Daytripping
Notes from a somber drive through Oregon’s wine country
This post is an account of a day trip I took this past spring through Oregon’s wine country.
Every drive on the highways that meander through the scarcely populated stretches of the Western United States is a pilgrimage. It’s a time to sit in the sacred loneliness that is always stalking me, and it’s a time to marvel at the infinite variety of beauty this world contains.
On this day, I’m driving to see a friend I haven’t laid eyes on for a few years. We first met as young men, confident in the holiness of our mission, arrogant in our own wisdom, strength, and youth. Or perhaps, I was the only arrogant one.
Now, we are dead-center in middle age, like the dotted yellow line I follow over hill after rolling hill, and are skeptical of the holiness we once preached, humbled by life, and now meekly confident that the only joy in life is what you are willing to bring with you.
My friend is freshly in the grips of another tragic loss, and I drive past a small cemetery and country church overlooking farmland fresh out of hibernation.
