In the outback of Eastern Oregon, tucked into the basin below the Blue Mountains, there exists a strange cowboy hovel that, back in the day, produced outstanding musicians. Musicians of all stripes seemed to pop out of the tumbleweeds and mosey into the schools, and nobody gave it a second thought. It seemed natural to everyone that countless musical prodigies breathed their first in Pendleton, Oregon.

But it was no accident. Pendleton was many things - rodeos, lots of wheat, and citizens with that unique small-town swagger. Nestled deep in the juniper-scented, dusty reaches of every corner of town were powerful intellects and near volcanic talents. And Pendleton had managed to attract, by some twist of fate that I doubt very much anyone can fully explain, some of the most gifted and inspired music educators ever to exist. McMichael, Herbig, Feves, Tucker-McKenna, Henson, Mueller, Maclyn, and others come to mind. But there’s no story to tell about the musical genius that lived and breathed in Pendleton without talking about Richard Bauer.

I met Mr. Bauer while attending Lincoln Elementary School in the 1970s. I had McMichael and was struggling to learn the cello. He would pop in now and again, run a clinic or sectional, always lovely, always patient with us goofy goons. We would learn a thing or two, and off he’d go, leaving McMichael to take up the reins. We knew that we had a chance at Orchestra with Mr. Bauer at Helen McCune if we stuck it out. Stick it out, we did.

We’d bus it there every day and stumble into the Vert and set up and play. He was strict (no candy on stage, ever) and persistent with us, still patient most of the time. As a guy who teaches that same age group now, I can honestly say I have no idea how he held it together as well as he did. He challenged us with music we hadn’t heard, teaching us the ropes, as it were.

It always amazed me, even then, that there were so many astounding players in that ensemble. And Mr. Bauer could cull from that hormonal nest of pubescent insanity the most remarkable performances. He would tell us stories of the days of yore when we were preparing for the annual regional contest for junior high and high school orchestras at Mt. Hood Community College about our chief rivals - Curtis Junior High in Tacoma, Washington. Their conductor (who I am sure was a very nice man) was a villain, and his players were our tormentors. We used to win that contest, and then they came on the scene, and we dropped to second place. I’d watch them play, puffed up and turning green, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists. Was it jealousy? I dunno. But Mr. Bauer never fueled any animosity toward them. I am pretty sure I saw him shake their conductor’s hand after a performance once. I had mad respect for that.

One year he chose a particularly bombastic piece of music by Vaclav Nehlybel that beat us senseless for months. It was beyond challenging and well beyond my own capabilities as a cellist, and it was beyond the capabilities of all of us, and he insisted that we go for it. And go for it, we did.

We practiced that piece over and over and over again until we were playing it in our sleep and waking up to it in our minds as the sun rose over the distant mountains. All Winter long, we hammered on those notes, stopping for every mistake, Mr. Bauer singing the part correctly as he always did, us listening, and then three quick taps on a music stand with his baton, and off we went again. We worked it and worked it, and it felt like we would never get it right, down to the violin solo played by a remarkable young woman named Susie Segerstrom, who quite literally never missed a note. At least, not that I could tell.

That year, we went to Mt. Hood with three pieces, including the Nehlybel. We worked our way through the ranks. I am pretty sure we made it to the finals, but there is a good chance I am wrong about that. It seems that we did. And before we went out to play, we had our pre-performance pep talk, where Mr. Bauer told us about a phenomenon he did not name, where each player in the orchestra, fueled by proper energy and inspiration, would sort of fuse into something far greater than its parts, become one with the music and the instruments, and produce a performance that became otherworldly. He just told us about it. Not matter of factly, but with hope, a longing in his eyes, a deadly serious face with his gentle smile. We nodded en masse, and I shrugged it off. Nothing like that had ever happened for us before, and I knew we were pretty good, but it seemed impossible at the time.

We trundled out to the stage and tore into our first piece of music like it was nobody’s business. Then we finished and tore into the second one. And then, the Nehlybel. And something happened.

We were all tired, struggling with candy burnouts and a long day, and the moment he raised his baton, I felt electricity course through my adolescent body. I was not just playing this most complicated and annoyingly challenging piece of music. For the first time, I was nailing it. And, even more remarkable, so was everyone else, even the kids who joined the orchestra because it was an easy A.

It was as if a spirit rose from us as we played, connected us, locking our movements in time. And we nailed it and nailed it, and then Susie’s solo came, and for the first time, she flubbed precisely one note. Panicking, I looked to her, still feeling this torrent of music wash over me and invigorate me, a longing in my broken adolescent heart, and I saw one slender tear course down her cheek. And before I knew it, there were tears running down my cheeks, and down those of the other cellists, and the viola players, and all of the violins, and every single one of us.

Mr. Bauer was conducting like a man possessed, a man gone mad, a gleaming grin across his face, his eyes a shade of red I had never seen before. Whatever it was, it had touched him, too.

We finished our piece, and there was, for a full three seconds, silence in the crowded hall. And then applause erupted from all corners. Mr. Bauer turned and bowed, turned and waved to us, bidding us stand, and we did, and the applause continued to grow louder and louder, thundering all around us. I was trembling, and I doubt I was the only one.

We shuffled onto that stage and walked off with our heads held high and our hearts on our sleeves, and I will never forget it, for it was at that moment, that one fleeting moment when I saw that solitary tear slip from Susie’s eye, that I knew that it was in music that magic lived and breathed.

The longing for that feeling has never left me, not in almost forty years. The desire to feel that again has driven me never to abandon playing music, though I have changed instruments and began to write my own music. I look back on the wisdom of Mr. Bauer and try, with measures of success, to access his unique approach to children of that age, as I now teach 8th graders. I remember his sense of justice and his ability to give me hope even when I was sure I would never master the instrument. He helped me keep going.

When I heard he was taking a job in Salem, I was heartbroken for Pendleton’s music program and stoked for theirs. I am not sure Pendleton ever recovered from that loss, and I often wondered how things were going over there. I reached out to him a few years ago on Facebook but never heard back. It did not appear that he was an ardent user of social media.

In any case, Mr. Bauer, you changed my life. I wonder now, as I sit here in the dark, getting on in years, how my life would have been had you never crossed my path and taken me under your wing. It is unimaginable to me, and I know that I am not alone in that feeling. No one who ever had the privilege to play for Mr. Bauer will ever forget his kindness, his talent, and his ability to draw from you your very best performance. Those days echo in my soul and will do so forever.

Thank you, sir. I will never forget you.

Erik J. Hilden