Sage Brush Storms

Here in Harney County, Oregon, population 7,500 in a place two times the size of Connecticut, the thunder is starti — —

Whoa. No time to finish that sentence, a sudden wind wiped everything off the porch, cups, towels, wash bucket. I had to go chase after the goods as they tumbled toward the horse stalls.

I grabbed it all up and brought it inside our one-room cabin. “Windy?” Chuck wakes from a nap. “Yeah,” I say, throwing on a coat and heading back outside.

No time for chit-chat, not when the evening show has just started. Last night’s presentation began while having a family style dinner at the Diamond Hotel, a one hundred-twenty-six year old establishment somewhere between Crain and Frenchglen and Harney Lake. As we ate, the cottonwoods along the back of the yard begin to test the limits of their tensile strength. leaves blew off, then a few branches. Soon the sky turned prematurely dark. The lights went out two times during dinner, eight of us round one table talking about other light outages in our life. Other storms.

One of the guys, an electrician from Alaska, tells us that if it goes out a third time, “that’ll be it — lights out for good after that.” We nodded and began to eat more quickly. The third outsgevcame during desert (a refreshing mix of grapes and cream and cream cheese nuts), but to everyone’s surprise they came back on again and we finished up eating just as the the lights went out again. That time for good…

We bid our adeau. The proprietor telling us to stop on in the next day to settle up. Everyone is so polite and kind around here. Trust being a well valued coinage.

When we got to our place about five miles away, a lightning show was going on full force. Soon after that the rain started drumming our tin roof, and Chuck and I did what I’m doing now — sitting and enjoying the show.

The next day the owner of the ranch came by to check on us. That was a doozy, he said. Hardly ever see them like that here. I was surprised. The storms had seemed to have the feeling of a monsoon, and I was thrilled with their evening appearances. First, because they are most exceptional air coolers. Second, because they are amazing to watch. And third, and most important of all, there is nothing in my experience that smells as beautiful as rain drenched sagebrush. It is both astringent and sweet. No. Sweet is the wrong word. It is deeper than sweet, more nostalgic, almost downright melancholy. Rain-smudged sage feels, to me, like coming across something lost, something special that I’d forgotten about, something essential and pure and real. It’s like scraping up memories then opening them up and having them break your heart a little because they are so deeply rooted. It’s like coming across your potential and being forgiven for having forgotten about it.

Anyway, it is pouring now and the two wild cats have made our bed theirs and the thunder is rocking the canyon walls, and we are happy and warm and safe and thinking about how sweet it is to be here right now, away from the noise of the world. Ten thousand square miles of sage brush and basalt and water and ducks. Three sheep dogs and two cats and not a lick of news and the WiFi too spotty to bother looking. Beyond this wooden cabin? Not a signal to be found for miles and miles and miles. If you dropped me here one hundred years ago the place would likely look much the same. I hope the same can be said if I showed up 100 years from now.