Why did Gam think that I needed protection? What had really happened between her and Sheriff Daniels, and why wasn’t she telling me? I slept with the stone under my pillow and made sure to pack it when I gathered everything to take to Bend.
The rest of the week passed quickly. I met the Hoshino team, and Greg was right. They seemed excited about the work we were doing at Northwest Extreme and captivated by Portland. One night we did a pub crawl with the entire staff. The beer was a hit, and hanging out at funky Portland pubs helped ease some of the tension with my coworkers. We took the investors on a tour of the Shanghai Tunnels that run beneath Portland’s busy streets, strolled through the rose gardens, and waited in line at midnight for Portland’s famed Voodoo Doughnuts. Everyone’s favorite doughnut was the original voodoo—a doughnut in the shape of a human, filled with jelly and stabbed with a pretzel. The jelly oozed out the doughnut’s middle like blood.
Greg pulled me aside, holding a huge pink box of doughnuts. “These match your outfit, Meg.”
I posed in my Capris and pink pinstriped blouse. “It’s a good color, right?”
He tapped the box to his chest. “You should be wearing one of these, you know.” He was talking about his chocolate brown Northwest Extreme T-shirt that clung to his well-defined pectoral muscles. I didn’t think I would look anywhere near as good as Greg did in the shirt.
“What? No pink?”
He rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “You’re off to Bend tomorrow?”
“Yep. I’m all packed. I e-mailed you my itinerary and my story outline. I think I could really be onto something this time. There are a ton of players in the battle for public lands. This may end up being a three-part story.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Meg. Remember first and foremost we’re an adventure magazine. I like where you’re going with this angle, but pump the brakes a little. Get out to Bend and see how it all unfolds.”
I could feel a warm blush creeping up my cheeks. “Right. Sure. I just mean, you know, it could turn into something bigger.”
Greg threw his head back. “Meg, you kill me sometimes.”
I wasn’t sure how to react to that comment, so I decided not to say anything. Greg had a way of making me feel like a bumbling idiot.
“Listen.” He dropped his voice and looked behind him to make sure that no one was listening. “I want you to be careful, okay?” His muscular arms bulged under his climbing T-shirt, and he smelled like the forest.
“When am I not careful?” I winked.
He narrowed his eyes. “Meg, I’m serious. You know what I’m talking about. Stick to the assignment and nothing more, deal?”
“Deal.” I held out my hand to seal our agreement with a handshake.
Greg shook my hand in response and then frowned. “Meg, I’m worried. I’ve been hearing some chatter that I don’t like. In fact, as long our Japanese friends leave tomorrow I’m going to try to come meet you out there.”
“Chatter?”
He put his finger to his lips. “Not here.” A family carrying four pink Voodoo boxes chattered happily on the dark streets while a group of panhandlers begged for change nearby. The dichotomy struck me. Hanging out at one of Portland’s most popular tourist destinations revealed the city’s growing pains. People were dropping thirty bucks on unconventional greasy donuts while street kids were desperate for quarters and dimes a few feet away. “We’ll talk when I get to Bend, but please promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Never.” I tried to make light of the situation. This was two warnings in a matter of days. First Gam telling me to keep the eye agate next to my body, and now Greg telling me that he’d been hearing chatter. What did that even mean?
“Your friend Matt is out there on assignment for the O, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve got part of my squad with me.”
“Your squad?”
“You know, friends.”
Greg held the pink box in one hand and pretended to hit his head with his other. “Squad.”
I gave him a look to say, Of course. “Hey, how did you know about Matt’s assignment?” Matt was pulling double duty, covering a tech conference for the O and shadowing a potential future coworker at Blazen.
Greg grinned. “I have my sources.”
I couldn’t tell if he enjoyed playing the role of secret spy or if he was being serious. Matt had said the same thing about my trip to Italy. Was everyone in my life stalking me?
“I’m glad that Matt will be there. Stick close to him.”
That was a shift. Matt and Greg haven’t always been on the best of terms. I gave Greg a quizzical look. “Stick close to Matt?”
“Exactly. And stick close to your story.”
“I’m on it.” I gave him a half salute. He laughed and walked away. My smile quickly disappeared as Greg left. A level of fear radiated out from me. I knew that I’d made my fair share of mistakes in the past, and my friends and family tended to look out for me. There was the time I got stranded on the summit of Mt. Hood in the middle of a blizzard, and the time I ended up getting dragged downriver by the current in the Columbia. But this was a new level of warnings, from both Gam and Greg. My past blunders were all my own doing, usually because I had overestimated my skill level or downplayed the danger. This felt different. This felt out of my control. I couldn’t shake the ominous cloud hovering over me.
Chapter 6
The next morning I tossed my bags in the back of my Subaru, plugged in my road trip playlist, and watched my bungalow fade away in the rearview mirror. Bend is a little over a three-hour drive from Portland. There were a couple of possible routes to take. I opted to drive over Mt. Hood since the sun was shining overhead—no chance of hitting a blizzard in September—and because it was one of the most stunning drives in the Pacific Northwest. I would follow Highway 26 up Mt. Hood to Government Camp and then down the other side of the mountain into the high desert of Central Oregon.
Frank Sinatra belted out “You Make Me Feel So Young” on the stereo. I cranked the volume as high as it would go and sang along. I didn’t feel quite so young anymore, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. What I did feel was on my own. Maybe it was the long stretch of road and endless forest in front of me, but suddenly Oregon felt massive. I’d been surrounded by my friends since we’d graduated from college, and the reality of us traveling in different directions gave me the realization that this might be the official end of my youth.
In no time I was outside city limits and nearing Mt. Hood, Oregon’s highest slope. Gam believed that the mountain was an anchor both physically and spiritually. The landscape shifted as the evergreen trees thickened and the road narrowed. I passed an eagle sanctuary and a rainbow trout fishing farm. The last time I had been on the mountain was almost a year ago when I’d been on assignment at Timberline Lodge. That’s when the blizzard had struck and stranded me at high altitude. Thankfully there was little chance of being snowed in this trip. In fact, there was little snow on the mountain. The Palmer Glacier on Mt. Hood is known throughout the world for its year-round skiing, but today the glacier looked like a tiny white marshmallow on an otherwise barren slope.
I crested the mountain and passed Government Camp, a small ski village where Greg owned a chalet. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t even been a year since I was here, so much had changed. Mainly me. As much as growing up and parting ways with my friends was painful, I also recognized that I had made some great strides and had experiences that would last a lifetime. I imagined telling my grandkids about how I had windsurfed with some of the world’s best and competed in a mud obstacle run. I almost had to pinch myself when I thought about the many adventures I’d had since writing for Northwest Extreme.
Highway 26 cut through the mountain pass and down into the eastern side of the Cascade Mountain Range. The mountains act as a barrier for weather systems, making the western half of the state wet and more like a cold rain forest with storms blowing in fr
om the coast and parking themselves over Portland. In Central Oregon the climate was completely different. My ears popped as I descended into the grassy flatlands of the high desert.
Cattle and sheep ranches stretched as far as I could see on both sides of the highway. Red lava rock dusted the earth. The evergreen forests vanished. To my right, a line of mountains—Mt. Jefferson, Three Fingered Jack, Mt. Washington, and the Three Sisters—sat in a nearly perfect row. It made me wonder if Mother Nature had waved her magic wand and dropped a trail of pretty peaks leading straight to Bend.
The drive passed quickly, and before I knew it signs directing me to Bend and clusters of sage brush and junipers dotted the highway. Bend had seen a major revitalization in the past few years. The city took a major hit when the housing market crashed. Real estate values in Bend plummeted, making it one of the most underwater cities in the United States. The old logging town floundered to stay afloat, but thanks to its sunny and snowy climate, a plethora of outdoor activities, and a vibrant community, the city rebounded and the housing market recovered.
Just last year Northwest Extreme named Bend the number one town in the Pacific Northwest for outdoor living. The beer scene was also booming in Bend. A number of big guys, as Matt calls them, had offered big bucks to buy out Bend’s popular microbreweries. Most of them had said no, but a few had jumped at the chance to cash out. Locals protested and boycotted the breweries—there were even signs that read DON’T DRINK CORPORATE BEER.
In addition to the thriving outdoor and beer culture, Bend had become a hub for start-ups like Blazen, which were attracted to the city’s young vibe and reasonable real estate prices. I had learned in my research that this wasn’t by coincidence. When the housing market tanked, the city intentionally pulled together a plan to entice small businesses and start-ups out west. It appeared to be working. As I drove through downtown there was building going on all around me. Apartments, subdivisions, and multiuse structures were popping up all over the city. I wondered if Bend’s housing crisis was as dire as Portland’s. I would have to look into that as a potential subnote for my story.
Bend was also a hub for bikers. Bike paths designed to look like red lava rock parallel the street. Even the guardrails, light posts, and any signage around town had been constructed out of burnt red metal to blend in with the natural desert motif. Majestic views of the Cascade Mountains greeted me at almost every turn. No wonder Matt was excited about the possibility of a job here.
I would be staying at a boutique hotel in the Old Mill District. The neighborhood and shopping district were located on the Deschutes River and were the former headquarters of one of the world’s largest lumber companies. The 270-acre mixed-used land housed restaurants, galleries, an outdoor amphitheater, and access to the River Trail, which parallels the Deschutes for miles.
The developer had given a nod to Bend’s lumber roots by renovating the old mill buildings complete with three giant smokestacks. I immediately fell in love with the vintage architecture and rustic wood façade when I steered my car into the hotel parking lot. Its lava red exterior with shiny white trim looked like something off a retro travel postcard. I breathed in the smell of hot pine needles baking on the dirt as I grabbed my bag and headed to check in. The receptionist informed me that my room had a river view. That was a bonus. Plus, the location couldn’t be more perfect. I could walk everywhere—for dinner, coffee, and most important, beer!
I needed to get settled and then I was due to meet the expedition team at the High Desert Research Center for a meet-and-greet cocktail hour at five. That would give me two hours to unpack and take a quick tour of the Old Mill District.
Once I was checked in, the receptionist assured me she would me have a bellboy deliver my bags to my room. I felt very mature and swanky as the bellboy escorted me into a glass elevator. Usually on assignment I stay with the group I’m interviewing or with friends. This was a first for me. I’d never stayed at a hotel by myself, but I could get used to this kind of luxury, especially after we arrived at my room and the bellboy held the door open for me.
I may have gasped, but I tried to recover and play it cool.
“Need anything else, miss?” he asked, setting my bags near the door.
“Nope.” I handed him a tip, and as soon as he shut the door I let out a little squeal. The room was equally modern and retro. I ran my hand across the smooth ebony walls and studied the antique prints with black-and-white photos of Bend at the turn of the last century and through its modern revitalization. There was an Oregon-style minibar with fourteen microbrews. I scanned the price list and squealed again, but for entirely different reasons. If I cracked open one of these beauties it would set me—or Northwest Extreme—back twelve dollars. Twelve dollars for a beer? No way.
The signature touch in the room was a whitewashed claw-foot tub that was positioned in front of the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony. I could take a bath with a view of the river. You could bet that I was going to make that happen over the next few days. There’s nothing better than a relaxing bath, especially with a good book. To add a river view seemed like the stuff of dreams.
I hung the dresses I’d brought in the closet and changed into a mint green skirt with pink roses and V-neck pink shirt. I wasn’t exactly sure how formal the happy hour would be, but it was at a college, so I figured it was probably better to overdress than underdress. Plus, I’d been dying for an occasion to wear the skirt. When I spotted it in the window display at my favorite upcycle shop, I knew it had to be mine.
Checking my appearance in the mirror, I scowled. When I was in New York a few weeks ago I chopped off all of my hair on a bit of a whim. My pixie cut was growing out faster than I had imagined and ended up curling in all the wrong places. I used a gob of hair putty to try to tame it back into place. Then I refreshed my makeup and added a touch of light green eye shadow for the evening. I’m not a natural beauty like Jill, but when I observed my reflection my cheeks naturally glowed with color and my green eyes popped with the eye shadow.
After I sent Matt a text to let him know that I had arrived, I stepped onto the balcony to snap a couple shots of the river to post on our social media pages. Then I grabbed my notebook, phone, and purse and went to explore the Old Mill District.
The plaza was surprisingly busy for midday on a Thursday. There was no mistaking Bend’s laid-back outdoor culture. It was apparent everywhere, from the shops, which featured everything from high-end organic honey to paddleboard rentals, to the fashion—if you could call it fashion. Having spent time in New York, my outfit would look right in place there, but I stood out like a pink flower in the middle of board shorts, Keen sandals, and whitewater rafting T-shirts.
I took a few pictures of the Mill District’s historic brick buildings and towering silver smokestacks. Our followers who resided outside the Northwest (of which there were many) would enjoy seeing candid shots of everyday life in Bend. I wandered through the shops, stopping for a peppermint ice cream and to look at the most delicate hand-carved wood earrings. Gam would love a pair. I found ones that were cut in the shape of hearts. They were super lightweight and revealed the age rings of the tree from which they had been carved. I asked the shopkeeper to wrap them up for me and tucked them into my purse.
There were at least three pubs that Matt and I would have to come back and try. He told me he had a lengthy list of breweries that we were going to hit up over the long weekend. I grabbed a brochure at one of them for the Bend Ale Trail, which was touted as the longest ale trail in the west. That sounded exactly like my kind of trail. At each stop on the map you could get your passport stamped. Once you accumulated enough stamps you received free pints and prizes.
This should keep us busy for days, I said to myself as I headed for my car. It was a little after four but I wanted to allow plenty of time to find the High Desert Research Center. According to my GPS, the drive should take me thirty minutes. The college was located south of Bend near the Lava River Cave and
Newberry National Volcanic Monument. Both were situated in the Deschutes National Forest—the land that Congressman Riley wanted to give back to the local government.
I was committed to staying open to both sides of the debate. It was my responsibility as a journalist. Pops taught me that, and I wouldn’t let him down.
“Time to get to work and get this adventure started, Meg,” I said out loud.
Little did I know what kind of adventure I was about to embark on.
Chapter 7
The High Desert Research Center was a branch of the University of Bend. Undergraduate and graduate students were able to get hands-on field research as part of their studies. The Center conducted digs, collected rock and mineral samples, and studied the effects of wildfire on the ponderosa pine forests surrounding Bend. I’d read about massive yellow clouds of pollen that inundated the city every spring when the pines dropped their flowers all at once, creating imposing storms of dust. Thank goodness I’d missed that.
The Center was a top-notch program and highly regarded as one of the most prestigious colleges when it came to earth sciences. At its helm was lead researcher Professor LeAnna. I’d read a few of her papers on microbes in extreme environments, and from what I’d been able to take away from her academic studies, she was pioneering the field of volcanic microbiology. I was looking forward to learning more and seeing how I might incorporate some of her groundbreaking (literally and figuratively) research into my piece.
I turned off the freeway and onto a four-mile-long red gravel road. Heat blazed on the windows, and huge mountain crows flew overhead. They were the size of small cats, and their caws echoed in the vast desert.
The Center came into view as I bumped over the crushed lava rocks. It looked more like a log cabin than a teaching facility that drew students from all over the globe. I had learned in my initial research that the Center had a temporary site set up at the lava caves as well. All of their actual research was conducted from the Center.
In Cave Danger Page 5