted in our hats and boots and set off to meet the well driller out at the property that was soon to be our new home.  The Forty, as it was called, as it had always been called, was a 50-minute drive, but there was none of the usual customary grumbling or rude interchange between the teenage inhabitants of the backseat.  No, all of us, even the three surly, hormonal, impatient kids in the back, were in good spirits; they were even being sort of nice to each other.  

As we set out, for our first official workday at the property since declaring we would be moving there, the rain fell harder until it seemed to be pouring from the sky as if from huge, overturned barrels.  Josh said, almost to himself, “wow, I wonder if the well guy is really up for this today?  Maybe I should see if he’d like to reschedule.”  He quickly called via the truck’s hands-free device and Larry confirmed that he was game to meet us in spite of the rain. “Cool,” exclaimed Josh, and I nodded in agreement.  “Takes more than a little rain to scare off an old school, Madras well driller,” Josh said proudly.  Josh grew up in Madras, and though he had a complicated, sometimes negative relationship with the town, he never passed up on the chance to recognize its good qualities or its good people.   

We met Larry, spry for his age, maybe seventyish, wearing a ball cap, Carhartt jacket, and cowboy boots, just north of town where he would follow us the rest of the way into The Forty, as it didn’t yet have a physical address marker or an easily accessible or discernable point of entry.  Water was our first order of business.  Before the move and teepees, before a bathroom, before improving the road, or building fences for the animals, we had to have available, clean water on the property.  Josh had already worked out a temporary water hauling and storing system, especially in anticipation of moving the animals soon - they would need water immediately.  But, a well was the long-term, practical solution for having enough water to accommodate our whole brood, full time.  Since the inception of this adventure, I have marveled at the idle ease in which we all had taken for granted having endless, plentiful water at our fingertips for drinking, for baths, for showering, for washing hands, dishes, horses, dogs and cars, for brushing teeth, for filling stock tanks and dog dishes, for watering flowers and the lawn, for cooking, for wiping down surfaces, for living our typical, high consumptive life.  Turns out, we use a lot of water for a lot of different things!  So, this was a big moment, meeting Larry, to get his thoughts on feasibility and a cost estimate for drilling a well.  But first, we had to get him onto the property.

As the rain thrummed down, we pulled onto the rutted dirt access road which acted as the easement through the neighboring farmer’s hayfield to The Forty.  As Josh eased the big Ram pickup through the mud, the tires began to slip.  “geez,” he said, putting the pickup in 4-wheel drive while looking in the rearview mirror back at Larry following behind in a smaller truck.  It was then that we noticed the massive wheel line spraying an industrial-sized volume of water onto the lane ahead.  As we continued over that extra wet portion of the road the truck began to slip, sliding laterally towards the soggy, grassy bank.  Just as the mud fully enveloped our tires, sucking the truck into final submission, I looked back and saw Larry’s truck swerving, out of control off the road.  It careened over a small bank, headlong into a barbed-wire fence.  

“Oh my God, Larry just wrecked!”  We all barrelled out of the pickup, slipping and sliding in our boots over the slick mud as we made our way over to see if Larry was alright.  He jumped out of the truck as we approached.  He was fine, thank goodness, but my relief was slightly hampered when I saw how shook up this tough, wizened, country guy was. The kids were totally enthralled by the whole situation; by now they were outside of the truck, devices and headphones left behind, as they surveyed the scene.  Oh, and it was a scene.  Our truck was stuck, a thick veneer of mud encased the tires so that they appeared to be devoid of any tread.  Larry’s white pickup rested on the other side of the sloping bank, stopped by two strands of thick, taut, rusty barbed wire, the third strand snapped off at the post where the passenger side bed panel had smashed.  

Nobody is hurt, we are all fine, the kids are fine, Larry is fine, I thought, as I silently inventoried the chaos.  I looked at Josh, trying to get a feel for how close his head was to exploding. His was a wide-eyed expression, blending disbelief, bemusement, and consternation all at once.  The kids were excitedly surveying the damage to Larry’s truck, and taking turns indelicately exclaiming the colossal extent of it, as if to make sure what Larry was probably thinking in private, was explained out loud in excruciating detail. “Wow, it’s totally smashed!” and “that’s craaazy!” and “He took out the whole fence!” Adorable and charming as they were, they had an uncanny knack for awkwardly exclaiming the most obvious, better left unsaid, details of any situation.  As Josh and I approached Larry, he said in a shaky voice, “The boss ain’t gonna be too happy ‘bout this.”  Then, practically within the same breath, he shook off the trauma of the last few minutes and said, “Spose we better see if we can get it unstuck.”

After some digging, some pushing, some slipping and sliding, some deep breathing, and some praying, we were able to free the truck from the fence and get it back up to the muddy road.  It wasn’t clear how or even if the truck would make it back to the paved road, but we turned our attention to fixing the torn-down barbed wire fence.  The cows that said the fence was responsible for corralling had begun to gather around, so time was wasted. Josh had some fencing tools in the bed of his truck and Larry, it turns out, was quite the hand.  He had grown up on a ranch and knew what he was doing.  Josh and he went to work and within about forty minutes, they had the fence patched together, looking tighter and straighter than it had before. 

“Well, I guess we better try this again another day, huh?” Josh asked.  But, Larry was adamant, “We’re here.  We might as well take a look.  I don’t mind walking if you don’t.  I could use the exercise!”  

Blinkingly astonished, we had no choice, but to oblige him in all of his dogged perseverance.  The air was lovely, fresh and clean, the rain had slowed to an intermittent, light drizzle, our outerwear had kept us relatively dry and all around us the desert sage was vividly fragrant and bright green.  Actually, this was an amazing opportunity to experience the desert in these rare, misty moments right after a rainstorm.  The landscape was miraculous and transformed. The sky was adorned with silver gossamer clouds and grey shadowy thunderheads that only partially shrouded bright, streaky sun rays as they shown through small tears in the cottony, fabric-like haze.  These stray beams illuminated the sage and juniper and the desert grasses, now bejeweled with rain droplets.  And the birds, my goodness, the birds!  They began to sing and call, as if announcing the break in the rain as a celebration, time to come out and be merry!   And that’s how it felt, despite the morning’s mishaps.  As we walked the remaining mile or so into our property, we let go, for just a bit, of the mess we were in with our stuck vehicles and slippery mud. We heard more of Larry’s story, he was 75 years old, quite the horseman, married to his sweetheart, and was a multigenerational well driller.  The more he talked, he revealed a humble tenderness that belied his outward, good old boy appearance.     

The kids calmed down and side conversations cropped up here and there as we walked. James, our oldest kid, at 14 was the most enthusiastic about the move and was excited to pick out his teepee spot.  He was quiet and introspective, the empath of the bunch, he loved nature and couldn’t wait to move to the property.  At least, I think he was excited to move, at least, that’s what he said, that’s how he seemed.  Still, I never felt like I really knew what he was thinking or how he was feeling.  A lot of the time, he was an enigma to me, elevated and a bit removed, an old soul who often appeared to be patiently waiting for something else.  Jacob and Luke, both 13, both a lot less cryptic about their true feelings, had made it known that they were more wary of the impending move.  However, they were humoring us today, even though we had rousted them out of bed early and we were thankful for their goodwill.  Yet, I could tell the stress of the morning’s mud bogging had worn Luke down a little.  Plans changing or out of nowhere shifts in the agenda, sudden drama or tension were all hard on him and I could tell he was feeling overwhelmed as his attitude slowly became more negative and he appeared more withdrawn.  Hopefully, the nature sounds and smells and the exercise would help soothe him, bring him back to us.  The impending move with all of its unknowns and changes was a point of strain for him, and I was trusting that these first few property outings would help him ease into the transition and keep him from feeling overloaded or overstimulated.  So far, this trip had achieved the opposite.  Sometimes, I felt like I couldn’t get anything right when it came to being his mom.  Still, he looked like he was doing ok, beginning to relax some as we walked, perhaps even, sort of enjoying the adventure, although he thought we were crazy for coming out here today and had said so several times already. Jacob, on the other hand, with his endless energy and his 6’2” frame, thrived on drama.  He was invigorated by the morning’s events and he bounded ahead of us and then back to us and then around us, over and over until I’m sure he covered two or three miles to our one. With every pass, he’d ask random questions about the property, or details about the move, or about the truck being stuck.  The more his body moved, the more his brain fired.

When we finally arrived at the rustic, barb wire gate signaling the entrance to The Forty.  Josh showed Jacob how to open it and shut it.  It took some strength and coordination, it was heavy and awkward, between its tangled barbed wire strands and stripped juniper end post.  It had to be pulled tight at exactly the right angle and tension to get it opened and then closed.  Jacob struggled for a minute, but his height and unusual strength helped him handle the unwieldy gate and I saw his surprise and blooming confidence when he realized he could totally do it, pretty easily.  He was off the charts for growth and physical development, for his age but at 13, he was still figuring out how to possess his physicality.  

Josh and I followed Larry around as he surveyed the land and calculated out loud where the well should be drilled.  Once on our property, the road in, if it could even be called that, became rougher and narrower, erupting with thick sage and chaparral.   There would be a lot of brush and tree clearing involved to make way for the trucks, but it sounded like Josh could handle what needed to be done with his chainsaw.  The well-drilling trucks could handle the rugged road, so long as we had some of the heavier, protruding juniper branches pruned back.  After a heavy disclaimer that there were, “no guarantees,” and “you could wind up with nothing,” Larry concluded that water would be likeliest found at the confluence of the canyon running through the southeast portion of the property.  Now, it was time for Larry to go.  The kids finished up their sandwiches and soup, and we headed back out on foot to where the vehicles were mired.  Larry remarked that the mud should have dried enough by now for us to drive out.  It had quit raining a couple of hours ago, but there was no wind and the air was still damp and cool.  As we came up over the hill entering the hayfield, the pivot was still spraying loads of water on the part of the road that our truck needed to traverse.  My heart sank, as I saw Josh’s face fall.  This was not a good sign for us getting out of here today.  Larry’s truck was closer to the road and clear of the sprinkler’s deluge.  He would need to try to leave first as he was blocking our way out.  He and Josh had a quick physics discussion and agreed upon a plan.  A little push at this angle from Josh, followed by a turn of the wheel and press on the gas pedal by Larry and they believed they could get him on his way.  Before they commenced with the plan, Larry made sure we didn’t want him to stay to help get our truck out.  We assured him that we had some more to do at the property and felt like by the time we were ready to leave, the pivot would have moved on and the road would be dry enough to drive on.  He seemed satisfied with our story and with that, hopped in his truck.  Josh got in position and Jacob came over to help.  When Larry nodded, they pushed.  Within a second Larry pitched the little white truck left and right, fishtailing and gunning it wildly until it straightened out and took off down the road.  It was an impressive display of driving for anyone, especially a 74-year-old man.

After he left, Josh and I commiserated for a moment; it was getting late in the afternoon, we needed to get back to Tumalo to feed horses and do chores soon and we still had no idea if the truck would make it out.  The plan had been to meet with Larry for an hour or so and then put in a good six hours, fixing fence and clearing branches for the horse trailer and teepees.  We had accomplished none of that and the day was nearly over.  We decided to cut our losses and come back in the next couple days to work on our projects.  We still had plenty of time, about ten weeks, before our prospective move date of June 20th, so we felt ok chalking this day up to what it was - a great day of adventure and quality family time.  The kids were collectively unimpressed with their parents’ rosy spin, but Josh and I were not detoured.  We were embracing the opportunity of the situation.  That’s right, we were making the most of it and actually thankful for the teachings of the day’s struggle, to stay in the moment and open to all of its spontaneous splendor.  “Get in the truck everybody, let’s get back and finish this day strong” Josh proclaimed, with an air of triumph.  

We all clambered in, James muttering under his breath about one of his brothers’ B.O., Luke already complaining about Jacob’s elbow, Jacob already, doing his best to stick his elbow in Luke’s bubble.  The magic of the morning’s potentiality was wearing off.  From the back, we were feeling the reverberations of teenaged prefrontal cortexes going off-line.  We needed to get on the road.  Josh gave me a look as he started the truck, a look I knew well, a mixture of panicky fear and “let’s do this” fortitude.  But, as he implored the truck to make haste, it didn’t move.  The tires spun and spun, flinging mud all around, splattering the truck’s exterior and windows.  Yeah, we were still totally stuck.  Josh looked at me, resigned.  

“Out of the truck!” he cried. Everyone climbed out, momentarily pausing their bickering as this new issue became the focus.  Ok, no problem, we’d just call Josh’s parents, who lived five minutes down the road, and were almost always home. They would come get us, give us a ride back to Tumalo, and we would come back the next day in the car to pick up the truck.  It was a hassle, especially for Josh’s parents, but it was a doable solution.  

“Except they don’t have a car that will fit all of us,” said Josh.    

“Oh. Yeah,” I realized.  “I’ll call my mom, maybe she’s home from work.”  She had a big, four-door pickup like ours and also lived in Madras, but there was no answer when I rang her.  She was clearly still at work which meant there would be no reaching her until after dark.  

Josh called his mom, who came up with the answer to our problem.  Marty, Josh’s stepdad, could come get us in the truck with the camper attached.  Josh had her on speaker and the kids all cheered at the prospect of riding in the back of the truck in the camper.  For them, sometimes it was the little things. Sandy, Josh’s mom also had us on speaker and she and Marty both chuckled at the kids’ enthusiasm.  Then Marty said, almost to himself, “I’ll have to see if I can get it started.  Might need to change the oil.  And, I think there’s a hornets nest under the hood, so I’ll need to blow that outta there.”  They would call us back with some news.  

A while later after a fair bit of mechanicks, our chariot was ready.  An early eighties model, old school Chevy truck affixed with an early seventies model camper, neither were in mint condition, definitely more than one owner.  We would come back in a couple of days, once the mud dried out, to retrieve our truck.  Josh and I had already decided that he would ride in the two-seater cab with Marty and I would ride in the camper with the kids.  When we separated to our respective stows, as our ride began, I realized our rosy spin had become far less triumphant.  And what a ride it was.  Over an hour of churning exhaust fumes and swaying back and forth left me nauseous and grumpy.  The kids were oblivious to my misery and the camper afforded them the luxury of extra room to spread out, thereby not having to touch or smell each other, so they were good.  

When we finally got home, we were worn out, but all accounted for and eagerly greeted by our happy, hungry menagerie. After feeding the animals in their lovely barn, making dinner in our well-appointed, gourmet kitchen within the confines of our comfy house, after hot showers and even a couple baths in the jet tub, after climbing into beds, everyone in their own cozy rooms, it occurred to me that everything would be different soon.  As I laid in bed, listening to the light drizzle on the roof above, the day’s events had left me feeling a little worried about the magnitude of what we were endeavoring to pull off in the coming weeks. Conversely, the evening’s comforts had reminded me of what we were going to be leaving behind.  There was to be an extreme stripping down coming soon and for the first time since we decided to make this change, I feared what that might actually feel like, what that might actually mean.  

We had clumsily, but steadily moved through everything the property had thrown at us today, all the while knowing that we had a home full of creature comforts waiting for us once the day was over.  The starkness of The Forty, its raw beauty and its wildness had suddenly come into focus, making it seem, perhaps fundamentally, uninhabitable.  We had a really, good truck and we were meeting a true, old school, local and we had all still been completely derailed before we even stepped foot on the property.   Would we be any match for The Forty itself? There was literally nothing out there.  We were starting from scratch.  Self-doubt, fear and narratives of failure infiltrated my consciousness and I began to feel panicky.  Then, Josh walked by and I heard his soft, deep voice talking and then laughing with James.  I’m not sure what they were talking about but their banter soothed me and I was transported back to the moments in the desert after the rain had stopped  and our family was all together and I saw my kids being themselves, unencumbered and I saw Josh leading us on a great adventure, and in that moment, I felt so much love, I thought my heart might burst.   

Yes, what we were embarking on was to be a stripping down, indeed a detachment from much of what I thought we couldn’t live without.  At that moment, I realized that this was an integral part of our family’s quest.  I had to disentangle from the old stories I had always used as excuses for living small and I had to let go of the mountains of stuff that I had accumulated as consolation prizes in lieu of living the life I really wanted.  The transformation that my soul craved would not be easily won, but that was the point.  Through the struggle, I would find my voice, I would tune into my why and I would help create something meaningful and powerful to share with the world.    

- Victoria Williams