Washington's Deschutes River runs through this little valley (not to be confused with the larger Oregonian river which bears the same name), a pastoral setting of prairie grassland and stands of Douglas fir and glossy-leaved Garry oak. The valley is dotted with family farms where cattle and horses can be seen grazing in perfect idyll. The sounds of machinery and motors are for the most part distant and unobtrusive and fall with less impact on the ear than the call of the Scrub Jays or the gleeful chirrups of the smaller birds. Voices carry across the open space, a farmer calling to a farmhand or his wife; the words almost distinguishable, but not quite. The river says nothing. It passes silently in its course, undisturbed by rocks in its bed or changes in terrain. The peace of the moment is a window into a time when life was simpler, when you could sit of a warm afternoon and listen to the corn grow without the interruption of a cell phone.
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