Part 2: Looking North
We had put a great deal of effort into our humble monastery, located inside a home in residential Richmond, California.
But after the dramatic drug raid at a neighboring house – including a helicopter with spotlights – I prayed that we might be permitted to find a new monastic home in a rural location. The very next morning, I called our bishop, who immediately supported our plan to move our monastery out of Richmond! My very next call was to a well-to-do friend I knew from my Berkeley graduate school days, who pledged us $800 per month to support us during our search.
Our monastery consisted of myself, Father Paul, and all the many supplies needed to support both our day-to-day needs and our community worship life. We planned to often live out of our pickup truck camper as we searched, so our first step was to store away most of our possessions. Since my spiritual mentor was located in Santa Rosa, we visited him and also rented a storage unit there to store away our library, icons, and furniture. We could now begin the search for our promised land.
The Search
While living in the San Francisco Bay Area, I had often taken my vacations in the area north of the Golden Gate Bridge, and this is where we started. We rented a two-bedroom cabin on Cobb Mountain, just north of the Napa Valley wine country, and began our quest for that rural location. With the financial backing of my benefactor in Berkeley (an Episcopalian), we set out each morning with a realtor, searching for just the right old farm or ranch house, hoping to replant the sprout that was our fledgling monastery.
We finally found a promising old farm, with 55 acres, a farm house and even a guest house. With the help of our benefactor, its 1987 price was within our means. Sadly, many neighbors of the property organized to block our purchase, and we realized that we needed to look elsewhere. We drove northward, out of California and well into Oregon.
Traveling in our old Ford pickup with a camper on the back, and pitching a tent each night, we continued our journey, seeking after God’s will. The sight of two bearded monks, dressed in black robes, joining other campers in state parks, certainly attracted attention. I remember one old man trading freshly caught trout each morning for a cup of dark roasted coffee, which I’d prepared in a French Press. His wife was sick of trout, and he was sick of her coffee. We were the beneficiaries of their marital spat, enjoying pan-fried trout for breakfast each morning.
We had a large dyptich with an icon of Christ on the right and the Holy Virgin on the left, which served as our traveling iconostasis. Each morning, we would set the diptych on a picnic table, place incense in the censer, and pray Matins together.
Common Orthodox terms:
- dyptich – pair of photo holders held together by a hinge
- icon – pictorial presentation of a holy religious figure
- iconostasis – front wall of an Orthodox church, holding icons
- Matins – morning prayer service
The smell of the campfire, fresh coffee, and incense, united together, seemed as a beautiful offering to God, and has remained with me to this very day.
One campsite that was particularly memorable was just east of Portland, Oregon. The mornings were crisp with the air and scent of early autumn, and we were the only people occupying the state campground. Mount Hood loomed above us like the spire of a great cathedral, and I felt I could remain there forever. Chanting Matins before this mountain made me feel connected to the Prophet Moses of the Old Testament, for I felt I was standing on holy ground.
Medford for the Winter
With the prospect of winter ahead, we knew our days of camping had come to an end. Visiting a small Orthodox mission parish in Medford, Oregon, we were invited to move into the vacant house next door, formerly the home of an old man who had passed away. His daughter, who lived in Texas, agreed to let us live rent-free, provided we paid the utility bills.
We contacted a Medford realtor, and continued our search for that elusive rural site on which to plant our monastery. Day after day, we would drive through the mountains and valleys of Southern Oregon, looking at farms and ranches, and praying for the guidance of the Holy Spirit. After the snows of winter had begun to melt, we happened upon a 50-acre ranch, with two old houses and three barns, surrounded by federal forest land.
Located in the Applegate Valley, just west of Ashland, it seemed like a perfect location for a monastery. Yet, when we approached the county about establishing a monastery on this ranch, we were told it would be impossible, for the land was zoned for a family farm, and the county was unwilling to recognize our monastic brotherhood as a family, insisting we’d have to be “blood-related.” If we wanted a monastery in their county, it would have to be within the city limits of one of their towns.
Where did we belong? Our invitation to Holy Week in Seattle was the first part of God’s answer to our question, as we learned about Vashon for the first time.
Love in Christ,
Abbot Tryphon
continued next month
