An Eerie Peacefulness: Further Reflections on Silver Lake, Oregon
The other day, I made an enjoyable visit to Fort Rock State Park, a majestic feature of the environment where birds of prey circle above, and a camp host awaits your arrival. After parking my RV and feeding the dogs, I began a modest ascent to appreciate the view of farmland and high desert solitude, moving forward in the company of tourists who chattered--quite loudly--in the shadow of ancient glory. It was a lovely occasion. From there, I eventually returned to my RV campground--after taking the wrong dirt road and having to back up for nearly two miles. At any rate, the afternoon gave me pause as I reflected on the eerie peacefulness of Silver Lake, Oregon, wondering all the while about its character.
While staying in Price, Utah, I ignored an odd sense of foreboding and remained a resident of a small RV park, situated along the river and railroad tracks. Then, it happened; my dogs and I were attacked by an eighty-pound pit bull one evening, as we walked to the play area. The nagging urge to leave early and head to Provo had plagued me for a reason. Am I now facing a similar situation?
As a park ranger, my intuition served me well for two decades, despite my tendency to rationalize odd feelings--and ignore their warnings. On the road, however, things are a bit more complicated, nomadic life being so foreign to me. Everything is fresh and unknown, so a slight level of discomfort is neither surprising nor unwelcome. And, as you can imagine, a sense of delight attends nomadic existence, as well. In short, I'm still learning to hear the voice of instinct whispering, as it does, through veils of excitement and intrigue. As for my current stop, it provides me with a magnificent platform for discovery.
The Ambience of Small Towns
Yesterday evening, I spoke to one of my neighbors, an older man who lived in Montana and followed the Grateful Dead through Northern California for a time. When I described the paradox of peace and creepiness that resonates through Silver Lake, he smiled. According to him, most small towns feel creepy now, and our location is less disquieting than others.
The rotting buildings certainly contribute to the ambience, substantial enough to shelter small animals and hide squatters, while simultaneously crumbling and casting shadows across the land. Perhaps what I feel is a sense of potential danger, yes, but also a bit of sorrow regarding loss. The days of ice cream parlors, friendly gatherings in the center of town and, no less, hope for the future, have nearly vanished. And this is the case for most rural areas in America.
In the end, even the most defiant buildings will collapse, falling under the weight of ages and the sorrows of neglect. However, such losses are only a symptom of greater ills.
Looking back on my trip to Fort Rock, I enjoyed the wide-open spaces, the lush greenery of farmland, and the delights of high desert solitude. In the absence of buildings and societal problems, the land seems to whisper its own truth.
