Yesterday I went to visit some Old Friends ( <– you really should open that in another tab and give it a listen ), with one of my best friends. Smith Rock is a magical place – not certain how else to explain it. My first years living in Central Oregon I spent countless hours at the park, and even more studying, dog-earing and jotting notes in my copy of Climber’s Guide to Smith Rock.
Lately though, more time has been spent wading in the waters that flow through Smith. The Crooked is the river I learned to fly fish on, so much like the crags of Smith, it is quite special to me. Taking a quick stroll amongst the spires and along-side the flood-swollen waters was just soul soothing.
Watching the climbers hike past with their packs full of gear made me smile a bit, and fondly recall the days when I would do the same. I don’t feel the same tug at my soul to solve the puzzles of the walls around Smith Rock much anymore, I’m so much more intrigued by the mysteries of the river that helped carve the faces now.
Regardless of what mystery draws me to this place, I always walk out of that canyon satisfied. Some old friends I used to come here with have long since moved away. Other friends, some furry ones so very special to me, have left years ago. And other old friends, I’m lucky enough to still spend time with today.
But it makes my heart sing to know I can go visit those old friends anytime amongst the crags and waters of Smith Rock.