Part 16: The Fall Line

Chapters

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A drive from Oregon to Florida, to experience music and living across the USA, and ultimately join a jazz cruise. AKA, a listening practice, unfolding in real time—written on the road, in the spaces between cities and notes.

Day Thirty-One

Zion, UT to Columbia River Gorge, OR

Utah opens into Idaho with geological generosity. Alta's slopes in the distance. Snowbird nearby. Gratitude arrives quietly.

Then Twin Falls. Shoshone Falls pushes through basalt with relentless force. I didn't create any of this. I'm merely inside it.

Leaving Twin Falls, the topography feels like memory. The Snake River flashes beneath the Perrine Bridge—vast, muscular, indifferent.

I think about the gorgeous native cutthroat on the Crooked River. The caddisfly, mayfly and stonefly hatches on the Deschutes at dusk. The Metolius magic on a cloudy day featuring delicate green drakes. Trout rising. Insects lifting.

The more I learned what lived beneath the surface—hatch cycles, drift, timing—the more reverent I became. Understanding layers changed everything.

Above me now: geological strata. Below me then: entomological ones. Different scales. Different seasons. Same lesson. Pay attention. Match the conditions. Respect the timing.

Driving past signs for Sun Valley, another memory surfaces. A partner who met me where I was. Ski-in, ski-out lodge. Except that year, there was no snow. We drove instead. Beyond the resort. To find our own adventure.

Mesmerized by skiers carving elegant s-curves cascading down the mountains. Evenly spaced. Confident. Powder billows in slow cinematic clouds. Skiers descending after hours of climbing. The once blank field holding a signature—a flowing ribbon of linked S's Proof of passage, rhythm, and thrust in the fall line.

I wanted that. So I hired a guide. Climbed with skins at dawn. At the summit, I was exhilarated. My partner unsure. I dropped in. Until I realized he was still at the top. Waiting. We climbed back. The descent took longer than expected. Through trees. Light fading. But we made it.

What stays with me isn't the snow. It's this: My partner's abilities didn't match mine. His capacity for life and courage to live it did. He met me where I was.

The body performs or it doesn't. The spirit decides whether or not to try.

That kind of partnership is rare. I'm grateful I've known it. To have shared it. And to have been present enough to appreciate its uniqueness at the time.

The Columbia River Gorge appears like a closing chord. Snow covered Mount Hood steady in the distance. The river bends. And I feel it before I say it: Home.

Miles ahead.

To Be Continued / See Chapter List At Top