The Lure of the Backroads

After the emotion of departure, there is a road trip. That’s the best part.

I don’t know about you, but to me there is nothing so pleasant as turning onto a road you’ve never been on, a route picked off a map. The potential and possibility of what might lie around that unknown turn makes me bouncy with anticipation. The excitement of discovery is delicious

And if the road happens to be a backroad, a smaller country highway perhaps, then all the better.

My favorite backroad adventure took place one summer as I returned from a three-day backpacking trip with A. Our route back to the city was shut down due to a forest fire, we detoured far around the fire area, lost many hours doing so, and ended up in a highway motel when we were both too exhausted to continue driving. The next morning, after breakfast, we found that one of the tires on the car had been punctured and was now completely flat.

(I later discovered that my horoscope for the month warned that any travel would be plauged by delays and detours, which made me reconsider the wisdom of astrology and think that perhaps I should be reading my horoscope at the beginning of the month rather than the end).

Because the spare tire wouldn’t allow driving at the high speeds expected of the large highway we’d normally take back to San Francisco, we made one small but ultimately significant decision: rather than spending the day hunting down a new tire in an unfamiliar town, we decided to take the backroads all the way home.

That day took us down rural winding roads lined with walnut trees and past lakes that twinkled in the sunlight. There were leafy valleys and farms and rolling hillsides covered in grapevines. I had driven past these hills every summer since I was a teenager, on the big super-highway that leads north to the mountains, with little besides gas stations and roadside fast food joints to punctuate the journey. I had been missing out.

On the highway, the drive was something to get over with as fast as possible, a necessary inconvenience between departure and destination. But this long slow drive home was a different sort of trip. We threaded our way past green rivers, stopped to look at waterfalls, and arrived back a day late but filled with memories and joy that even now, years later, gleams in the palm of my hand. That detour became a journey all of its own, the drive home was every bit as exciting and adventurous as the vacation had been.

Ever since then, I take every opportunity to choose the road less traveled.

That is why I was so happy to turn off the behemoth of a highway and onto a smaller road, one the leads from Salem, Oregon westward to the coast. Though I have explored much of Oregon, I have never driven this particular road. It would all be new and surprising, and that sense of hope fluttered in a heart that was feeling weary and worn from too many questions, too many goodbyes. The day was warm and clear, with an unbelievably blue sky, and as soon as I made the turn I began to feel buoyant.

Not six miles later I pulled the car over for the first time. That’s the thing about the backroads, you can’t go very far without seeing something interesting that just calls at your to explore. In this case it was this sign:



And this lovely house.



The Brunk House was built in 1861 for Emily and Harrison Brunk, originally of Missouri. In 1849 they packed their possessions, freed their slaves, and spent the next seven months making the journey westward on the Oregon Trail. They were following Emily’s brother, who has established a church in the nearby town of Eola. Emily and Harrison hired a neighbor to build the house you see here, it cost them $844.

While the house and farm is open to the public, under the auspices of the Polk County Historical Society, it was closed while I was there. I couldn’t help peeking into the kitchen, and taking a few blurry photos through the window pane. How fascinating to think about life back then.



And to look at the actual implements they used in daily life. No packaged food here (no KitchenAids, food processors, or immersion blenders either). I bet this farm was a world unto itself—churning it’s own butter, raising animals for eggs and meat, growing fruits and vegetables in the garden. Grains and straw would have been harvested around this time of year, put up to sustain the family and the animals through the long winter ahead. I imagined bread backing, jam making, and drying herbs, fruits, nut, and beans—not to mention seeds from the garden. I wish I could learn from these farm matriarchs how to do all this.



The only thing I wouldn’t have been thrilled about: the outhouse in the garden.



Walking back to the car I passed an old apple tree and wondered if these were the original fruit trees, planted by the Brunks low these many years ago.



This part of the country is known for fruit trees, but these days a new sort of fruit is taking over. Just beyond the Brunk house stands a sign for three different wineries and I again pulled over. Though I didn’t have the time or interest in tasting, autumn is the best time to appreciate grape vines. The ones here were heavy with clusters, each one tight to the touch and warm from the sun (don’t worry, no Oregon wine was harmed in the taking of these photos). I thought of how the yield of these grapes will go to tank or barrel and then to bottle and then out into the world to be purchased, brought home, and savored.



And the road stretched away from me, with the apple trees of Oregon’s past on one side, and the wine grapes of Oregon’s future on the other.



There were fields of corn as well, a green blur with golden tassels out the car window.



And old barns, surrounded by leaves just beginning to turn. I love old barns.



And even older barns.



As the road climbed into to the hills there were forests, the trees Oregon is famous for.



This too is part of the story of Oregon. Forestry has for years been a crucial part of the economy.



As is this: a clear cut. It always takes my breath away and turns my stomach to see how an entire patch of forest can be eradicated, turned into a dead zone.



The road twisted and turned and each vista, each new discovery, buoyed me up, excited me, and calmed me all at the same time. I settled into the rhythm of the road, the smooth curves and the fresh wind in through the open window. Finally I reached the ocean and stared at its vast greatness, the one thing that never fails to make me feel small and my worries smaller still. I breathed deep and the cares of the past few months, the underlying questions that riddled me night and day (here or there, there or here?) fell away and I simply was. Happy.