Riding in a Truck with Jack, by Elliot McIntire
[Editor’s Note: In February 2021, Elliot’s story was in a writing contest sponsored by Leading Age.]
We never did actually run out of gas, but it was a near thing a time or two. It all started almost immediately after I moved to Eugene. I saw a poster looking for volunteers to work at the city’s native plant nursery, which grows plants for restoration projects around town. Among those volunteering was Jack, a tall, balding man with a beard, a ready smile and a wry sense of humor.
Early the next summer someone suggested a trip to Three-Fingered Jack, a jagged peak on the crest of the Cascades. One of the volunteers had just lost her dog, and wanted to take the ashes to a meadow they had often visited. Jack and I discovered that we both liked the out of doors, modest hikes, native plants, and back roads.
The next spring Jack asked me if I would like to go with him to Horse Rock Ridge, a natural site Jack was monitoring for the BLM. This was the first of several hikes to this gorgeous spot overlooking the Willamette Valley. On the way there Jack introduced me to the local history of the Mohawk Valley: an abandoned rail line, the site of a vanished logging town, the tiny cafe/gas station, the school where he tutored kids.
This soon became a pattern: one of us would suggest that it was time for another expedition, just the two of us, usually along with Jack’s dog. We both enjoyed narrow, twisting, dusty backroads, and neither of our wives really appreciated their rustic charm, so they were happy to see us go. Over the next several years we went out every couple of months, exploring obscure corners of Lane, Douglas, Linn, Benton counties. Jack seemed to know every back road, every little crossroads hamlet, and the story behind them. On every trip Jack delighted in pointing out the wildflowers that we came across. He knew them all, both common and scientific names, and tried to teach them to me, with partial success.
We would meet early morning at some convenient spot, find the nearest greasy spoon for an unvarying breakfast of coffee, two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon and a glass of orange juice. Over time we probably ate this same breakfast in more than twenty tiny roadside diners, always enjoying listening to the banter between the waitress and the regulars who were clearly there several mornings a week. Then off to hike to a waterfall, a fire lookout, a lake or an old mining camp, sometimes in my Prius, but most often in Jack’s pickup.
While we never talked about it, Jack seemed to not pay too much attention to how full his gas tank was. On our first attempt to follow the Calapooya River to its headwaters Jack’s map showed a forest service road that would take us up over the ridge to Blue River, with a gas station. However, well up the road we encountered thick snow still blocking the road and had to turn back. “Well,” said Jack, “here’s this other road that cuts over to the south and should take us to the MacKenzie River, if it isn’t blocked off at the other end.” The gas gauge was leaning on Empty when we reached the river, and the road was not blocked, and we breathed a sigh of relief. (Two later attempts to get to Blue River this way also failed, but gas was not an issue).
A later outing to the top of Marys Peak, west of Corvallis, also included a stop at Alsea Falls, where we noticed the gauge was approaching Empty. “Is there a gas station in Alsea?” I asked. “I think so” was the reply. As we rolled into town we spotted a solitary gas pump on the north side of the road, but no one in sight. The town might have been deserted. After a longish wait for someone to appear, Jack finally went in to the tumbledown store across the street to inquire. He soon returned with the store’s proprietor, who said she had been in the store room, and hadn’t seen us drive in. Another close call. It was quite a ways into Philomath.
One day we decided to trace the upper reaches of the Willamette River, back to the source of the south fork at Lake Timpanango. It was a long, lonely road south from Mills Creek Reservoir. I think we met one Forest Service truck, and perhaps one other pickup. Finally, after coming within a couple of miles of our goal, Jack said “I don’t think we have enough gas to get down there, and back.” So we turned around and started back toward Oakridge. Neither of us said a word, but Jack put in a tape of Garrison Keillor stories to listen to, and turned off the truck to coast down every downhill stretch. Pulling in to the first gas station we came to in Oakridge, Jack filled the essentially empty tank.
In 2015 I moved to the Portland area, and consequently our outings became less frequent, but we still met up every few months to explore another side road somewhere between Eugene and Portland. Then Jack was diagnosed with the first stages of Alzheimer’s. (The diagnosis was wrong, but that’s another story). Our last trip together was in early 2017. We met at the Trappist Abbey near Carlton, north of McMinnville. Jack was late in arriving; he had (uncharacteristically) missed a turn in town. We explored the Abbey grounds, and walked through the woods behind the abbey. It had rained the day before, and the paths were muddy. It was a rather gloomy, overcast day, and I was feeling rather depressed, much in tune with the weather. After a visit to the gift shop, and purchase of one of the monk’s renowned fruitcakes, we left. Jack followed me as far as the junction with Highway 99W. I waved to him as he turned south along the highway, and I went north toward Portland.
Jack died a few months later of the brain tumor that had been initially missed.