When I’m feeling nostalgic about life and how we all get to where we are going, I sift through old photos I took while living in Oregon. This one is from a drive on the back roads outside of Portland. I happened upon this well-worn cement bridge while driving on the Columbia River Highway scenic byway. Something about the sun shining through the pillars during the golden hour made me begin to wonder of all the stories that this old bridge could tell if it could talk. I snapped the pic to remember my drive that day and to be a reminder of how that soft, yellow-orange haze can cast a glow on anything and make you see it in different way.
Oregon is a gorgeous state filled with lush greenery all year long, so it’s no wonder that it’s a common pastime among residents to take drives through the country and up into the mountains. I’ve always found the golden hour alluring, but the golden hour on back roads of Oregon could give me “all the feels” in an instant! There’s something about a sunset on a lonely road deep in the valley (like this one) that simultaneously makes me feel like a tiny speck on the earth and as if the world is at my fingertips.
Growing up, my family was always taking drives on the weekends. We’d pop on over to the coast to Coos Bay, Bandon, or Floence or head up into the mountains to Tokatee Falls, Diamond Lake, or Crater Lake. My family (my Dad and my paternal Grandma) were morning people—up with the birds scoping out the first worm to surface for the day. I was (and always have been) a night owl, so I found little joy in leaving the house early in the morning for any of these “adventures”. They would point out the lushness of the trees and clear, blue waters of the rivers and streams while I would be clinging onto my pillow like it was the life blood to my existence and uttering groans of “yeah”, “uh huh”, “yep” in agreement with their observations. We’d roll into our beginning destination of the day sometime between 8 and 9 and stop for a bite to eat. I’d drag myself out of the back seat of the car and sluggishly follow Dad and Grandma into the restaurant, still wishing that I could have simply stayed in bed instead.
Though the tables would turn on the trip back home. We’d be making our way back to Roseburg just before the sun began to set and suddenly, as the golden hour approached, the trees, rivers and streams, and open fields along the way came alive to me. The soft light made open fields seem like magical, melancholy spaces of beauty. The open land wasn’t barren or devoid, but rather filled with potential for something to happen. The waning sunlight created shadows that danced along the river’s edges and the clear, blue waters were now dark and filled with mystery; not rivers filled with fish and crawdads, but unknown pools and crevices to be explored. The golden hour made me dream of the possibilities of what could be in the plots of nature before my eyes and of what could be in the path of experiences that would add up to be called my life.
About
Hi, I’m Krystal! I’m a freelance writer and editor originally from the West Coast who’s now living in New York City. I'm stubbornly independent and tend to talk like a sailor, but I'll try to hold my tongue. No guarantees, though.
You can learn more about me here.