The In Between, The Road to La Grande

When I look back at the different chapters of my life, I have realized that some of the best stories did not happen when I arrived somewhere new or when I officially started a new job. They happened during that awkward period in between, when one chapter was ending, another was beginning, and I was doing my best to figure everything out along the way.

For me, one of those periods happened during the summer of 2020, right in the middle of COVID.

At that point, I had been living in Forks, Washington, for about a year and a half. During that time, I had the opportunity to help get the Quileute Tribe’s fisheries habitat program off the ground. I worked on securing funding, developing projects, and eventually hiring Tetra Tech to help with the restoration work we were trying to accomplish. Through that process, I became close with several people at Tetra Tech. What started as a professional relationship eventually turned into some really good friendships, and through one of those connections, I heard that the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation were hiring a fisheries biologist in eastern Oregon.

The position sounded like exactly what I wanted at that point in my career. I was grateful for everything I had learned while building the habitat program in La Push, but I wanted to spend more time outside doing the actual fieldwork. I wanted to be out shooting elevation grades, surveying streams, talking with heavy equipment operators, and watching restoration projects take shape on the ground.

Grant writing and administrative work are important, but I was ready to trade some time behind a computer for muddy boots and long days outside in the Blue and Wallowa Mountains. The position was working under Allen Childs, a well-known restoration practitioner whose work I respected. I applied for the job, went through the process, and was fortunate enough to get it.

Just like that, I was preparing to leave Forks and move to La Grande, Oregon.

Getting the job was the easy part.

The actual move was where the story really began.

My lease at the duplex in Forks ended about two weeks before I was supposed to begin the new position. I asked my landlord if I could extend it for those final couple of weeks, but she already had someone else lined up to move in. To her credit, she offered to let me store some of my belongings for free at a storage facility she managed in town, which was a huge help, however, it meant I would be “technically” moving twice with his adventure.

That solved the problem of where some of my stuff could go.  It did absolutely nothing to solve the problem of where Clay and I were going to sleep.

Fortunately, one of my friends from the Quileute Tribe had a cabin outside of Forks, heading toward Rialto Beach. Since this was during COVID, he was working remotely from Seattle, which left the cabin sitting empty. He offered to let Clay and me stay there for those final two weeks before we left for Oregon.

Around the same time, my dad decided that me moving was as good an excuse as any to fly into SeaTac, help pack up the duplex, sneak in some fishing, and get away for a little while. In reality, I think the fishing had just as much to do with the trip as helping me move, but I was not about to question free labor.

So there Clay and I were, headed toward SeaTac to pick up Grandpa.

Clay had been right beside me through every part of my time in Forks, although I had not really mentioned him yet. He was there during the long workdays, the fishing trips, the rainy drives, and all the ordinary moments in between. Naturally, he was also going to be there for the move, supervising from the back seat while contributing absolutely nothing to the packing process.

His responsibilities mostly included shedding on everything I had just cleaned, taking up half the truck, and looking offended anytime we stopped somewhere that did not involve food or water.

Once Grandpa climbed into the truck, the crew was complete.

One tired fisheries biologist trying to move his entire life, one father who saw the trip as equal parts moving expedition and fishing vacation, and one English Lab who was convinced the whole thing had been organized entirely for his benefit.

From SeaTac, we headed back toward Forks to finish moving out of the duplex and begin our temporary stay at the cabin.

At the time, it sounded like a pretty good setup. We would pack during the day, fish whenever we could get away, and spend the final two weeks living quietly in a cabin near the coast.

Then the three of us arrived at what can only be described as the Cabin in the Woods (movie plug if you haven’t seen it).

The cabin was tucked deep into the woods, surrounded by the kind of thick rainforest anyone familiar with the Olympic Peninsula knows well. Calling it secluded would be putting it lightly. The trees blocked out so much daylight that even in the middle of the day, the place felt dark, quiet, and just unsettling enough to make you wonder what might be watching from the tree line.

The infamous cabin in the woods (not pictured - the washer and dryer on the patio

To make matters worse, the cabin did not have blinds. That detail did not sit well with my dad. From a distance, my pops looks like a rugged man who could handle just about anything you put in front of him. Deep down, though, he is a loving teddy bear with three very real fears, snakes, mice, and apparently sleeping in a cabin in the middle of the woods with absolutely no blinds.

Every dark window became a potential threat. I am pretty sure he spent those first few nights expecting either a bear, a serial killer, or Bigfoot to press its face against the glass. It honestly looked like something straight out of The Cabin in the Woods.

My dad looked around, looked back at me, and gave me that look that said, “This is where you brought us?” Neither of us needed to say much. We both knew that if anything happened to us out there, there was a fair chance nobody would find us until the following fishing season.

Still, it was free, it had a roof, and it gave us somewhere to stay. So we moved in (for the next two weeks).

For the next two weeks, we lived about as simply as two people possibly could. We had brought the washer and dryer with us, so we set them up outside on the deck. We hooked them up, let the water drain directly onto the gravel, and hung our clothes outside to dry.

As an environmental scientist, I am not sure that setup would have passed a formal inspection. As someone who needed clean underwear, I decided not to ask too many questions.

We cooked basic meals on the stovetop, kept only what we needed inside the cabin, and spent most of our time moving everything else between the duplex, the storage facility, the cabin, and the U Haul trailer.

It was not glamorous, but it worked.

In a strange way, it was actually enjoyable. We were living with very little, and it reminded me that you really do not need nearly as much as you think you do. A roof, a bed, some food, coffee in the morning, and a place to put your fishing rods will get you a long way. Of course, spending two weeks living minimally while also packing up everything you own can make patience run a little thin. My dad has always been the person who shows up when I need help. He has helped me through moves, projects, and just about every major transition in my life. He is also the kind of person who believes there is a correct way to do everything, and that correct way usually happens to be his way.

The problem is that I am the same way.

So there we were, two stubborn Polish guys trying to pack everything I had accumulated in Forks into a U Haul trailer, both completely convinced that the other person did not understand basic spatial reasoning.

Every box became a discussion. Every piece of furniture became a debate.

We would move something into the trailer, stare at it for a few seconds, and one of us would decide it needed to come back out. There is nothing quite like moving with your father to make a grown man feel like he is twelve years old again.

By the fourth or fifth day, we had reached that special level of exhaustion where a simple question like, “Where do you want this box?” could sound like someone was deliberately trying to start a fight.

Still, we never stayed irritated for very long.

Whenever we needed a break from packing, or probably just needed a break from each other, we would grab our fishing rods and go fish.

That was one of the best parts of those two weeks.

There was plenty that needed to be done. I was preparing to start a new job, move eight hours away, and haul everything I owned across the Pacific Northwest. Logically, we probably did not have time to fish.

So naturally, we went fishing.

Clay, pops, and I fishing along the Bogachiel River

I have learned that life rarely slows down and gives you permission to do the things you enjoy. Sometimes you have to decide that the boxes will still be there when you get back. Fishing gave us a chance to reset, laugh, and enjoy the time together before returning to the cabin and continuing our aggressive game of life-sized Tetris.

Eventually, after more trips than I can remember, everything was packed.

The bed of my Tacoma was loaded and covered with netting so nothing would fly out. The large U Haul trailer was packed from the floor to the ceiling with everything I had accumulated during my year and a half in Forks. There was not a single open space left.

We stood there looking at the trailer, probably feeling prouder of ourselves than we should have, when we noticed one final item sitting outside.

A black trash bag.

The truck bed was full.

The trailer was full.

There was nowhere left to put it.

My dad looked at the trash bag, looked at the tongue of the U Haul trailer, and immediately came up with what he believed was a brilliant solution.

“We can just put it right there and throw it away when we get into town.”

He said it with complete confidence, like he had just solved a major engineering problem.

In his mind, he was a Polish genius.

There was no concern about whether the bag would stay there, split open, or send our trash flying across Highway 101. He had made the decision, and as far as he was concerned, the problem was solved. At that point, we had been living in a cabin in the woods, doing laundry outside, eating whatever we could cook on a stovetop, and packing for what felt like several years.

I did not have the energy to argue. So we put the trash bag on the tongue of the U Haul and headed toward town.

And somehow, it worked.

That trash bag stayed exactly where he put it, and looking back, that moment really set the tone for the entire trip to La Grande. Nothing about the move was smooth, organized, or even remotely elegant. Most of it was held together with ratchet straps, stubbornness, gas station coffee, and gas station sandwiches that probably should have come with a warning label. One sandwich in particular would go on to earn its own place in family history, but I will save that story for the next blog.

At the time, all we really had was a fully loaded truck, an overloaded trailer, and the belief that somehow, one way or another, we would figure it out.. There were definitely moments when my dad and I were tired, frustrated, and getting on each other’s nerves.

Living in a cabin in the middle of the woods and trying to fit ten pounds of crap into a five pound trailer did not always feel like quality father and son time, but looking back, those are some of the greatest memories I have with my dad. I do not remember how many boxes we moved, how many trips we made to the storage facility, or most of the things we were irritated about. What I do remember is fishing with my dad between moving trips, laughing at our outdoor washer and dryer setup, arguing over where boxes should go, and then laughing about how ridiculous we both were. I remember the cabin, the simple meals, the long days, and that trash bag riding proudly on the tongue of the trailer.

The moments that may not feel particularly fun while you are living them can become some of the memories you cherish most later in life. As I have gotten older, I have also realized how important it is to appreciate the people who intentionally choose to be part of our lives.

Those people may be family, longtime friends, coworkers, or someone we have only known for a short period of time. What matters is that they make the choice to show up.

My friend did not have to offer me his cabin.

My landlord did not have to give me free storage.

My dad did not have to spend two weeks packing, hauling, fishing, arguing, laughing, and helping me move into the next chapter of my life.

They helped because they cared.

I think we sometimes become so focused on where we are going that we forget to appreciate the people helping us get there. We are always chasing the next job, the next goal, the next paycheck, or the next destination. Meanwhile, there are people beside us giving their time and effort, expecting very little in return other than a simple “thank you.”

Those types of people are rare, and we should be gracious for them.

We should tell them we appreciate them while we still have the chance.

We should accept their help, even when we think we can do everything ourselves.

We should take the fishing trip, laugh at the things that go wrong, and understand that the inconveniences of today may become the stories we would give anything to relive years from now. That time with my dad may not have always felt enjoyable in the moment, but today, I would not trade it for anything.

Eventually, the Tacoma was loaded, the U Haul was packed, and everything I owned was ready to leave Forks, including one very determined bag of trash.

We pointed the truck toward La Grande, Oregon, and began the next part of the journey. What should have been a fairly simple drive through Washington and into eastern Oregon quickly became an adventure of its own, one that my dad and I still laugh about today.

Stay tuned for the next chapter of Clay’s Drift, as we leave the cabin behind and begin the long, hot, and memorable road to La Grande.

Quileute’s goodbye cake from the Natural Resources Department.