May 13th, 2003

Seems my silent pleas have been heard. The weather has finally turned a spring-like, balmy 78 degrees. I remember now what made me fall in love with Central Oregon, or more precisely, my little house on the river last summer.

As I sit on my deck, looking out over a lush green meadow, the Little Deschutes River and a snowcapped Mt. Bachelor, I ponder how much longer the mountain will now maintain his sugar-coated appearance. Signs of spring are everywhere: tender blades of grass crunch under my bare feet, the wild rabbit that resides in my meadow now ventures out for a snack even during daylight hours. Daffodils are one the verge of exploding onto the landscape with yellow.

A variable symphony of birds permeate the aromatic air with their song - from tiny pygmy nuthatches to mighty canadian geese, about 30 species of feathered friends have found and enthusiastically embraced my hanging feeders and bowls of cracked corn. The latest arrivals are a pair of scintillating swallows, but red-winged blackbirds, flickers, a couple of species of woodpeckers, mountain chickadees, and the gorgeous bright yellow-and-black evening grosbeaks have been steady customers for pretty much the whole season.

Django, a small brown-grey squirrel with a characteristic white dot on his left leg, is sitting just feet away in a tree, yelling at me with high-pitched whistles that remind me more of an agitated, middle-aged soccer coach than this furry regular. He's mad at me for sitting on my deck. Invading his territory. And blocking the way to the peanut-filled feeder.

Earlier today, as I went down to the river's edge for a glimpse at the calm waters, I surprised an otter, who was no doubt foraging for the tasty local crawdads. Within moments, he vanished among a frenzied squirl of brown wet fur, flashing teeth and splashing water, and although I stood frozen for quite some time, straining my eyes to penetrate the shallow depths, he remained gone, invisible and ghost-like.

Perfect white little clouds dot the skyscape now, and quail roam past me, undisturbed by my presence, their curious tufts amusingly jittering with every motion of their heads.

Yes, that's right. Those are the reasons why I moved here. Never mind that there are no 8-to-5 jobs here. That the next big city (Portland), with its art museums and fancy restaurants, is a challenging 3 1/2 hours drive away. That it can get (and has last November) up to -25F here on a clear winter morning.

On my deathbed, what will I remember? How many glittering nights I've spent at the rave warehouse? How many hours I sat in traffic, mentally flipping off the a-hole who decided to drive the speed limit and slowed down the whole road? How many press releases about some obscure tech book I've written?

Or will I remember those moments of soul-filling calm and transcendentral clarity I spent, sittig by my river? Those chance encounters with reclusive wildlife that very well could be extinct by the time I myself lay on the deathbed? Will I remember the sun on my skin, the breeze in my hair, and the impossible blue of the sky?