by Holly Grigg-Spall
Of all the nasty criticisms that could be thrown at the latest movie in the Twilight saga, New Moon, the worst might be that it’s disrespectful to the loyal fan base of the franchise. It is clear that the filmmakers have put in the effort to follow the book blow-by-blow, sticking with author Stephanie Meyer’s dialogue and plot, making as few deviations as possible. They have done this with a certain air of authority, mixed with so much greed. That sound is not the wind rushing through the Washington forest, but the sound of many hands rubbing together.
Most of the reviews out there, which we must note are mostly written by middle-aged white men either perplexed by the popularity of the book series, or marking its success as another nail in the coffin of cinema, simply state that New Moon was not made with them in mind, and blithely assume it should please the fans. The problem here is, this adaptation is flabby, lazy and extremely dull. The acting is dire and the events barely strung together with scant interest in logic or dramatic tension. It shouldn’t be pleasing to anyone – and if it did please someone at some point, it would only be because of the number of shots of bare-chested Robert Pattinson and half-naked Taylor Lautner that are squeezed in.
Yes, so it’s disrespectful because adhering to the book with such fastidiousness is all very well when the book is say, Great Expectations – but Stephanie Meyer is a terrible writer, and her books are packed with endless exposition, constant repetition and prose that’s as subtle as a sledgehammer. I say this as someone who has read all four novels. Unlike most of the women I have met who have done the same, I don’t claim to have read them against my will or out of a need to keep abreast of youth trends – I read them because they are easy, and because like the member of any oppressed group, I find the implicit misogyny morbidly fascinating.
The first movie, Twilight, was good, precisely because they took the essence of the book and simplified down the story, also because it was naïve – a surprise hit – and therefore unhindered by the smug contrivances of the latest installment. The first movie definitely tripled the book series readership – expanding it from the core of middle American teenagers, to east and west coast teenagers, Europeans and women over the age of sixteen. There was a fission of excitement between Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattison, back then their surliness was a sign of deep passions, now it appears as the real surliness of spoiled, bored young celebrities. Sex was added to Twilight, but removed from New Moon.
Those drawn in by the first film cannot be satisfied with the second. Perhaps the middle Americans are, perhaps the abstinence enthusiasts are. It is the visual equivalent of a PowerPoint presentation. It is entirely bloodless. The excitement felt in the packed cinemas has been mistaken by other reviewers for enjoyment, but I know it as the energy that comes from the collective meeting of alienated young women, who understandably get joy out of the opportunity to come together in any situation that is not a sports game.
Is this what we are fetishizing? The promise of eternal life – essentially what Bella’s desire for vampirism equates to in Stephanie Meyer’s quasi-religious world. Things seem to have got so bad here on regular old Earth that we can only motivate ourselves with thoughts of an afterlife littered with fast cars, beautiful people and no breathing necessary. Such apathy for the present has put a stop to progress. Here we are in 2009 and Bella is essentially the Bible’s Eve, forever set for the Fall. It’s all very creepy, to be perfectly frank. Is this what counts for fun these days?
My journey to the source begins with a drive up Skyliner Drive, then through two miles of dusty gravel to Tumalo Falls. Both Tumalo and Bridge Creeks flow through a small valley, the hills covered in young lodgepole pines and manzanita bushes. A few stands of old growth timber pop up here and there. 
To protect the intake building, planes bombarded it with fire retardant and city employees hosed the entire site down with water right from the watershed. When the fire got too close, they jumped in the retaining pond. The flames were so hot they blistered the paint on the fire vehicles. But the intake building was saved, creating a tiny oasis of old growth at the trailhead to Tumalo Falls.
“Now we come to the interesting part,” Poncy says. Looking at Bridge Creek and the middle fork of Tumalo Creek on a map, the two streams appear to cross – so far as I know, a physical impossibility. In reality, to ensure the purity of the water coming out of the headwaters of Bridge Creek, a small canal was built over the middle fork of Tumalo Creek. 
Sitting on about one acre, a dozen or so small springs bubble up from the ground. Some are mere trickles, others issue forth from the ground like a mini-Metolius. This water has been percolating from an underground aquifer for years, if not decades, filtered through tons of volcanic rock. I fill my now-empty water bottle directly from one of the springs. It’s cold, delicious, and probably purer than anything you’d ever buy in a plastic bottle. 
If you have read my previous columns, you will recall a recounting of a fishing trip which I was graciously invited upon. It was a spring test run for some friends who own and operate High Desert Drifters, an outfitting and guide service here in Bend. We floated and dined in luxury, caught large fish, and everything was as close to perfect as one could ask. I recently undertook a modified version of the trip, again chasing those glorious salmonflies. Two friends and I departed on a single night of camping and two days of fishing. Catching, not so much. I may sound like I’m whining, however, I assure you that I am laughing as I write this. I even laughed as events unfolded.
expectations were of fun and relaxation, not necessarily catching a lot of fish. That’s guaranteed success. The group consisted of Mark Cornwell, former fishing and whitewater guide and currently an instructor of wilderness medical courses. Also along was Paul Clark, a professional photographer and ski patroller. Mark and I met guiding whitewater trips and we share a passion for skiing, which is how we met Paul. We loaded the boat and watched as Mark’s truck was shuttled away. Hopping in and gearing up allowed me to quickly discover my first error. Wading boots. Just over two months ago I had my ACL replaced and the cleats on the bottom of my wading boots are crucial. Fortunately, Mark and I are identical sizes and he offered his. Floating into the evening our laughter bounced off the water with the sun.
Off we went with our final destination in mind, a glorious eddy near our take-out that would allow us a couple more hours of fishing and an easy departure. Mark and I both caught fish within several minutes of fishing and the previous troubles of the day were forgotten. We both even hooked very large fish that managed to elude landing yet provided both exhilaration and frustration. As Paul, who is not yet a fisherman, observed earlier, the catching of fish is merely validation of the experience.
Powered by a 1960’s era Pratt & Whitney jet engine, the trick is actually firing up one of these big engines. The crew chief must follow particular procedures to start the engine or expensive damage will result. Once the engine is lit, the booming sound and impressive fireballs make it quite the spectacle. Back when it was allowed, the jets would actually torch old jalopies just for the show.
The race itself was the most exciting finish for any 24 hour race ever. The top 4 cars ended up on the lead lap separated by only 10 seconds with an incredible amount of dicing and lead changes over the final 6 hours. The 
At the town of Weed, 97 melts into Interstate 5 and begins a steady drop into the mighty Central Valley. I could name the towns I passed through, but it is more fitting for them to remain nameless. The Central Valley, for all its worth as a agricultural hotbed feeding the nation, has little worth for the traveler looking for scenery and wildlands. My favorite thing to do here is drive - fast and efficiently - all the while keeping my eye on the mountainous prize at the end of the mind-numbing concrete dreamland.
In the summer tourists from around the world flock here to stand humbly below regal giant Sequoias. They head straight for the General Sherman Tree, maybe see a black bear leap across the road in front of the family SUV, buy a couple “Squeeze Me S’More” T-shirts, and return to the sun-scorched valley below.
