The third morning we spent in the Atacama desert began at 4:00 am. I’d been sleeping on the bottom bunk of a two level bed, in a stone room that was hot when I went to sleep and cold when I woke up. Music was blaring until midnight, voices could be heard until 1 am. When the alarm rang I was not rested, but the geysers were not going to wait for me.
It was an hour and a half ride up the mountain. We climbed 10,000 feet in that time. I think maybe the altitude got to me, I didn’t feel great by the time we arrived at the top. That, or the lack of sleep, hard to tell.
We emerged from the van into the cold. Freezing cold, we’d been warned to bring layers but we’d been used to the desert heat and it was now 20 degrees. Luckily our driver was preparing eggs, our tour guide opened up baguettes, and the Chileans have great cheese, we had breakfast sandwiches at 14,000 feet and they were heavenly.
We had come to see the Tatio geyser field. It’s the second largest in the world, after Yellowstone. I visited Yellowstone with my brother a few years ago. It is weird and wonderful and stunning with strange pools of boiling water, rocks stained aqua and orange, steam rising straight from the earth and giant canyons that scratch yellow crevases into the earth. Taito was different. Less beautiful, but in some ways more dramatic. We arrived before dawn because that is when the cold from the night before hits the warmth of the day and the water underneath the surface of the earth reaches temperatures where it can boil. Because of the altitude, the boiling point of the water was much lower, it only has to reach about 185 F before it boils, heating the steam to a point that builds up enough pressure for the water to spurt out of the ground. I didn’t quite understand the science behind why this only happened at dawn in Atacama when Old Faithful goes off like clockwork all day long (Mom, maybe you can explain it to me?).
It was unusual. But not as impressive as Yellowstone (a fact I was irrationally proud of despite having no real reason to be, go America!). What struck me that morning was not so much the landscape, but a legend that our Chilean guide told about the name of the place, and the culture of the people who had inhabited it. He said, Taito means ‘Grandfather of the mountain’ he pointed to a ridge, where you can see the profile of a man, his forehead, nose, mouth, a dip where his neck is and then the rounding of his belly as he lays on his back taking a nap. He explained that in Chile, the people believe that their ancestors live on in the landscapes of the earth around them and that their grandfathers live in the mountains to watch over them.
I have two Grandfathers who live in the mountains (neither of whom I called Grandfather). I love them both, I’m starting with the one who went to the mountain first.
Grandad is my Dad’s Dad. He was born in the Lewis and Clark Valley in Clatsop County Oregon. The Lewis and Clark Valley is exactly what it sounds like, it is where the two famous explorers who first discovered the Pacific coast of America spent their first winter. It is also where my Grandad and Dad were born. To see it in person is pure peace. The low and lazy river splits into multiple pieces, shining silver amongst the many shades of green that make up the valley. My uncle and aunt are building house on a hill that overlooks it. Their house is modern, their view is spectacular (but then again, so are they).
Grandad grew up as a son of a dairy farmer, and became one himself. After going to school at Oregon State, and marrying my spirited Grandmother, he returned to the valley to take over the farm. My dad grew up driving a milk truck around town, shooting glass out of windows because he liked the sound, and forgetting to move the family goat to a new pasture every couple of days. But he also grew up watching Grandad work from early in the morning until late in the afternoon each day.
I knew and loved my Grandad for 21 years. I remember him letting me drive the lawn mower sitting on his lap smiling to have us in town, him bringing us on countless local adventures to beaches, hikes, and forts, and the night many years later when he lead as we danced to John Mellencamp and Bruce Springsteen in the garage. I’ve been told by many people that the was one of the kindest people they ever knew. Over 300 people attended his funeral.
Maybe, now my Grandad lives in the hills of the Oregon Coast. When you look south, over the driveway we like to stand in and drink beer, over the field full of black cows and their calves, past the new houses that have popped up in a recent subdivision you see hills that roll. With muted shades of green and blue and grey. Often the hills are draped in clouds and, if we are lucky, they are not. I like to think I have a place to greet Grandad, he stands among the giant Oregon trees on the edge of the hill, watching the family he helped create love each other.
Gramps is my Mom’s Dad. He was born in the town of Astoria, which is 15 minutes from the Lewis and Clark Valley. Astoria is basically as far North and as far West as you can go in the state of Oregon, a peninsula jutting out into the of the Columbia River. It is the oldest town West of the Rockies, founded in 1811. It is also where my Gramps and my Mom were born. The town shows its age with a mix of elegant ancient Victorian homes and decaying ancient Victorian homes. Both equally colorful, both climbing up the hilly streets of the town to look across the river towards Washington.
Gramps grew up as the son of a fisherman and became one himself. He met my Grandma when he was on a date with another girl, he took his date home and came back for my Grandma. My mom grew up painting bouys crisp white and bright red, untangling fishing nets in the driveway, and camping on secret beaches you can only reach by boat. But she also grew up watching Gramps go away to Alaska to fish for Salmon all summer long, some days for 20 hours straight.
I knew and loved my Gramps for 29 years. I remember sitting around a fire as he patiently taught me how to play cribbage, long summer days when he took us on boat rides out on the choppy waters of the John Day River always with a smile and a joke, and the day many years later when we drove up logging roads and drank whiskey while sitting in the back of his truck. I’ve been told by many people that the was one of the most loyal people they ever knew. Over 300 people attended his funeral.
Maybe, now my Gramps lives on Saddle Mountain. From his front porch, on the sunny side of the hill, you can look down, past the Dairy Queen that makes the best Peanut Butter Parfaits, across the long bridge of highway 101, out across the valley to see a hill with two crests rise up into the sky. On days when we are lucky we can see the double peaks as the sun streams through the windows of his cozy family room. I like to think I have a place to greet Gramps, he stands among the giant Oregon trees on the top of the hill, watching the family he helped create love each other.
I am luckier than I can say. My Grandmothers (neither of whom I called Grandmother) are giants as well. But that is a story for another day.
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