Moving to The Mountain meant giving up some things. Pavement. Indoor plumbing. Electricity. But there was a trade-off: never in all our years of civilized living had we experienced the joys of a country driveway.
The Mountain was composed of 99% red clay and 1% other. The driveway was a long, curving, gently rising and falling scenic path and the means by which exactly 2,954 pounds of clay ended up on our mom’s kitchen floor every single day.
Every winter, without fail, a roaring creek of muddy water and debris would appear out of nowhere and wash out our driveway. We would spend the season parking the cars at the end of the driveway and hiking nearly a mile through wet, heavy, sticky clay to thehouse. By the time we go home, the layers of clay sticking to our shoes made us seven feet tall.
The first time it happened, I was confused. We didn’t live near a creek, yet somehow, a creek had appeared. It was a magical combination of Oregon rain and a geographical low point that resulted in us hauling groceries 5,280 feet from the car to the house. We learned to appreciate food in a whole new way and spent all winter buying groceries based on their weight.
Our dad built a makeshift board bridge over the washout. You haven’t truly experienced life until you’ve crossed a 2x6 wooden plank over a roaring flash flood creek, balancing a bag of groceries in one arm and a sack of potatoes in the other.
During the dry months (in Oregon, there are only two: July and August) the clay was a fine, powdery red dust that could find its wicked way through even the tiniest crack into our house. During the wet months, the rain turned it into a sticky, red, cursed cement that would instantly build up on shoes, tires, tools, the dog, firewood, my baby sister, basically anything that came into contact with it. I’m sure there’s an industrial adhesive application for that clay, but I never did figure out any good use for it.
The driveway was also where the willow patch was. A stern parental “Go pick out a switch” and you were on your way: a regretful walk down the driveway to the willow patch to retrieve a branch for a whoopin’. That mournful trip was like the footsteps of doom. On occasions such as these, the driveway may as well have been lined with black bunting.
Like for most kids our age, the fine, powdery red clay dust on the driveway made for easy rattlesnake tracking. Our dad taught us how to read the tracks to determine if they were heading away from our house…or towards it.
The driveway made a big looping circle that encompassed the house and about 3 acres of mostly brush-free land (country-speak for “a yard”). Checking for rattlesnake tracks around the house and yard was called “walking the loop” but The Mountain translation was: “Walk around the house and see if it’s safe to set the baby down outside without worrying some large snake will carry her off.”
The driveway was our only road to the outside world and the only road home. It was a curse and a blessing. It was long when you wanted to be somewhere and short when you didn’t. It was something I don’t ever want to have again, but that I won’t ever forget. It was a country driveway.
And don't forget hauling laundry out then laundry back in. But I bet if you see a snake track you absolutely know which way it was going! That would look so good on a resume.
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