John Struloeff

Excerpt from “Wallowa”

By John Struloeff

It was time for Sheena and me. The decision to go somewhere, away, was made finally. We packed her car with our sleeping bags, pillows, and enough clothes to get us through a week. She said we could stay with her cousin in the town of Joseph, in far eastern Oregon, and then go from there. We didn’t know where. It was January, and we packed in the numb morning air of the north Oregon Coast, worrying about the weather ahead in the Columbia Gorge, whether we would make it as far as we needed to go. But we went, watching the cold gray expanse of the river narrowing as we moved east, the water darkening under the cloudy sky and rippling in the wind. We passed Portland with its hills of houses and then into the snow—wet and large flakes, deepening the heavy sky into an unnatural dusk. The cars pulled together in a cluster as the snow thickened, and Sheena slowed. Headlights glittered off the tops of cars and through windshields. Our wipers swept the constant snowy flutter away across the glass. Straight east were the Rockies.

Sheena gripped my hand and looked at me, smiling. I hadn’t seen such tenderness in her eyes in a long time, and I smiled.

“You’ll love Steve’s house,” she said quietly. “The walls are hand-cut wood.”

I pulled her hand up to my lips and kissed her knuckles.

“I’m so glad he moved up there,” she said. Her voice softened. “It’s in the mountains near Wallowa Lake.”

“A friend of mine fished Wallowa years back,” I said. “He said he’s never seen fish like it anywhere.”

“You could fish,” she offered. “I’m sure Steve would take you.”

“No fishing,” I said. “I just want to see it.”

We were quiet then. The dusk turned to dark, and the snow eased to a light mist. It had been wet snow for hours, leaving the road a gray slush. We descended from a rise, a valley opening in front of us and spread with a wide scattering of lights. The exit signs said Pendleton, and we took the first exit that offered gas.

We kissed carefully after she turned the engine off. I held my hand on her warm cheek, looking into her eyes. She looked back, her eyes a deep brown, an amazing color of darkness like rich earth. Then she rolled the window down, letting in the cold air, and asked the gas attendant to fill the tank. I sat back, closing my eyes.

Six months before, I had driven my Celica off Highway 101 into the Pacific, a stupid mistake that she had taken upon herself to rectify. Until then I had driven her everywhere. I had always felt I owed her, for her tenderness and patience, for her beauty. But when my car was gone, she bought an old Escort and began staidly repaying me, mile after mile. I felt helpless with her giving.