Try as I might to seize the day,
Somehow it always slips away,
Over my shoulder, into the past,
Onto the heap where dreams are cast.
Over and over, the days rush by,
Seeming to be in a rush to die,
Showing no handle a man could seize,
No inclination to slack or freeze;
We are the wood that the River Time
Tumbles and drowns – all rhythm, no rhyme.
Absolutely gutted to hear about the passing of Norm Macdonald. I’ve never had a celebrity death hit me this hard. Not even close.
I’m afraid I don’t have the words to describe what Norm Macdonald meant to me. He was the Weekend Update anchor of my youth – and who can forget their first Update anchor? – but it was when I rediscovered him in adulthood that my enjoyment of his humor blossomed into admiration and – yes – love. Norm was more than a comedian; he was an institution, a touchstone, a guru without a creed, a secret shared by millions. He was warm, generous, subversive, paradoxical, and sometimes brutal. Above all, he was irresistibly funny. And – perhaps uniquely among comedians – he was at his absolute funniest when nobody was laughing. He didn’t care if you got the joke. He got the joke. He was perfectly happy to just be up there entertaining himself.
You can spend hours on YouTube gorging yourself on clips of Norm’s bizarre brilliance – and you should – but the moment that keeps coming back to me is his final appearance on Letterman, when for a brief moment he let his jester’s mask slip and showed the big, beating heart behind all his “gossip and trickery.” That’s how I’ll always remember him: as someone who lived life on his own terms, who wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable, and who knew that comedy, like life itself, is always an act of love.
(You can watch the whole thing here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFjEvl43zYY&t=2s)
“Man, this is the greatest gig in the world, being alive. You get to eat at Denny’s, wear a hat, whatever you wanna do.” –Norm Macdonald
Thank you for living, Norm Macdonald. I hope they have Denny's wherever you are.
Sunday, February 7th-Wednesday, February 10th
First day of golf was glorious. Stepping out onto Old Macdonald on Sunday morning, I felt light and buoyant and free. After just a few holes, my caddy and I were overtaken by a seasoned golfer named Alan – a tall, sturdy, slightly florid Glaswegian with a somewhat grim demeanor but a deep love for the game. I was nervous to be playing alongside someone so experienced – he confided that he’d been playing since he was two – but Alan was too much of a gentleman to show any impatience or contempt. He was helpful and encouraging, in his gruff, earnest way. After a few holes together, he had to forge on ahead; his run was being timed, and he didn’t want to be tagged as a slow player. He wished me luck and vanished on ahead, and I felt like I had been visited by the Spirit of Golf itself.
I had some good holes and some lousy holes, but it was good to be out there no matter what. I felt I understood the appeal of the game, of Bandon, of the universe. I felt like I knew what Robb Stey had been talking about. This place really was special.
At sunset I took a walk down to the beach, which had an unearthly beauty as the light faded over the waves. On my way back, a deer contemplated me from the top of a dune, and it felt like the perfect magical capper to a pretty damn magical day.
Day Two on Bandon Trails was lovely also. Astonishingly, I shot a birdie on the second hole (I was playing from the forward tees, but still). Scotch on the patio afterward felt good and well-earned. Takeout dinner was a bit cold and a bit lonely, but also deeply peaceful. Plus, how lonely can you be when you’re texting Robb Stey and he’s eagerly lapping up your updates?
Day Three – Pacific Dunes – got a little more challenging. The day was gorgeous, and the views over the ocean were spectacular, but the play was very, very challenging, and we were sandwiched between a slow party in front and a fast party behind, and I exchanged a few words with my caddy when he tried to hurry me along. My partner for the day, Michael, couldn’t have been nicer or more patient, but there was still too much tension on the course for me to enjoy myself the way I’d have liked to – particularly on my last day.
After the round, Michael treated me to a shot of Casamigos – and then I had to rush off for my bunker lesson with Grant Rogers. I realize I haven’t mentioned Grant Rogers! Grant Rogers was an undisputed highlight of my visit. He has a tendency to tell long, rambling stories – some captivating, some a little pointless – but he knows golf backwards and forwards, and he’s a good, patient teacher, and he seemed to take a shine to me, which was immensely flattering, especially considering how highly Mom and Robb think of him. I was scheduled for only one lesson with him initially, but we ended up having four; at the end of each lesson, he would suggest another, and then another, and then another after that. He has a way of framing a lesson as a joint effort, so that the two of us were putting (or whatever it was) as a “team”; this is an extremely effective technique for keeping student morale high. Over the course of the four lessons, we worked on driving, putting, and bunker play. Grant considers himself a bunker master, and he encouraged me to see ending up in one not as a failure or a frustration, but as an opportunity to make a really good bunker shot. On my last morning, just before I headed off, Grant called me over to his office in the Practice Center so he could give me a TaylorMade hat – the exact kind, he assured me, that the PGA players wear. He felt I’d earned it. It was an incredibly sweet gesture, and I tried to show how grateful I was.
Also on my final morning – just as the sun was coming up – I finally got to explore the property’s nature trails. I started out on the Jamie McEwan Trail, with staggering views of the frost-covered green at Pacific Dunes. The trail wandered along a ridge, then down around a pond, then out through the putting greens at the Practice Center. When I intersected with the Woodland Trail, I followed it to the famed Labyrinth (a recreation of the ancient one at Chartres), where I walked the maze, just as Robb Stey had commanded. I don’t know if I had the epiphany I was supposed to have, but it was a lovely, contemplative spot.
The stretch of the 101 around Bandon is elevated, and it offers glimpses, to the east, of a large wooded valley and mountains rising beyond. Striking out east, you wind down into that valley, and immediately you’re in a wilder world than the relatively tame coast. Coquille is a small logging town, and the water that borders the road is thick with floating logs. The Coquille River parallels the road, but it seems to spill out in all directions, so that half the time you can’t be sure if you’re looking at a river or a lake or a flooded plain. This stretch was sublimely beautiful, and wonderfully lost in time.
Then up into the mountains, heading south on the 5 toward Medford. The highway twists among wooded slopes, some of them freshly logged. Oregon is beautiful. Oregon is just what you’d want it to be.
Fairly disappointing Tinder date in Medford, after which I backtracked on the 5 to spend the night at the Wolf Creek Inn. Dating from 1883, it’s the oldest continuously-operating hotel in the Pacific Northwest, now owned and run by the Parks Department. (Apparently Clark Gable and Jack London stayed there, but I didn’t find that out until much later.) The place felt strangely deserted – you check yourself in by getting a key from a drop box outside the door, and the restaurant is closed due to Covid – but it was ridiculously charming, and very reasonably priced. Wolf Creek is a strange town – sort of quaint and remote-feeling, but also just off the interstate. The room was small but comfortable. In the morning, I wandered on…
Saturday, February 6th
A brief morning stroll through Hood River – a cheerful, peaceful, affluent-feeling town sloping down to the river. Then pressed on along the southern bank of the Columbia, which is strikingly more forested than the northern (Washington) side. This will be the theme of driving in Oregon: when there’s nothing else, there will be trees. Lots and lot and lots of trees.
Portland was distinctly disappointing. Businesses pretending to be open while offering so many draconian restrictions that they might as well be closed. Almost impossible to find a public restroom; there’s one in the Whole Foods, but the first entrance I went to was closed (no idea why), and the entrance that was open was on a completely different street. I know there’s a pandemic and everything, but Portland seemed determined to make everything as difficult as possible. Also just not a very attractive or interesting city. I spent an hour or so there, and it was more than enough.
Bought slacks at a Men’s Wearhouse in Salem (no denim on Bandon Dunes golf courses!) and meandered on south and west. Route 20 heading out toward the coast started to feel like the middle of nowhere; not much to see but trees, trees, trees. (I mean this in a good way.) Hit the coast itself at Newport, which seemed like a nice little oceanfront community, but as I continued south down the 101, I started to get a little tired of these touristy beach towns. Where was the fabled wildness of Oregon? This part of the coast seemed a little tame.
Things did get more dramatic farther south; the bridge coming down into North Bend and Coos Bay offered some spectacular views. And it was here that I started to see clear evidence of logging: huge piles of logs stacked along the harbor, for transport to who knows where. It was actually a little thrilling to realize that logging is still a prominent feature of Oregonian life; the world of Sometimes a Great Notion didn’t feel too far away…
And after that: Bandon Dunes! I had tried explaining to Robb Stey that I was completely unfit to set foot on a world-class golf course (having never played a round in my life), but he wouldn’t hear it. “This is what you need,” he said. “I can’t recommend it more from the core of my soul.”
And so I found myself pulling into Bandon Dunes a little before sunset. The air off the ocean was cool, and the place did feel like a blessed sanctuary. My corner room in the Lakeview complex had windows on two sides looking straight into a forest. The style of the room was what you might call “monastic luxury.” After several days on the road, it felt a little like coming home.
Friday, February 5th
In the morning, Pike Place Market was buzzing and active – maybe quiet by normal standards, but far from dead. People unloading fish from trucks, packing it into ice, arranging flowers. It’s a remarkable thing when a famous tourist attraction is also so inescapably pragmatic and real. What a special place.
Grabbed a coffee and a new travel mug (my old one split in the Idaho cold) at The Original Starbucks Location. Barista there recommended Bacco Café for breakfast, and after a stroll along 1st Ave., I took her word for it and was rewarded with a lovely sidewalk breakfast (crab benedict and coffee). The whole thing felt refreshingly indulgent and “normal.” It’s lovely to be in a place where you have no responsibilities…
Then onward! First east on 90, through national-park-style wilderness. Pit stop in Easton, at a cute little gas station/convenience store called the Parkside Café (“Home of the Turtle”). Then on down to the dry plains, through hardscrabble towns along Route 97 that have their own barren beauty. As the sun dipped low, I neared the Columbia River Gorge, and the views coming down to it from the high ground were breathtaking. So, too, was the drive along the northern rim of the gorge itself, overlooking causeways with roads and train tracks running along them. Some of the best scenery of the whole trip, without question.
It was late afternoon when I reached White Salmon, a charming little town perched on a slope overlooking the river. Took a stroll with Andrew McEwan, then added his wife and kids to the mix, then strolled again, then a takeout dinner on their porch. All exceedingly pleasant, and mostly unexpected. Their kids are adorable, and, as Dad would say, full of beans.
After dinner I crossed the river, and the Washington/Oregon border, on a private bridge (!) with a $2 toll. My first time in Oregon! Spent the night at the Hood River Hotel, which is pleasant and historic, but also painfully hip. It was a bit odd to see people happily congregating, maskless, in the lobby. Made me uncomfortable, truth be told – but the room was nice, so no complaints.
Thursday, February 4th
Coeur d’Alene is charming on its residential streets, but a little hip and soulless downtown. Real estate here is booming, and the main drag is full of those tacky lit-up photos that realtors love. Still, a nice little harborfront. Took a stroll and pressed on.
Into Washington! Eastern Washington is fairly flat, and beautiful in a desolate, Nebraska-like way. Then you start to see mountains looming in the distance – and then you start to climb up into them…
Wenatchee has a nice dramatic setting, by a river with mountains looming around. I didn’t stop, but admired it from the road.
Leavenworth lives up to its billing as a “Bavarian Village” – in spades. It’s a virtual Alpine Disneyland; even the hospital makes a vague effort to fit the theme. It’s very touristy, of course, but also quite impressive – and there’s nothing chintzy or contrived about the beautiful mountains that form the backdrop.
After Leavenworth, you’re really in it – plunging between mountains with a river on your left and nary a town in sight. Beautiful. Somewhere near Mount Howard (I think) a snowstorm started, and although it wasn’t nearly as bad as the one that stymied my progress into Montana, I did have to stay alert. Coming down out of the mountains, I had the most striking climatic shift of the whole journey – from blizzard to rainforest in what felt like 20 minutes. The moss was thick on the trunks of the trees that hemmed in the road on both sides. It was like driving through a jungle. When the road flattened out, I stopped for a smoothie at the Mountain View Brew in the town of Startup (???). The local grocery store had a sign above it reading: “DVDs, milk, wood, got beer.” I thought that was lovely. I took a photo.
Onward to Seattle, where I dropped my bags at the Ace Hotel in Belltown (just north of the waterfront district) and then walked a couple of miles to Café Pettirosso for dinner with Nick Tamburro. We ate on the sidewalk under a tent (Covid!), and afterward we took a stroll through Cal Anderson Park, which last year was the epicenter of a big months-long protest. There was no trace of any of that; it was clean and peaceful. Nick walked me back to the waterfront, and we shared a masked hug before parting ways.
Wednesday, February 3rd
Just north of Missoula, near Arlee, is the Garden of One Thousand Buddhas. It’s a lovely and tranquil spot, and gloriously incongruous among the Montana ranch houses. Very quiet when I wandered through.
The drive up to Glacier National Park, along the eastern edge of Flathead Lake, was gorgeous. It’s a nice rustic-recreational area – kind of feels like a national park in itself. I barely dipped into the actual national park – ran out of time and had to scoot on down to Coeur d’Alene – but the drive justified itself. On the way back down, this time on the west side of the lake, the views (near sunset) became spectacular. Somewhere around Dayton was the peak of it – looking out towards Wild Horse Island and the mountains beyond. Unreal.
South on 28 through the Flathead Reservation: desolate and beautiful.
The sun was down by the time I reached Interstate 90, which cut through the mountains and across the border into Idaho. Suddenly I panicked; I was low on gas, and despite being on the interstate, I was also in the middle of nowhere. I needn’t have worried; trucks come through there, and there are some rugged, outpost-style truck stops. I stopped in Haugan, at a gas station/hotel/restaurant/casino complex (the hotel was the Silver Dollar Inn). Simultaneously kitschy and woodsy. The clerk at the gas station had a mask dangling off of one ear, and made no move to place it over his face as he strode inside to ring me up. He was friendly enough, in a grouchy way.
Then onward, past tiny little towns on their steep slopes, twinkling with lights. Magical. Then bad Chinese takeout, then the Greenbriar Inn in Coeur d’Alene. Nice old place, with plenty of charm – though, fair warning, the walls are thin.
Tuesday, February 2nd
Left Driggs around 11:30 AM, on 33 and then 28, headed for Goldbug Hot Springs. 28 takes you through some lovely, flat ranch country, and towns like Lone Pine (really just a general store/motel) and Leadore (the perfect run-down, lived-in Western town). Salmon is bigger and more bustling – almost like civilization – and from there you take 93 south toward the hot springs, winding up into mountains with a river on your right. Magic.
The hike up to the hot springs gets a little strenuous toward the end – and a little treacherous toward the beginning, with hard-packed slush almost as slippery as ice. Worth it, though, to pull off your clothes and soak in the stream with a view out over the mountains. The sun was setting by the time I started to descend, and I met up with Alex, a sweet, heavily-tattooed young man who’s road-tripping around the West in a decommissioned ambulance. Says he’s never been east of Colorado. (He’s from Portland.) We had to slide on our butts in the last stretch, but we made it safely back to our vehicles, and Alex showed me how he’d outfitted his ambulance (it did not look comfortable), and then we said our goodbyes and I headed north again on 93.
Getting up into Montana (my first time in Montana!) proved to be an adventure. Thick snow in the mountains, and still falling heavily. No tire tracks to drive in for most of the way, and only a few trucks coming the opposite direction for company. I slowed way down and hoped for the best. Dicey stuff.
Back on level ground, the situation improved markedly. Grabbed some Taco Bell for dinner and made it to Blue Mountain Bed & Breakfast by around 9:30. Lovely place, way up on a straggling dirt road overlooking the highway. You’re only a few miles from Missoula, but you feel like you’re in the middle of nowhere. Comfortable room, splendid views.
Winter lays bare the structure of the world:
How that folds into this, and where the joint
Between the upland and the lowland lies;
The run of rivers, the true shapes of hills,
And what the early men saw from the heights
When first they breasted that commanding place
And saw the world laid out in diagram,
An etching of itself, a living map,
Upon which clouds in shadow slowly moved –
Above-below them, tiny birds in flight.
It’s like the curtain of the world draws back,
Revealing, for a moment, strange machines
Whose ropes and pulleys make the whole thing run;
And then, in spring, the show begins again,
And lushness hides what deprivation showed:
That scarecrow earth on which we live our lives –
Warm things in peril in a colder place.
This is only an experience.
Make it full and fascinating when you can,
But also, don’t sweat it.
Some days will slide into oblivion; that’s fine.
It’s your experience to have, yours only,
And maybe don’t compare yourself to Shakespeare,
Or Jesus, or Joan of Arc.
Those people once existed, and no longer do,
And since you still exist, you’re winning
(If only for the moment,
And a few moments more).
Besides, even Shakespeare must have had dull days,
And even Joan of Arc, in her short life,
Must have stopped, once, and stared out of a window,
Reminding herself that she was only living,
Before she sighed, put on a helmet,
And marched off to crush the English and die.
I read 25 books last year, and only five are worthy of inclusion on this list. Still, these five are pretty phenomenal, so I don’t suppose I can complain.
Without further ado, here they are. I tried to put them in order, but of course you all know how arbitrary that is.
1.
The Privateer (Gordon Daviot, a.k.a. Josephine Tey)
If not the best book I read in 2020, then certainly the most perfect. The Privateer is a splendid novel, swashbuckling and witty, with fine lyrical flourishes and enough pathos to give it depth. Henry Morgan emerges as a dashing and fascinating figure, vain and flawed and heroic to his core.
2.
Cryptonomicon (Neal Stephenson)
A sprawling, imperfect, brilliant book. Stephenson's at his best telling dark WWII fairytales, full of twisted humor and surreal beauty. The present-day segments aren't as gripping or convincing, but when you start to see the full weave of the tapestry, you'll forgive Stephenson anything. I don't know how he manages to be so sardonic and so humanistic and so polymathically well-informed all at once, but he does, and it's a hell of a performance. Bravo.
3. Sandman (the complete series, by Neil Gaiman)
Sometimes tedious, sometimes precious, sometimes favoring words over images in a way that seems like a disservice to the comics medium – but touched with moments of real beauty, pathos, and brilliance, and slowly building to an ending that’s eerie, resonant, humane, and genuinely moving. How do you evaluate a work like that? Sandman is a work of genius – a flawed, rambling work of genius, with tragically uneven artwork, that somehow manages to tie together most of its multitudinous plot strands in its strange and masterful conclusion. It’s worth the time – worth the frustration. It’s like a treasure trove of humanity’s stories, and even if some of the jewels are pasteboard, enough are real to make for a rich and satisfying reward.
4.
The Mirror and the Light (Hilary Mantel)
I did start to experience a bit of Trilogy Exhaustion during this final installment, but Mantel's vision and artistry remain breathtaking, and there's real pathos in reaching the end of the tale.
5.
The League of Frightened Men (Rex Stout)
I read a lot of Nero Wolfe mysteries this year, and this was the pick of the litter. Perplexing and full of menace, with an unexpected ending and – best of all – some wonderful Wolfe/Goodwin interplay. You can see why John Dickson Carr placed this book in his mystery top ten.
Here’s to you, you bastard,
Who thought to beat us down.
You tried your best,
And now you rest
In winter’s frozen ground.
Here’s to you, you coward,
Who thought to cow us, too.
Your day is done;
In ’21
We’ll flourish without you.
