The House That Dreaded Sundown

It was a dark, hot night. The kind of night you have two fans going and still have to leave the porch door open with the screen latched. The wife and I had spent the last 24 hours in Portland attending the nuptials of her brother and his lovely bride, and all that frivolity had us wiped, so when we got home that evening, there was nothing on the agenda but some straight-up chilling, which in our house meant a couch, a couple adult libations, and a few episodes of the new Wet Hot American Summer series on Netflix. Part a reflection of our long day, part a reflection of our viewing choice, Cory was snoozing on the couch by 10, and a rerun of Tiny House Nation later I was about to board the same sleepy boat, so went to clean my teeth then stepped back in the living room to shut down the house.

That's when it happened.

I heard it first, an erratic ripple of the air in the room. I was by the front door, about to turn off the overhead light; Cory was still asleep on the couch; the cats were racing upstairs to the loft. I followed them with my drowsy eyes. And I saw it. Swooping and circling, spread-winged and squealing in panic. A bat. Condor-sized or so it seemed in the low light. I managed to say aloud, "Holy ____, is that a b-" and before I even knew she was awake, Cory was off the couch in full-on duck-and-cover mode, retreating from the living room and barricading herself in the bathroom before I could get out the "-at?" It's worth noting that most of the time when Cory takes a little night-nap on the couch, it takes a tad less than Megadeth cranked to 11 to wake her; the mere suggestion of a bat and she's like a Navy Seal, alert and enacting protocol at the first whiff of consciousness. End result? It was me and the bat. And two cats trying to test the efficacy of their rabies boosters. 

The next few minutes were a blur. I did the only thing I could think to do: open the door. This diverted the cats' attention from a free meal to freedom, and it was they who bolted for the door, the bat still making its manic circuit above the living room. So the door got shut again and the cats returned their efforts to the bat, chasing it into rafters the loft and out of sight.

Seemed I wasn't going to be sleeping, after all. Cats and wife were relocated to the bedroom and I armed myself with the go-to in-house pest-removal tool, a broom. I had no intention of hurting the little guy  - they're all over the place out here, and he obviously got in when Harrison, our elder feline, came in from the porch a little while earlier - but I had every doggone intention of going to sleep that night in a bat-free domicile. But then, there's a saying about best-laid plans...

At 2 a.m. I threw in the towel. I'd beat on every rafter beam with the broom handle and had only scared it out of hiding once, at which point I'd shrieked, dropped to the floor and completely blew any opportunity of directing the bat towards the door. I saw it fly into the highest point of the house, where several beams intersect, and despite beating on that to the point I broke the plastic ring connecting broom to handle, I never saw nor heard the bat again. I went to bed dead on my feet and vanquished in my own home. All that night my dreams were tormented by dive-bombing bloodsuckers frothing with rabies. The worst dreams were the ones in which I managed to capture and banish the bat; I'd wake relieved, but only for a blissful handful of seconds before the harsh, fear-inspiring reality of the situation reacquainted itself with my memory. Morning came. And with it our mission.

That day was like the third act of The Lost Boys as I thought of it, the third act of Home Alone as Cory conceived it (which I think accurately relates the fundamental difference in our characters; I've never denied I married out of my league): we had the daylight hours to prepare ourselves, hatch a plan and set it in motion, because as soon as the sun set and darkness once again spread its cold blanket over the house, our foe would come out of hiding, more panicked and desperate than before, and our struggle would begin again. Our plan was simple: darken the house, open the front door and turn on the porch light. The hope was that air current and illumination would attract it and away he'd fly. As a precaution, I had a Thor t-shirt tied through the broom handle and a bucket, heavy gloves, safety goggles, and a backwards Mariner's cap. I'm not trying to get all the rabies. 

So we waited, watching the sun slip ever closer to the horizon, dragging the light out of the sky and casting the ceiling beams in increasing shadows. Sunset was scheduled for 8:55. At 8:30 we turned off all the lights. As the division of labor went, when the bat showed itself, I would open the front door, flip on the porch light and try to direct the bat that way, and Cory would run for the bathroom and wait for it all to be over. Marriage is a partnership.

8:55 came. The tension in the air was thick and the potential energy was crackling in our veins. Every sound made us jump, every creak and crack and scratch or rattle was a beginning, and bold and certain as we'd been all day, in a dark house with only a t-shirt on a stick between us and a virus just a notch or two down from Ebola, it started to occur to us we might be in over our heads. But we had followed the bat across the Rubicon, there was no turning back. Bottom line, there wasn't room enough in our house for us, two cats and bat; somebody had to go.

8:55 turned to 9 turned to 9:15, 9:30, 9:45, and still no sight or sound of our winged tormentor. It was like the thing was toying with us, just sitting up there reveling in our paranoia. I dared an excursion into the loft for another round of beam-striking, convinced (somewhat) that this time I would remain calm and collected when the bat escaped it's hidey hole.

But there was no bat to be brave in the face of.

At 10 we turned on a lamp in the living room. Ten minutes later we dared to sit on the couch again, my shirt-broom still in-hand and our eyes affixed to the ceiling. Twenty minutes after that we turned on the TV, still keeping the volume low in case there was something else to hear. But there never was. We went to sleep that night confused, still nervous, and at a complete loss for what to do next.

The next day I did some research. Turns out there's no Animal Control services out here in Lyle, you either deal with problems the old fashioned way - yourself - or you call the sheriff. We were not going to be calling the sheriff over a single bat, thus labeling ourselves as helpless city slickers for our tenure out here. So instead I called the health department. After politely chuckling at my harrowing description of events, the very nice director asked if I'd lived out here long, to which I could only reply, "Apparently not long enough." He went on to explain how only 6% of bats tested in our county over the last decade tested positive for rabies, and most of the time it's our own imagination and preconceived notions that make the experience of finding a bat inside so tumultuous. In reality, they're scared and hungry, very tiny non-aggressive things, barely different than having a bird in your house. They do not want to bite you. They do not want to infect you and your loved ones with a heinous disease. They do not want to turn you into a vampire. All they want is out. To that point, they're also very pliable animals, able to compress themselves through holes and cracks no bigger than a dime. So bottom line, if we didn't see the bat that second night, it's because the bat wasn't there to be seen. Now, does that mean there's some kind of minuscule opening in one of our ceiling beams? Yep, but between the beams and the outside world are the metal sheets of our roof, so it's not like moisture can get in, only bats, which the health department director assured me - in response to my shrill, panicked question - that they have no interest in doing, there's nothing inside for them but terror, starvation, and possible consumption-by-cat. So long story short - we totally overreacted. Opening the door most likely would have worked if the cats hadn't thwarted it, and my Rambo-esque montage of preparation - themed to "Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins, natch - was completely unnecessary, as was our fear.

So then the moral here, if even there is one, is don't let the bats in your house go to your belfry. And seal your roof.

Home Decoration: Back Porch Picnic Table

The view from our back porch is pretty freaking spectacular. Facing north, the panorama encompasses rolling Washington countryside as far as the eye can see - and no more than seven or eight homes in all that space - as well as a striking view of Mt. Adams, approximately 50 miles ever-so-slightly northwest. You can see the hills imitating the ocean when the wind ripples the tall grass, you can see rain approaching from miles away accompanied by clouds that move across the terrain like a shadow-colored tablecloth spreading, you can see the fog creeping out of the river valley like something alive. Deer and cattle graze in the distance. Osprey, Turkey Vultures, Hawks, and the occasional Bald Eagle soar overhead. Ten-thousand trees spot the landscape, twenty-, who knows? Like I said, pretty freaking spectacular.

And if there's anything a spectacular view needs, it's a spectacular place from which to view it. The builders of our log home - it was erected in 1989 by the family that lived in it for 25 years right up to the day they sold it to us - accomplished this with aplomb. Our back porch runs approximately 22 feet long and 8 feet deep and sits on four posts off the main level, and is covered by the top level's overhang. It's always shaded and open on two sides - north and east - to allow a cross-breeze. It is, quite simply, one of the best spots, if not the best spot, in the whole house, and we hang out there every opportunity we get. Three or four nights a week at least we'll grill supper out there, some evenings we'll just have a libation or two in the cheap-o plastic Adirondack chairs we got til something better comes along, and it's a great spot to relax and read. Even Harrison, the older of our two indoor cats, howls like a sick banshee if he doesn't get his daily excursion. So to further maximize our enjoyment of the back porch we thought we'd get a picnic table so we could eat out there when the weather permits.



A quick trip to Home Depot in The Dalles and we were the proud possessors of a good-sized picnic table kit that didn't set us back too much and seemed easy enough to put together. A screwdriver and the included hardware were all that were required for assembly, and aside from an injury to Perry's back incurred when loading the kit into the car at Home Depot (an injury that kept him on the couch with a heating pad for two solid days, which he didn't mind as his copy of The Familiar had just come in the mail, and the Mariners played afternoon games), it was a relatively painless process. A few of the logs were a little rough, but with some sanding - which happened a week later once Perry could stand under his own power again - and some expertise weatherproof staining by Cory (one coat, let dry, then sand, then throw on a second coat) it was all done, no more than two or three combined person-hours. Pretty lax commitment for the outcome, if you ask us. A couple decorative Citronella candles in Ball jars, a doily thing Cory had, and the table was set. We celebrated by grilling up a few brats, cracking a cold Rainier and pouring a glass of white from Lyle's own Syncline Wine Cellars.

A good outdoor space is like another room of the house; a great outdoor space is like the best room of the house. And it doesn't take a lot of furniture or frills to get that great space, sometimes a single, simple piece can do the trick. Just remember to lift with your knees.

Saturday Morning Hike: Labyrinth/Li'l Maui Loop Base

Some weeks are tougher than others, and some weekends are busier than others, but no matter how much we have going on or whatever's in the background of our lives, Cory and I like to take time together, even if it's only half an hour, to get out and hike one of the area's many, many, many trails. Seriously, there are an impressive 100+ trail heads in the Columbia Gorge - according to the wonderfully-useful and forgivably-punned guide Curious Gorge - leaving us in no short supply of dusty trails to escape down. Saturday mornings are usually our best shot, and so far we've been out on a different trail every weekend the weather has allowed, which has been most. That said, I don't want to give the wrong impression of we Hortons as surefooted mountain goats; we're as used to hiking as we are to waking up to turkey calls, so it's not like we're scaling rock faces or even spending hours at a time on the trail. Mostly we're taking spirited strolls, pushing ourselves a little more each weekend, working towards the bigger, more skilled excursions.

This weekend, with only a little time to spare, we went out to a trail that's been on our list from the beginning, as we drive by it most everyday. Officially it's known as the Labyrinth/Li'l Maui Loop. There are two access points to the trail, both off Washington State Highway 14 east of Bingen, and we went with the first one we came across driving west out of Lyle, right around mile marker 70 beside the rich cobalt waters of Rowland Lake, a popular fishing spot freshly stocked for the season with rainbow trout big as your arm, or so folks say.

Rowland Lake as seen from the trail head

The first stretch of the trail - from either access point - is an abandoned paved road, its asphalt cracked by patches of weeds and its shoulders lined with piles of fallen rock, clutches of bright orange wildflowers, and more dill than you can shake a bushel of cucumbers at. On one side there's a sheer wall of craggy stone twenty, thirty feet high, while on the other side there's the narrow gray stripe of highway and the much wider, much more vibrant Columbia River, and Oregon beyond.

The road climbs unimpeded for a few hundred yards then narrows to a slender path through larger collections of discarded rock - or "ripe rattlesnake grounds" as I refer to them in a voice trying but failing to mask a fearful vibrato, to which Cory typically rolls her eyes and pushes me onward - that winds a short way and deposits you beside a small if unexpected waterfall maybe fifteen, twenty feet high. The water it deposited in the small pool below was crystal clear and inviting, even on a moderately warm day, and the mist it sprayed caught the light just so, painting the air with a trembling rainbow. It was freaking beautiful, and worth the flouncy description I gave it, plus some.

From there the road crosses another patch of open terrain before running through a cut in the rocks directly beyond which is the trail head that splits into either branch of the Labyrinth/ Li'l Maui Loop. The Labyrinth, which is the split to the right, runs a more wooded if direct course to the top of the vista, while the Li'l Maui branch on the left is more of a switchback through grassy fields and slopes of wildflowers. All told the loop goes for five miles, more than we had time for on this outing, but gauging the climb as we continued down the road, definite plans for a longer excursion were forged.








All in all, it was a brief but pulse-spurring hike, not too hot and not too breezy, and most important, it provided us with the change of perspective that's central to any reinvigoration. Sometimes it's the smallest things that make the biggest difference, I guess. Til next time.

Windshorn

We get a fair amount of wind here in the Columbia River Gorge. It's part of the reason we're one of the premiere windsurfing, kite surfing, hang gliding et cetera spots in the country. Here in Lyle we have Doug's Beach, which every summer is taken over by extreme athletes cruising the plentiful and robust gusts.

Up at our property where the elevation tops 2,000 feet, we regularly get sustained gusts above 20 MPH, which can make for some howling and house-rattling conditions. Consequences are inevitable: tossed trash cans, relocated lawn gnomes, felled limbs on occasion, and loss of leaf.

Not three days after we put them in the ground, our two new cherry trees are all but bald thanks to high winds over the last couple of nights. There was even the start of a fruit or two, but alas now all are gone and our poor cherry trees are back at square one.

There's not much we can do to protect the trees from the wind - at least that we can think of - so can only hope for fairer conditions as spring tempers into summer. Until then, we roll with the punches and focus on the leaves we have left. That's gotta be a metaphor for something.