Blog and News
Farewell Bend
A lot of us who live in Bend, Oregon aren’t originally from here. We ask each other, “Where are you from?” and “How did you end up in Bend?”
I’m from all over. I was born in Arizona, grew up in Northeastern Ohio, went to school in upstate New York, moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, then Connecticut, and now here.
I found Bend in a Title 9 catalog. Literally. My husband and I were living and working in Connecticut, and longing for the open-space-bluebird-sky-desert-mountain-hiking-camping lifestyle that we had grown to love in New Mexico. He was finishing his cardiology fellowship, and was looking for his first ‘real job.’ We were so hungry for the West that we were contemplating just returning to New Mexico.
One day, I was flipping through the winter issue of a Title 9 catalog, which featured pictures of fit, outdoorsy women in fun attire engaged in various athletic pursuits, like snowboarding and snowshoeing, and cross-country skiing. I happened upon a picture of a woman with a dog sled team; the caption said something like, When she’s not dog sledding, Kayla enjoys hot yoga and cocoa in Bend, OR. The image on the page was my dream landscape — snowcapped mountains, ponderosa pines, bright blue sky — and defied all of my preconceived notions about the Pacific Northwest. Huh, I thought, dog-sledding in Oregon.
A few Google searches later, we ‘discovered’ Bend, and were pleasantly surprised to find a job opportunity for Gavin as well. When he flew out for his first interview, he told me that the landscape reminded him of Taos, New Mexico. That was all I needed to hear.
Our families were perplexed. Ore-gone? they said, like Easterners. Why Ore-gone? They couldn’t understand the need to be out West.
I have always told myself that when we are born into a place, the landscape we are born into leaves a little mark on our DNA. I needed to be out West, I told myself, because I’m originally from the West. I couldn’t otherwise explain my particular thrill at hearing the funky call of desert quail, or the romantic swoon I would feel when the rabbitbrush turned gold in its late summer bloom. Or the dance of mint-green sage against black lava rock.
There is something about sitting in the desert, relaxing your eyes and watching a landscape that looks barren at first glance slowly reveal its layers of life: lizards skittering over the sand, ground squirrels peeking from behind the rocks, birds quietly preening while perched on the skeleton of a gnarled tree. I’m almost a kid again, standing in my grandmother’s yellow kitchen in Tucson, the two of us looking out the window and watching the desert come alive against the backdrop of the Santa Catalina Mountains. It’s in my bones, I told myself. And since Gavin was also born out West, I convinced myself that it must be in his bones, too.
I have spent much of my adult life running from home in one way or another, restless with where I was because something about it didn’t fit. Or because something about me didn’t fit. I’ve written about that elsewhere, but my point is that Bend was the first place I really felt at home, the first place where I felt comfortable in my own skin. Like that first love who adored you for who you are, accepted you despite all of your shortcomings.
But now, for reasons that are larger and more important than me, I must leave. We are moving to Vermont, to be closer to our families, to re-engage Gavin with the reasons he went into medicine in the first place. These are good reasons, and the odds are in our favor, transplanting our family to the fertile soils of Vermont. We will be fine. I am sure that we will thrive.
Still, this move feels a bit like a break-up. Like the one I endured years ago, when I’d met the man who would become my husband, and had to say goodbye to the one I already had. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I simply loved my husband more.
The days count down and I watch others enjoying all there is to love about Bend: the mountains, the Deschutes, the beer and music on cool summer nights. I think about the ski season we will miss on Mount Bachelor, our annual moonlight snowshoeing trip, and the dog sledding I never did.
Because perhaps that wasn’t quite me. And maybe the reason I feel comfortable in my own skin here has less to do with the landscape, and more to do with the fact that I’ve finally confronted my reasons for running away from home.
Maybe. Or maybe I’m finally figuring out what it really takes to make a home.
Photo Credit: Moonrise over Bend, Oregon — www.reddit.com
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