Eackley

We drove eleven slow, slow miles up a winding and rutted logging road hewn out of a Douglas Fir forest. Afternoon light dappled through a tree canopy illuminating oxalis and fern on the shady forest floor. An autumnal splash of orange and yellow Vine Maple leaves provided contrast to the pallet of green in the thick forest. The air was heavenly with the singular fragrance of Port Orford cedar. I was indeed in the land of my childhood.

My cousins, Jeanne, Betsy, and Gayle, and I were on an impromptu road trip to the Rogue River by way of Powers, hometown of my late grandmother. We’d stopped at Jack’s Fountain for pie. I spent plenty of time in that shabby diner over the years. It looked the same as it had for decades, sprung vinyl seats in the booths, mismatched chairs. They are deservedly known for good pie however.

We’d just about finished when the door opened and in walked Danny Dement. I'm pretty sure I never met him until right then although he was a schoolmate of my cousins. Those girls wasted no time turning on the charm, an annoying tendency they exhibit in the presence of a good-looking man.

It flashed on me that grandma tried to hook me up with him in my teen years. Looking at that gorgeous and now married man made me a bit sorry that I, then a sophisticated Eugene teeny didn’t deign a Powers hick worthy of my company. I heard my grandmother laugh in the ether.

A chance encounter, the next thing we knew we’d hit the road to visit Eackley, the Dement family ranch, which was in high gear with a cattle roundup. We finally reached the top of the peak and looked down onto the ranch. Eackley, it was like reaching Shangra La. Awe, the majesty of that valley bemused me.

The two-story ranch house, porches all around, was a Pony Express stop-over 140 years ago, and I suspect is remarkably unchanged. The only source of electricity was a generator. No phones. No television. A functioning outhouse.

Eleven people had gathered for the roundup and were preparing dinner on an ancient wood fueled kitchen range when we arrived. Sam Dement, the patriarch, an absolutely handsome man, tall with silver hair, (first time I'd been smitten by an octogenarian) welcomed us with open arms in true Coos County style. They added another table, set more places and fed us dinner (and sly Jeanne sat next to Sam) then invited us to stay the night.

We enjoyed a delightful meal, good food and entertaining company, then moved outside and built a fire in a huge coupler scavenged from the Alaska pipeline. It was etched with the state map and each family member's brand. As we told stories around the fire, red light danced across the faces opposite me, a silhouette of Sugarloaf Mt. dim behind them in the distance. Over our conversation and much laughter I heard the cows bawling for their newly separated calves.

We turned in early, Jeanne and Gayle sharing a bed, me and Betsy the other. The walls were paper thin in that old house, but the four of us we were so keyed up we got to talking and giggling then trying to stifle our noise.

At 4:30 a.m. the cowhands were up and off on horseback to roundup strays. We had the house to ourselves for the morning. I shot a black and white exposure of the entry hall, light reflecting through etched windows onto the scuffed wooden floor, walls hidden behind hanging coats and cowboy hats, a line of cowboy boots all in a row.

I’m marginally satisfied with that photograph. It almost captured the magic of Eackley.