We arrived after noon at her parent’s house in a Bend, after a 4-hour journey from Portland, south to Corvallis, and then East on 20 over the Cascades to snowy, dry, high-desert Central Oregon. Her little Ford Focus, equipped with snow tires, was enough to get us through the mostly-clear pass, and by the time we hit 97 in Bend, the outside of the car was caked in the standard coat of red road grime from the mix of volcanic dirt, and ever-present snow berms on the side of the highway. This was my first trip back to Oregon in nine months, when I’d relocated to Kona, HI. My first vacation back to my homeland.
I’ve been to Bend a dozen times, mostly on fantastic college Sunriver trips, experiences which burned into my youthful psyche eternal images of stockpiled liquor, fresh kegs, ravaged hot tubs, and real life Party-To-Go scenarios, balcony dancers and all. This, of course, in the refreshing backdrop of snowboarding days and snowy, wandering nights, leaving a blur of youthful debauchery on the spirit. Strangely enough, my North Pacific Division, a group of District Managers for Cutco Cutlery Products, decided we should head to the same winter destination each year for a retreat, an oversized rental house in Sunriver. So for a total of 7 years, I continued my annual winter pilgrimage east, over the Cascades, to the land of the Deschutes, both the river and the b brew.
This trip was with my girl, who had picked me up in Portland that morning, eschewing the day's psych and math classes at PSU in order to get on the road to the mountains. She’d left Kona six weeks earlier to finish up her BS in Art and Psych, and this was our first visit since her New Year’s Day departure. It didn’t take us long to fall back in love with each others' company, and we rekindled, pausing during my spontaneous naps, and then picking up when I woke up at a stop or break in my dreams. This was our first true vacation together, though she was really just maximizing her three day school, and we were headed not to Sunriver, but to a glorious three bedroom house her father had built, cornerstone to capstone, five years prior.
After I’d rested a spell, it became harder and harder to keep my hands of Sara, and as we stopped to change drivers, there was much frolicking in the snow before continuing east. I’d brought the sun, and the Santiam Pass was clear as any February day in recent past, and stayed so as we transitioned out of the mountains into the high desert. Suddenly we were out of the Fir and Pine forest, and into the grass fields of Madras, eating up the miles on 97. Soon we reached the industrial outskirts of Bend
We navigated through the newly posh downtown area, eyeing the surfeit of restaurants, boutiques, and urban moxie blossoming in the middle of the mountains. Though chilly outside, the sky remained a crisp morning-blue, part of the draw of this Oregon hot-spot, and to the north and west, various peaks of the snow-covered cascades created a zigzag against the bright backdrop: Three Sisters, Broken Top, Mt. Jackson. With Sara’s direction, we exited the highway, heading SW toward Mt. Bachelor, and Widgi Creek golf Course. As we passed near the gravely downtown grid, made up mostly of the one-way strips of (Wade and Balk) and the then further past some of the commercial warehouses, it was possible to get a sense of what had been going on in Bend the last 5 years. Having been ‘discovered’ fairly recently, much of the development has been over a short period of time, but well-planned and to very high standards. Whether it is homeowners associations or city planning protocol, the most prominent homes, (some 4 and 5 bedroom second homes for rich Portlanders and Californians, among others) fit within a general high-desert motif. Dark, earthy green tones and topes dominate the new developments, and even the architectures, though not cookie cutter by any means, compliment one another, with their deck shapes and window arrangements.
The newest downtown areas also follow the organic vibe of this unique town, in many ways distinct, but clearly drawing from the influences of Portland and Eugene nearby. The Safeway appears to be made from unfinished wood, like a sundry store on the Oregon Trail, and even the strip malls seem to nestle comfortably between the Ponderosa and Juniper in harmony rather than contrast. All in all Bend blends urban variety in the midst of a rural wonderland, clearly explaining why is has become the fastest growing city in Oregon.
But Bend was cool long before it became a headliner city. It is the main jumping-off point for Mt. Bachelor, Oregon’s premier snow-sport mountain during the winter, as well as popular rafting and camping destination when the weather permits. McMennamins, a pub/restaurant staple of any hip NW town, came many years after the Deschutes Brewery had made a name for itself locally. Now sold almost everywhere in the western US, Deschutes Brewery started as a small craft brew center in the late 80’s. Mirror Pond Pale Ale, one of their core selections, has been my favorite beer since I can remember having taste in beer, and every year for the last decade I have found a way to visit the brewery either for a pint, a pony keg, or both.
Our arrival in town happened to fall on Valentine’s Day, and dinner at the brewery, located at the end of Bond St. on the main drag, seemed perfect for my low-key lover and me. I’d called for reservations, which they do not accept, and found out that they weren’t expecting a wait this Valentines afternoon. I imagined us sipping rich wheat and coffee craft brews by the warm fire in the lodge-like brewery-restaurant, catching a fuzzy beer buzz and soaking in the warm-while-it’s cold out vibe.
First we had to set up house. Sara’s Mother had purportedly called the proper people to clear the unused driveway before our arrival, but was we reached the house, it was clear this had not happened. We worked up our appetite dealing with the large driveway-a mass of two-foot snow pack forty feet long and twenty feet wide. Sara’s car needed a home, so we decided to shovel the bare minimum of snow, just enough to get her car into and off the street, complying with association protocol. I drew a loose rectangle and began digging, slow going, throwing the dense chunks over my shoulder and off to the side. Sara turned on the house (water, heat, etc) and came out to help.
She used the hard shovel to break off large chunks, and I scooped them up with the big one and sent watermelon-sized snow bombs into the road and yard; some teamwork. The first pair of neighbors to stop by was an amicable old duo who clued us in on the situation regarding our snow-packed driveway. By this point we were both sweating, and I was shirtless, as we were informed that the neighbors across the street had dumped their snow in our yard-clearly breaking the neighborhood rules (real, written rules…the house is on a golf course). They explained that we could call and get our driveway cleared and charge the unruly, and currently absent, rule-breakers. Instead we asked Melinda to take our picture with our shovels, and continued digging.
As we finished our modest, patchwork snow portico, another helpful neighbor stopped in his big white Suburban, complete with Yakima storage container and racks on the roof, to explain, again, what had happened with the neighbors. We chatted for a while before he explained that our next-door neighbors would want us to have access to their snow blower. Within a few minutes he’d used his extra key to their house, accessed the 9 horsepower machine, and crawled it over on its 4” tractor treads. He ground the machine a few feet into the broad plane of snow still covering the driveway, before lowering the throttle and turning the formidable green machine over to me.
“If you’re going to be here for the weekend, you don’ want to have to walk over that snow over and over. Have you used one of these before?”
Though we both would have endured the challenge of walking over the snow, Mike made it seem that it would be illogical and foolish to do anything but use the machine to clear the remaining 25-30 feet to the house. He explained the simple gear system, chute control, and toggle for the rototiller-like 16 inch grinding spiral. I had no choice but to blow snow.
At first it was good fun, fountaining snow a dozen feet off to my left, doing man work, but the plow was not quite large enough to handle the deep snow, and would regularly get stuck against the top of the snow pack. Weighing at least 150 pounds, it was no easy task to yank the machine back to establish a new upward angle of attack. Yet every six inches, this was required to let the machine climb at an upward and imbibe the top layer of snow, issuing it out its chute in a parabola of displaced snow. I would then either tug the machine backward a foot, or take the time to put the tracks in reverse and then back into speed setting 3, for another run at the bottom foot of snow. Being a man, once I reached halfway, there was no turning back, despite the sweat and snow soaking into my pants. After 30 minutes of wrestling with the little 4-stroke beast, I looked back at a clean curve snaking a path through the smooth plane of sparkling snow. Ha! I’d completed the challenge, and slowly reversed the machine back to the main road, and then squeaked my way tank-like back to the neighbor’s garage. I hit the kill switch and quiet returned to the neighborhood.
After unpacking and utilizing the first signs of hot water, we were ready for an early dinner. We prepared for the elements in layers, ready for the freezing wind in the shade, but also prepared to shed our fleece for the 60+ degree temps in the still sunlight. Bend is truly high desert, and it is commonplace to see locals sporting both their mittens and sunglasses. Central Oregon scenery, especially the Cascades stretching endlessly to the north and south, makes it a pleasure to the senses, and the snow just ads the literal frosting. The tradeoff for this highland is the clay and dirt that cover every road and rural snow bank. Many times lines on the road were completely obscured by the muck. It wasn’t surprising to find that some ‘rocks’ on the side of the road are really just mini dirt glaciers holding out until spring.
After a quick freshening up, and some general doddling, we stepped outside into the crisp Valentines Day afternoon, Sara in her heels, me in my Merrills, and curved down the first portion of my recently completed pathway. Sara stopped inexplicably, at the end, shocked to find three gigantic chunks of snow in our path. The cause of the new obstruction became clear as we soon noticed the whole parking zone we’d cleared (the blue/brown Focus was parked in the offending neighbors driveway) had been re-cleared by some great beast of snow-moving might. We clambered over the snow chunks into the cleared section of driveway, paused to examine the handiwork, and scampered toward the car together, laughing at our wasted effort. Little did we know the joke was not over.
The Brewery representative I’d talked to had been right about availability at the pub, and we were seated right away, at a table with stools off to the side of the fires. Having lived in a small town on Hawaii for the last 9 months, I was immediately impressed by he timely and friendly reception. Hawaii is the Aloha state, but sometimes the customer service is overshadowed by the Ainokea (I no care) mentality. On the way to the table I noticed one table was receiving some delicious looking Buffalo wings, while another was sampling from six 4 ounce glasses of beer. I already knew my first 2 orders. Our waitress was a happy, mellow former teacher who’d found that chilling out as a waitress was actually more lucrative than teaching. A sad story, but she seemed quit stoked with her job, as anyone might be working less for more money, and chatted us up as we eyed the shockingly cheap menu.
If you are an Oregonian, you are already familiar with the idea of beer samplers; Widmer in Portland (though now owned by Budweiser) the McMennamins chain, Rogue and Deschutes all have enough unique brews to call for a sampler. I have read that Portland has the most Microbrews per capita in the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true for the state. We took turns selecting our six beers, a process far more fun and less snooty than trying to pick the best wine for a meal. I had to get the seasonal Buzzsaw Brown, and Sara found a Belgian selection that included hints of cinnamon. I followed up with a bold choice: the 11% Abyss, a coffee infused dark black brew. Sarah got a red chair IPA, and I had to finish with a Mirror Pond, for good measure. We finished off with a Painted Hills ale, and then turned to the food menu.
Hopefully we are not alone in our desire to taste it all, without ordering the whole menu; more often than not we order three or four smaller selections, and sample and share like the olden days. Immediately upon opening the menu, I realized how affordable Oregon dining was compared to HI, or any other high living cost locale. Sara used to work at one of the tourist stops on the main drag in Kona, and mention that the rack of ribs that normally costs $38 at her seaside dining establishment went for 18.95 here. On a whim, we ordered them, going for the whole rack for the value and leftovers. Since my other selection was also meat on a bone, we made our third choice a mozzarella and red pepper salad. The ribs came with fresh fries, and with the beers already on the way, we exercised restraint henceforward.
The walls of the Deschutes Brewery (which is actually just the original smaller location, with the coppers, fermenters and kegs in view behind a huge glass window-the large warehouse responsible for bottling is a few blocks down the road) are lined in merchandise, snow-sport paraphernalia and dozens of awards. The array of awards make Deschutes Brewery seem like they’ve won every award a brewery can win, at some time or another, including best Oregon Brewery, a gold medal for Mirror Pond Pale Ale, and a Silver for Black Butte Porter, among a long list of others. Sara, in her infinite, generosity, decided to buy me a stylish Mirror Pond Golden Ale shirt. A dozen other tables occupied by couples filled out the room and groups mostly clad in light boots and fleeces and all smiling as they sipped their fresh Oregon Ales.
Sara and I caught up, having been apart for the last month as she finished school in Portland, and smiled at each other like the cheesy couple we are, until our sampler arrived. The serving tray was in the shape of a paddle, sticking with the Deschutes River theme, and each beer had a number corresponding to the order we’d selected them. Twenty-four ounces of beer may not seem like a lot, but when the average alcohol (Continued in Bend - Off the Mountain, on the Trail pt. 2)
