I came to the pacific northwest in June of 2009, fresh out of college and wondering what the hell I was doing in this far away place. I had grown up in New England, a child of privilege, living in one of the most affluent counties in the United States. I did not struggle to put food on my table and I did not have to fend for myself in a family of six. I was given every opportunity but up until I was nearly 20 I had squandered my life. I had lived in the haze of excessive alcohol, tobacco, and drug use, ignorantly believing that somehow I would be immune to the realities of the world. But I wasn’t, and I would unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, learn that the hard way.
By the time I attended the University of New Hampshire in the fall of 2006 I was finally beginning to get my life together. After many years wandering, mangled from the car crash that was my teenage years, I was finally coming into a state of stability. I was coming out of the chaos with renewed hope in my second chance and three years later I emerged from a fog of troubles that were now behind me and earned my college degree in Wildlife Ecology; a feat which only years ago had seemed but a dream. And it was then, walking up to receive my diploma that I shed the great weight of the person I had been and became that man I wanted to be.
I would leave for the northwest that spring and spend just over a year living in southeast Washington. It was a strange, eerie, arid landscape where I would eventually meet many dear friends and have my first real introduction to agriculture and a different way of life. But it was Oregon that changed everything. It was Oregon that opened my eyes to the life I wanted to live, one in which doing it yourself was respected above all else. And it was Oregon where I would learn to hunt.
When you talk to anyone outside this geographic region and mention Oregon they have these images of moss covered forests and beautiful coastlines; images of Portland and Mt. Hood. They think of a place far removed from the arid west and its rolling lowlands but in truth the state is very much divided. Between the dew covered forests of the west and sun soaked sagebrush of the east you can hardly believe you’re in the same state at times. The Cascade Range draws a clear line, north to south, and when you enter into this rural eastern world you enter into a culture forgotten by many but which is very much alive on the land and in the hearts of westerners.
To go over the list of all the things I will take away and remember from Oregon would provide better material for a book than a blog but there are still many things I will never forget.
Before I moved here the knowledge of where our nation’s beef supply came from was something I had never thought about. I, like many, just accepted that our store shelves were lined with the latest trimmings of beef for all to buy. But after living here, experiencing it firsthand, I have found a vibrant culture, one where the only traffic jams are those caused by ranchers moving their cattle out to pasture, cow dogs guarding the roadsides. It’s a culture where the words cowboy and range rider aren’t some forgotten professions left to paintings on dark barroom walls. There are still men and women out here with incredible skill and stamina. Families that get up seven days a week to tend to their livelihood despite living in a world where ever advancing technologies are pushing their way of life further and further from the public eye. It’s telling and troubling to know the average age of a rancher now exceeds 50. Ironically enough, feeding our nation is becoming more important than ever.
It’s a culture where rodeos aren’t some spectacle of times past for tourists but yearly events that bring together small communities from across county lines. Counties which I might add are sometimes bigger than the whole of the region I grew up. And these counties are made up of small towns, ones like North Powder which upon my recent attending of a high school graduation saw a total of twelve seniors. And despite many folks not having children at that school the entire town was out to watch. There was even a slideshow for each of the graduates; it was really something else.
It’s a part of the country where homesteaders settled and till this day men and women can recall the ancestry of a family property. It’s where the spirit of hard work and self sacrifice isn’t some fodder for debate or posters but real, genuine necessity. And the people, with a culture completely foreign to my own, were more than happy to welcome me when I wanted to know more.
I was privy to these acts of kindness during my travels when I knocked on a rancher’s door to ask him about a tractor. Within an hour I was seated at his table, many hours from my own home, accompanied by his wife and daughters, neighbors, and other family friends. I was treated to a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and a raspberry dessert like something out of an old western tale; the experience was pure bliss. Many hours later I would shake their hands and wave goodbye to those dear people, all of them whom now hold the greatest of affections in my heart.
As time progressed I would continue to experience life anew. I would learn that out here living in a trailer isn’t something one should be ashamed of but rather a challenge to be taken on and if anything, it is not a life just anyone can handle. There are holes to patch, straw bales to be placed and water pipes to keep warm. There isn’t anything quite like waking up, turning on your faucet and immediately knowing the lines are frozen. You know from there it’s going to be a long day.
You learn that when the pilot light on our furnace goes out, the small non-existent flame can bring your trailer to an abrupt and cold stop. Any attempts to resuscitate the furnace are thwarted by frozen filters and of course this happens on the eve of Christmas. You learn to adapt, not fret. You learn to call around, not sit idle; that fixing it will require parts hard to find but once again living in small town Oregon makes all the difference.
With the clock nearing ten a phone call is placed and before you know it you are meeting up with a local heating guy to talk shop and buy parts. After some shared cell phones pictures of the problem and some quick off the cuff instructions you head home. With the headlights of your truck shining on your trailer in the darkness of the evening the filters are changed and the furnace again roars to life, this time for good; something that could not have happened without the kindness of others. Covered in kerosene and with tools scattered about a smile crossed your face; Merry Christmas.
Out here you learn that owning a gun isn’t taboo, it’s simply part of life. Learning to drive a tractor at the age of five isn’t a fun activity but rather a necessity for the family. Staying up in middle of the night to spotlight a field for new born calves is just the reality of how one makes a living and dirt roads aren’t something you only hear about on country radio but are a prominent part of life. You learn that eastern Oregon mud is stickier, tackier, and harder to deal with than any other mud you have ever encountered and I truly believe that if you called the liquid, mucky roads anything but treacherous, they may very well be insulted.
In the urban centers of America moms drive mini-vans, out here they drive ¾ ton diesel Dodge trucks, flatbeds standard, dogs balanced at the ready. Where I grew up seeing some of these older, worn down trucks would turn heads. Out here, that’s the norm. Nowadays seeing anything resembling a high priced sports car is like seeing a mallard in the middle of the desert. Out in the country old trucks aren’t just tossed aside, they are literally driven till they die and once they die, the beds are cut off and made into trailers. It’s a wonder.
Out here you can call a woman you don’t even know, ask her for some straw bales to put up alongside your trailer and her only response will be, “There are many for sale, about two miles up the road from my house. Go collect what you want and drop by with the money afterwards”. Not for a second questioning whether or not I would actually stop by after I had collected.
Out here the idea of government encroachment isn’t something that’s talked about on television, it’s a reality in a region where wildlife still roams opening and abundantly. It’s vast, beautiful, spectacular, wonderful, sensational, and rugged. It’s everything you dream about as a kid.
But that’s not to say this life is better or easier or for everyone. It’s simply different and for those like my brother, who lives in and loves New York City, both societies are a necessity. To hear him talk about cities is to hear me talking about the country. We all have our loves, none better or worse than others. However, I have found that mine love is out here, out west, living the life I never knew was available to me when I was younger.
And to top it all off I found myself immersed in the world of hunting, heading off for adventures of unspeakable pleasure and writing this blog. I have enjoyed hunting chukar on the rocky cliffs of the Burnt River Canyon, elk on the ridges of the Elkhorn Mountains, sage grouse on the slopes of the Steens Mountain Range, black bear in the foothills of Baker Valley, deer hidden in the shadows of Mt. Emily, and partridge amongst the sagebrush. I had a great guide to help me not only learn what needed to be done but what I could do on my own. A guide to help me discover that my dog was lacking the basic dog instincts and a guide to teach me the only things worth doing were those with your own two hands.
I leave here with much gained and with so much left on the table. But the things I have learned will stick with me. They will be carried onward to whatever place I end up and they will manifest into the life I want to live. In the end however there are some many other nuances of this place that perhaps can’t be expressed in words but which you can only truly understand by living here.
I leave Oregon next week with sadness but I understand that I am just shy of 30 and if I should get more years on this earth I know I may yet someday return. Until then this chapter has ended, but the book I believe, has just begun.
