Roadside Distractions

Notes from Lynn:

Mary (McGrath) Blyskal, experienced at cross-country travel, sends advance warnings of unexpected sightings. Included is a hard-to-believe finding. She says today’s reincarnation of Randolph Scott may have abandoned the traditional pot of cowboy coffee, an acidulous concoction boiled on an open fire with eggshells to sink the grounds. Instead, "Don’t-Call-Me-Perky" Mary strains credulity: “ You’ll notice that in cowboy country, hand-painted signs along the prairie highway advertise ‘espresso and cappuccino – 5 miles ahead.’ ”
In keeping with our pledge to stop for roadside attractions, we hit the brakes when passing through Chemult, Oregon, a wide spot on U.S. 97 just past the wide spot called, inaccurately, Beaver Marsh, and 35 miles south of what would seem to be a French-American colony, La Pine. On the right was a genuine roadside attraction, the Chemult MIA/POW Memorial Park which, measuring about 25 by 20 feet, is probably the smallest park on the planet. It had a picnic table and a spray-painted sign, “We Buy Mushroom.”
The park was next to D&D Market, a cluttered old-time general store among the auto body shops and burger places with hand-painted signs. Outside was a figure that appeared at first glance to be cowboy with a revolver on a gunbelt, a stocking-type mask around his face, hiking boots and a jockstrap on the outside of his bicycling tights. Oh. It was a mannikin with a toy pistol. And the neon sign in the D&D window said, “Espresso.”

Notes from Margo (with Lynn):

Just to catch up on the ground miles, up to Days 5 & 6 of our Victory Lap: We drove from Medford to Bend, Oregon, where we had a warm welcome from Duane and Marilyn Aasland. Lynn was best man at their wedding in Phoenix in 1955. Lynn and Duane figured they had seen each other a few times since then, but it had been a long, long time. Along with their barracks mate, Eugene Blank, they made an inseparable trio as Army draftees at Fort Ord, near Monterey, in 1954 and 1955. I’ve heard stories for years about the three of them finagling ways to meet girls (including signing up for small parts in community theater) and various high-jinks in the deep fog of the Monterey Peninsula. But, within a few years of their discharge, Gene died of cancer at age 23 The other two guys fell out of touch. But not all the way.

For the 20 years that Lynn and I have been married, Duane and Marilyn Aasland were the first names on our annual winter holiday mailing list, which was arranged alphabetically. I had never met them, but Lynn always sent them our updates. So… this was one non-negotiable stop on our Victory Lap. Lynn will write later about how it felt to see his best buddy from those years again after such a long time. But from my view, from the passenger seat, it looked pretty cool. We had a lovely visit in Bend, with photos of Lynn and Duane and Marilyn from the wedding, all strapping and youthful. And then photos of the children and grandchildren, and it looks like Duane and Lynn are running neck and neck with one great-grandchild apiece.

We saw a little black castle as we drove west toward McKenzie Bridge on State Route 242 after leaving Bend. At McKenzie Pass, on a volcanic moonscape braided with rivers of gray-black lava rocks amid the green Oregon forests, the castle tower was another one of those completely unexpected treats. We pulled over to climb the rocky hillock mound to the Dee Wright Observatory, built in 1933 by the Civilian Conservation Corps and named for a Forest Service ranger. The walls, made of the local black lava rocks, were pierced with little portholes that directed you to the views of the nearby mountains: the Sisters, Mt. Washingtion, Mt. Jefferson.

Our mission in McKenzie Bridge was to find the house where Lynn’s father, John, grew up in the 1920s. We found a riverside campsite and set up among 125-foot firs, their branches shrouded from top to bottom with dreadlocks of lace lichen (like Spanish moss).

John’s father, Ernest Talma Ludlow, had left the family in Eugene. The reasons are lost in the mists of time. John and his three brothers moved to a rustic cabin here with their mother, Lynn’s grandmother, Ida Braastad Ludlow. After the older boys grew up and left home, Ida lived here until she died in 1950. John’s beloved younger brother, Billy, a student at the University of Oregon, didn’t make it. William was asleep in a shed next to the cabin in McKenzie Bridge when a tree fell and killed him.

An odd aside about McKenzie Bridge: In addition to Lynn’s father’s connection here, Lynn’s mother, Melda, was 3 years old when she accompanied her family from
Eugene on a Labor Day outing in 1914 – years before Ida moved here.. We have a picture of the picnic – old-fashioned tents set up in a clearing in a forest that looks just like our campground by the McKenzie River. Melda’s mother, Lillian Hull Schwab, looks a bit queasy in the photo. It turned out that she was just getting ill with appendicitis. The family took her back to Eugene – 50 miles of agony in a horse-drawn wagon – and she had the surgery, but died anyway. She’s buried in Pioneer Cemetery at the edge of the University of Oregon campus. So both sides of Lynn’s family have a connection to McKenzie Bridge, a scattering of summer homes along the beautiful riffles of a fast-moving river that attracts fly fishermen from all over the West.

We had come up to McKenzie Bridge once before to look for Ida’s house, and had struck out. That was no surprise, really -- we had just stopped by the General Store (established 1900) and asked the guy at the counter if he knew of a woman named Ida who had died 55 years before. He was bemused. So… this time we did a little preparatory groundwork. It was mostly dumb luck. We had a lot of aid from the wwww, the women’s world wide web, which preceded the www and still rules in some circles. The women’s web went like this: In Berkeley, Lynn’s daughter Amy talked to a fellow soccer mom, Barbara Leslie, whose family has lived on and off in McKenzie Bridge for many years. Barbara talked to her mother, Joan, who lived for years in Orinda and had moved to her family home in McKenzie Bridge. Joan talked to a friend, a woman about 90 years old who has lived in the area most of her life. She remembered Ida Braastad Ludlow and her four sons, one of whom had died in a terrible accident. Bingo. (Credit where credit is due: Joan says there was one man in the wwww chain of information.)

Amy gave us Joan’s phone number. She and her husband Hector welcomed us into their home next to the river and were willing to spend most of the morning with us, talking about families and McKenzie Bridge. Joan then got in her car and led us to the home on Horse Creek Road where her friend said that Ida Ludlow had lived. We went up to the house and talked to the people who live on the property. They’ve lived there since the 50s, and don’t know who was there in the 20s, 30s and 40s, when Ida would have been here. But they were awfully nice, and suggested that we look on the Internet for the public records of Lane County, now that we have the address. Could work. We’ll see. Anyway, that was exciting.

So now we’re back at this lovely Forest Service campground, by the river where Lynn’s maternal grandmother Lillian had her last picnic, where Lynn’s paternal grandmother Ida lived out her days after her husband left, where Ida raised her four boys, and where one of those boys died young.

Mileage today (actually yesterday): Bend to McKenzie Bridge, 76 miles

Total mileage: 564