We didn't see him approaching.  We didn't even see a car pull into the nearly empty lot where we had just parked.  It was as if he simply emerged, heavy set, white haired, alone.  Maybe I was just concentrating on reading the sign at the trailhead saying "Bagby Hot Springs Forest Camp, Mount Hood National Forest".   Or maybe I was asking my daughter Alyssa if she wanted her hat that was tucked deep in my bulging backpack.  Or maybe I was double-checking with my son Brett that the keys for the green Ford rental car with Oregon plates were secured in his back pocket.  But there he was, this stranger, about to begin the hike on the only trail leading to the springs. Like an unintended rendezvous, our party of 3 grew into a party of 4, two young adults, their mom, and this man.

The sky is cloudless, the air pure, the temperature comfortable. The Collawash River tumbles over rocks and boulders along one side of the groomed path, while Douglas firs stand tall in every direction.  The remote setting is like a prayer, serene, peaceful, and well worth the effort in wrong turns and lost miles finding it.  We start up the path.

"You been here before?"  His words are drawn out slowly.  "No," I answer, "We're not from this area."  "So where you from?" he asks.  I pause before responding, not really wanting to respond and not wanting to be rude.  "Boston," I reply, hoping that my one word answer will buy silence, but knowing that it won't. "I been East," he tells me.  "It was a long time ago.  Went apple picking there."  We are walking in a line now, Alyssa a distant first, then Brett, and me, still recovering from a knee injury, just ahead of the man.  "My name's Jack," he says." What's yours?" "Diane," I tell him.  "And the boy?" he continues.  My son finally chimes in, stating his name, Brett.  "Doug?" asks the man.  "No, Brett," repeats my son in a louder voice.  "So what kind of work you do?" Jack asks Brett.  "I'm an architect," answers Brett.  "I wanted to be an architect," Jack tells us.  "Ended up a minister and a music teacher.  Retired now.  I'm 4 score plus two.  Second wife died.  I'm alone.  Tried living in Florida.  Didn't like it.  Came back to Oregon.  Pretty here, isn't it?"

His question draws me back to my surroundings as we approach a narrow log bridge that crosses the river.  Midday sun plays with the railings, casting shadows like lines painted on the bridge.  On the opposite shore a pile of shorts and shirts and shoes is tossed onto a rock.  Voices draw my attention to the skinny-dipping.  "They go nude here," Jack informs me.  "Nude up at the springs, too." Pause. "There's a tub up there we could share, if you'd like," he offers.  I don't respond this time, don't even turn around.  "Brett, wait up," I call to my son.  But it doesn't matter.  Jack hangs back.

Later, after Brett, attired in blue bathing shorts, immerses into the spring water that is channeled by wooden flumes into hollowed out cedar logs, and later, after Alyssa photographs me against the backdrop of a decaying redwood, later we overhear a group of teens complaining to the uniformed forest ranger.  Something about an old man bothering them.

We never see Jack again.  We think about him, though, as we descend the trail, breaking the coveted silence to talk of, rather than with, him.  Lonely old man or dirty old man, we'll never know. Still, I can't resist sharing a little motherly wisdom with my children.  "I believe that every experience is an opportunity, a chance to learn something."  In unison they respond, "What did we learn?"  For that question, I don't have an answer, or at least, not yet.  "I have to think about it," I tell them, but then add, "If you keep your eyes open to the possibilities, you'll figure things out eventually."  Alyssa nods, Brett smiles, and in unspoken agreement, we continue down the trail.       

By Diane Snyder

Diane Snyder recently retired from a long career as a pre-kindergarten teacher at the Jewish Community Center in Stoughton.  She now puts all of her energy into writing.