Bill McClellan
I found the perfect place to get away from the clamor of an unpleasant election season -- the Steamboat Inn in Steamboat, Oregon. There was no television, no cell phone coverage, no Wi-Fi or internet. The lack of these things is a point of pride at the inn.
The unincorporated community of Steamboat got its name from the nearby Steamboat Creek, which flows into the Umpqua River, which then rushes past the Steamboat Inn in a series of rapids. Towering pines line the other side of the river.
It is a place of great natural beauty, which is the currency in which my nephew trades. He has been the landscaper at the Steamboat Inn for the last eight years.
Chip grew up in a small town near Indianapolis. He was a social kid and had lots of friends. He went to art school in Cincinnati and decided that art school was not what he wanted. He preferred an outdoor life. He liked the beauty and challenges found in the wilderness. He went west and became a skier and snowboarder and kayaker and rock-climber.
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He supported himself. Often, he got painting jobs, but he can do anything. He can build things, fix things. He is smart enough to figure out what needs to be done, and competent enough to do it. Guys like that always do fine.
He did not often return to the Midwest. I saw him last around 25 years ago. He came by with two huskies. My dog, Jorge, was an ancient pug. We were in the basement. The Huskies walked toward the couch where Jorge was resting. He restrained himself when the first dog walked by, but as the second approached, Jorge launched himself at his enemy's throat. He couldn't get a grip and slid off. He seemed more embarrassed than disappointed. Happily, the husky didn't seem offended.
Jorge's ridiculous attack was a gift. Every uncle and nephew should have a shared anecdote. "Hey, remember the time..."
I always intended to visit Chip in Colorado or Montana or wherever he was, but life intervened. It's easy to let that happen, whether you're talking about relatives or old friends.
In my defense, I always figured he'd get married and I'd go to the wedding. But none of his relationships progressed to that point.
We'd exchange cards at Christmas. In recent years, he'd send a video in which, dressed as Santa, he'd be kayaking through fast and treacherous waters.
I sent him a note after my son and I were at Yellowstone and came upon four young people whose friend had just been washed away in the Yellowstone River. He had put his foot in the fast-moving water -- showing off for the girls, I suspect -- and had been knocked off his balance. There was no regaining it.
"Life can get real in a hurry in the wilderness," Chip responded.
Recently, I made the decision to finally visit my late sister's son. Had it really been 25 years? I sent him a note, and asked if mid-October was a good time to visit. Fire season is over, he wrote back. It's a good time to come.
We flew to Eugene, rented a car and headed inland. One of the roads seemed dicey. It dropped steeply off to the right, which is where, as the passenger, I sat. Mary knows my fear of edges, but she was so intent on getting off that road before darkness settled in completely that she didn't seem to notice my sudden intakes of breath or little yelps of fear.
But we made it.
We started toward our cabin when Chip came striding up. He was middle-aged and bearded, but I could see the little boy he had once been. He still looked like a young man. His father's people age slowly. We hugged.
The Steamboat Inn offers guests the option of having a bottle of Oregon wine waiting for them in their rooms. We opened the bottle and took it out to the porch. We could hear the river in the darkness. There were stars.
"Hey, do you remember when that old pug of mine jumped one of your huskies?"
Chip laughed. Of course, he said.
The Steamboat Inn is remote enough that it provides housing for some of its employees. Chip has a place overlooking the river. He built a pen next to his apartment so his two large dogs aren't cooped up all day. The huskies are long gone. One of the current dogs is a wolf-dog. It howls.
That adds to the atmosphere. This is Sasquatch country. It is also waterfall country. We visited several in the next couple of days.
Chip was at home on the trails. He told me about once hearing the whoosh of a great horned owl as it flew by. How many people have experienced that?
Of course, life is about choices. You choose one life and miss out on half a dozen others that might have worked out just as well.
The inn shuts down in November and the employees move on except for Chip. He stays. The inn is just below the mandatory chains zone, but still, winter can bring storms. Sometimes there are power outages. Mostly, though, there is a lack of people.
Roseburg is the nearest town. It's about 40 miles away. Chip sometimes goes into town to play pool.
I mentioned that the inn is a perfect place to get away from politics, but is it possible to avoid the topic on the eve of an important election? I think not. Rural Oregon is MAGA Country, but Chip is an environmentalist and no fan of former president Donald Trump. The fire season gets longer every year. Smoke hangs on long after the fires are out.
Chip said he generally avoids talking politics with the locals, but one recent day he wore an anti-Trump shirt to town. It just said "NOPE," and the O was a caricature of Trump's face.
Chip said a couple of men gave him a look but didn't say anything. However, several women came up to him and said they liked the shirt.
Based on that, he figures a lot of women in MAGA country aren't going to tell pollsters or their husbands but are going to vote for Kamala Harris. He is predicting a Democratic victory.
Maybe it was the wine we drank every night, or maybe the stars or the gurgling of the river, but it made as much sense to me as anything I've heard from the political experts. It lifted my spirits.
Back home, I'm not so sure of that prediction, but I'm awfully glad I finally made it to the Steamboat Inn.
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