BREEDLOVE’S 30TH ANNIVERSARY NORTHWEST CLASSIC HEADS HOME
On the myrtlewood trail with filmmaker RA Beattie
It’s 7 a.m., 26 degrees. The Friday morning sky is clear and cold, with a dry bite that stings the nostrils and the back of
the throat—a briskness that reminds you you’re alive. A light dusting of last night’s snow skims the clear ice that covers the parking lot.
In Bend, Oregon, this is driving weather, and we’re putting the Breedlove Custom Shop in the rearview as we hit the Myrtlewood trail.
We’re taking Breedlove’s 30th Anniversary Northwest Classic on an important adventure, an epic road trip home, lighting out from the high desert, rising over snowcapped peaks, and descending twisted valleys to the Oregon Coast, where myrtlewood grows, prolifically, in what is, in essence, a pocket ecosystem suited to its unique character. It’s the only place in the world these trees can be found—we’re in the truck, we’ve got the guitar, and we’re on our way.
Jump in! Let’s go see!
Northwest of Bend, past fields of juniper and sage, the Cascade Mountains loom in the distance. When folks muse about the Pacific Northwest, they often think of the endless rain of blurry movies and folktales. That cliché is, in fact, a hallmark of Oregon’s western reaches, especially in winter, but those same people are always surprised to learn that the Cascades—part of the legendary volcanic “Ring of Fire”—divide the state into what can generally be thought of as the wet western side and the dry eastern, where the high desert benefits from a considerable rain shadow. As is winter’s wont, a thick marine layer is pushing over from the sea as we begin the drive, and it flows with power and force into the range, clouds and storm breaking against the mountains’ other side like waves hitting a rocky beach. It’s a dramatic show of what Mother nature has in store.
Just outside Bend proper, we slide through the small agrarian foothold of Tumalo, where the original Breedlove workshop can be seen from the road. This hallowed red building, a simple but special rectangle, is iconic in the history of Breedlove. It was here that the Concert body was refined and perfected; where many of the pioneering Breedlove innovations were birthed; and where the Breedlove team first dabbled with the myrtle we seek. It seems fitting to pass this space and nod to where things began as we step out in earnest on the myrtlewood trail.
Bombing west, down Highway 20, we fly past that sage and juniper, transitioning along edges of deep forest, dominated by Ponderosa
pines and myriad conifers creeping down towards Sisters. This little frontier town marks the last concentrated civilization we’ll spy before climbing out of the foothills and valleys for the real Cascades.
Presto weather change-o. Almost immediately, the temperature
starts to slowly climb along with the elevation. Rainfall starts to pepper the windshield. The road is hemmed in by tall trees and when there’s a break you can see the snowcaps, lakes and rivers that dominate the largely untouched landscape.
By the top of the pass, of course, the weather has dropped again and winter is in full effect—snowdrifts taller than vehicles, folks skiing and snowboarding and travelers pulled over to slap chains on tires. It’s a fullblown winter wonderland. In roughly 50 miles, we’ve already traveled through three systems: clear skies, rain and snow.
Descending the Cascades’ steep western face, the temps again rise quickly, the snow giving way to a mix of mush and rain. We turn south off 20 and make the dive into the McKenzie River valley, where frigid, clear, freestone waters cut deep channels into the Willamette National Forest. Here the tree stands tower over both sides of the road, ominously pressing in to make your vehicle, no matter how big and tough, feel tiny and insignificant. It’s more diverse on this, the ‘wet side,’ too, with cedar and fir, lush ferns and moss. Sadly, large swathes of hillside here are ripped open from clear cut. Other bald, treeless stretches expose where lava once flowed through without remorse—a stark reminder that you are very much in the Pacific Northwest, a land where the planet feels awake and ever-changing.
As you drop, the valley broadens as the elevation levels out. Immediately, the forest changes even further into an alien landscape, scarred by the savagery of last summer. Aggressive wildfires devastated much of this area, and much of Oregon. Both natural and human communities were destroyed. Even in the truck, you can still smell the smoke and destruction—a heartbreaking scene.
Eventually, hours on, we exit the range, still heading west by southwest, towards the coast and the famous Highway 101. This agricultural lowland was prized by the generations that came out on the Oregon Trail. Rich, fertile fields dominate the region, famous for rain, dairy cows and more rain—very much the cold, wet imagery you associate with the Pacific Northwest, particularly if you’re not from here. The Oregon coast is a formidable place, battered by high, biting winds and endless moisture. Dense fog. Forests so thick with trees and understory you can barely enter. Luckily for us, it’s mild, at least at the moment, and patches of blue sky and sun peek between the rain and the wind.
Myrtlewood starts to appear as we snake into the Umpqua River valley. We are, indeed, on the trail. Today, this often stunning, emerald river is dark and swollen with rainwater, flowing, eventually, to the ocean. Like most rivers on the coast, it’s a reproductive lifeline for salmon and steelhead, anadromous salmonids that return from the vast Pacific to spawn and reproduce. Generations of dying salmon fill the interior with nutrients, which, in turn, fuels the forest biome.
Rugged mountains carved by violently flowing rivers; awe-inspiring woodlands fed by seagoing fish—in the Pacific Northwest, all is one; nothing without the other.
This is the harsh, intricate, and beautifully unique home of the iconic Myrtlewood tree. We’re here. It’s no surprise the wood is so fascinatingly figured and colored, so rugged and hardy. To not only survive in this world but thrive, you must be made of something special. Myrtle is.
We drive the guitar to the beach. The Northwest Classic comes home. There’s a strong, salty wind. Bits of sand swirl in the air with bits of water. It’s either rain or sea spray, or both. The beach is devoid of people and waves crash loud and firm. You can feel them land in your chest. We play the Classic on a green patch on a high bank overlooking the ocean. Parts of the pure sound cut through wind and wave and rustling beachgrass. Parts are lost on the breeze. This guitar, a product of this very ecosystem—the forests, the rivers, the rain, the sea—feels alive to its surroundings. The thin, lightly constructed instrument hums in harmony with the environment. It feels so much like the Pacific Northwest; strong and resilient, beautiful and fragile. Resting on a giant, waterlogged stump washed up onto the beach, it looks at home and ethereally other all at once.
Any aspect of this remarkable guitar could have simply ended up as more driftwood, carried from the forest, down a raging river, into the sea, only to be set to rot on this same beach. Instead, all of its various elements were thoughtfully and sustainably harvested here; meticulously and lovingly crafted into a living work of art that now sings as the musical identity of this wild, wild place.
Strum it.
Hear the mighty voice of the Pacific Northwest resonate in your soul.
