Everyone needs a friend like Evelyn

Everyone needs a friend like Evelyn.

She called me up a couple of weeks ago, "Hey, what's your week look like? Let's go to the river." We both gravitate to water and mountains. This summer - the hottest summer on record so far - water is the destination.

She picked me up in her dusty red Toyota Prius, and we added a few more digits to her 250,000+ mile odometer. At the border station between Oregon and California, a guard stood idle in a green uniform. I looked at Evelyn as she slowed down, "Uh…I brought oranges. They were probably grown in California.”

Oregonians who live close to the California border frequently cross over to go to the redwoods for the day. There are no stores between the border and the redwoods. If you don't bring food, you don't eat lunch. We pack home any cores/peels and never leave scraps behind. Considering the enormous numbers of pests that have come into Southern Oregon in the last few years from California, we figure an apple or an orange on a day trip is fair game.

She smirked, "Whatever. This station is where I learned to lie." The car rolled to a stop.

"Do you ladies have any produce onboard?" The green pants man with police-style sunglasses bent slightly at the hip to look inside the window where Evelyn rested her elbow.

She smiled at him nonchalantly, "No, sir. We don't."

"Okay then, have a nice day." The produce policeman waved her on as he straightened his back.

I smiled and shook my head, "Does anyone ever tell the truth at this border shack?"

Evelyn laughed, "Are you kidding me? No way."

We chitter-chattered while the car bee bopped down Highway 199 south through the Redwoods to Gasquet, where she ducked off the main lanes onto a dirt road that bumped us to a trailhead in the woods. She shimmied the car next to a tree and parked in the shade.

Evelyn shoved food into her daypack while I pulled on hiking shoes. I know better than to follow her down a trail wearing flip-flops. The woman can easily out hike me. My nine extra years of youth hold nothing to her stamina and robust health. On this day, the trail is gracious. A mile or so up a mellow incline through the riparian forest led us to a downhill descent where boulders and river rocks stretch as far as you can see up and down river.

The Smith River.

It's one of my favorite rivers and one of the largest river systems in California that flows freely along its entire course, undammed. It's the poster child of the National Wild and Scenic River program. The blue-green water is crystal clear, and the fish are happy. It’s a shining example of what a healthy river looks like. Unfortunately, there are very few rivers in the Lower 48 States like The Smith.

We broke past the tree line and started the incline down to the narrow valley holding the emerald water rushing toward the ocean. The trail descended a steeper hillside; a perfect rattlesnake haven of rocks and boulders piled on each other, soaking up the afternoon heat. The sun pummeled the stones, and Evelyn shouted back over her shoulder, "Watch for rattlesnakes." When I reached the spot she was standing when she sailed that message back to me, I understood. If I were a snake, I would live here too.

A thought brushed across my mind. There is no "watching for snakes" in this rocky field. If you're unlucky enough to disturb one, it will likely be next to or under a rock you loosed, and you won't know it's there until it says hello. But I carefully watched where I put my feet anyway because that's what you do in snake habitat.

We were given safe passage to the bottom and found a semi-level place with a spot of shade from the Ponderosa Pine towering on the bank above us. The river was glorious. Evelyn jumped right in, and I eased my way into the brisk water. It was cold, not frigid. Swift, not fast. We ferried across the current to a mini beach on the other side with long, smooth flat rocks where we could pretend to be lizards and warm our bones for the next round of swimming.

A few hours later, Evelyn pulled out a bag full of her garden bounty. We ate the food we lied about while our shade dispersed with the sinking angle of the west-bound sun—a perfect Oregon (in this case, California) day.

Back at the car, I felt that good kind of tired from doing what the body is designed to do: play in the river, hike in the woods. We tooled south another fifteen minutes to dip our toes in the ocean and buy some fresh smoked salmon from the local fish store. I was delighting in a bite of greasy fish when Evelyn started the car back up and turned to me, "I love where we live. There are so many epic day trips to do!"

Evelyn, I concur.

We scooted back up Highway 199 north toward home, waved at the border shack on the way by, and made it home in time for evening chores. Oregon summer life is good.

A few days ago, I heard from Evelyn again, "Hey, what does your week look like? Want to go to the lake?"

Everyone needs a friend like Evelyn.

☆ ☆ ☆

Summer Day-Tripping In Oregon

Everyone needs a friend like Evelyn