An Unknown Atmosphere: Regarding Silver Lake, Oregon

Disturbing items dangled from a forest tree, otherwise splendid in its location: dolls, the skeletons of long-departed dogs, clothing, desiccated boots lashed to the trunk by their laces, and, no less, a sense of ancient sorrow. And there, in the late morning, in the shadows cast by human darkness, stood two men.

They had originally intended to fish a local reservoir and camp adjacent to the forest, exploring the region on foot. However, upon encountering the horrifying scene, and noting the symbols carved into the bark of a hapless pine, their plans changed. So, how did we arrive at this point, in the company of two locals and a troubling discovery? To answer this question, we digress momentarily to retrace the steps of my journey.

On the Road to Smaller Towns

The joy of RV life has much to do with remote towns, in my estimation, the spots where one can find necessities and, perhaps, camp for a few nights with amenities. The problem, however, has to do with the unknown history and atmosphere of such places. A newcomer has no clue regarding potential danger--hotspots where trouble and darkness linger--such knowledge belonging mainly to locals. However, in the case of Silver Lake, Oregon I was fortunate enough to meet a chatty neighbor, a man with a plethora of informative stories.

As you've likely guessed, the fellow in question was one of the men described earlier, and he was happy to share his impressions of the region. And, in case you're wondering, my neighbor and his fishing companion removed the items from the tree and departed quickly.

He spoke of the witches' covens that gather in Silver Lake, secretive groups known according to their deeds--hence the old tree in the forest. According to the neighbor, who has lived in the area for a number of years, activity in the abandoned enclaves is often questionable. I thanked him for the information. For my part, nightfall finds me locked in my motorhome with the dogs and my weapons of choice nearby. Whether we are camped on a forest service road or situated in the heart of an RV park, this is my travel practice. Here, let me introduce a sidenote, as we are now on the subject of creepiness.

While exploring the outskirts of town--during the day--I came upon the most unnerving sight, a motel possessed of six rooms, everything painted gray and faded by the passing of seasons. I imagine that the accommodations remain vacant most of the time, past events and memories lingering uninterrupted in the darkness.

As for the center of town, which is no more than a group of shacks, a post office, a tiny library, a liquor store, a few houses, and a gas station, it has a certain atmosphere which attests to my neighbor's story. True, it's not unusual for a dilapidated area to retain an aura of heaviness, but there is something else here, a quality I had been unable to pinpoint, prior to our conversation.

Our chat carried on into the afternoon, and my neighbor proved quite interesting. According to him, he has visited Jerusalem on numerous occasions (although he's not Jewish) and worked extensively on Israeli volunteer projects, religion being a key aspect of his life. Most interestingly, he anointed a friend's trailer with oil when the man's dog suffered a mysterious spinal injury, succumbing to something unseen while napping under a dream catcher. Yes, truth is far stranger than fiction, to be sure.

As for the truth of my neighbor's stories, I cannot comment, but they were interesting to hear and seemed consistent with the overall vibe of Silver Lake. Here, I should note that the lake dried up long ago, its silvery essence now the stuff of distant memories. And what about the charms of my newest temporary residence?

Elaine's RV park, where I will stay for a couple of weeks, is small but very peaceful. It's a place where pensioners reside modestly, alongside immigrant families who remove gophers and gather fallen pinecones, collecting their treasures according to the season. I was genuinely surprised by the abundance of their harvests, huge bags of pinecones destined for Christmas in upscale households. Suffice it to say that I appreciate the character of this place, an ineffable quality that lends itself to the writerly life. In fact, I hear something right now, as I sip coffee and begin work for the day.

One of the neighbors sings mariachi ballads while working on his truck--a faded F150 from the 80s that is doing quite well--and speaks loudly to his wife when drunk, this, as roosters cry and guard dogs bark in the sunlit distance.

Beyond this, I enjoy the quirky decor favored by Elaine, an older lady who runs the place with her husband. She and I converse as her grandson plays and the neighbor tells his stories. I'll include photos of the rocks, old tires, and rusted machinery that decorate the RV park. And there are permanent structures here, as well, shacks that would stretch even the most lenient building codes. In rural Oregon, there is no government agency to contest such things, or insist that they be removed in a timely manner. Good for Elaine. And this brings to mind my previous stop, where I stayed before discovering Silver Lake.

Chatting with a Waitress

Ontario, Oregon is a town of marijuana dispensaries where drifters gather in tall weeds, and long-haul truckers stay the night with their engines idling. And, of course, Walmart is situated conveniently nearby, should anyone need dish soap, beer, or a quick shingles vaccination. And that's Ontario, a town situated in those proverbial gaps of existence, those places in between.

I enjoyed a burger and some Belgian ale after checking into my RV park, a surprisingly comfortable place with large sites and a luxurious kitchen for guest use. For dinner, I decided to try the Cowboy Bar, a local steakhouse that looked promising with its western motif and numerous favorable reviews. More than anything, however, I was eager to chat with my server to learn something about my temporary home.

"Everything is legal here." My waitress sighed and lamented after I asked her about the character of Ontario, mentioning the dispensary that was a few yards away from the RV park--very close to my site. "Yeah, it's totally sketch around here."

Not surprisingly, the owners of the dispensary installed elaborate lighting, creating the brightness of midday as nighttime unfolds. With their security measures, as well as the fellow travelers who surrounded me, I felt comfortable staying the night, sleeping soundly as Oregon wind shook my RV. Still, I wondered with a bit of unease about the days ahead.

And my journey continued.

I arrived in Silver Lake by midafternoon, having driven for several hours from Ontario, delighted by the scenic stretches of Highway 20, a road accompanied by sorrowful swathes of farmland, unfolding mile after mile. Soon, I will continue on that highway to visit Klamath before entering Grants Pass for the remainder of my stay. Now, let's return from our digression to reflect on the rural spaces of the United States. Like the destitute shopping malls I study in my research, smalltown USA is no longer the charming haven of yesteryear.

Once, Rather Long Ago . . .

Rural life once evoked images of delight, county fairs where children roamed in safety, farmland with sweet corn and ice cream for all. And while such idylls of Americana don't reflect the fullness of reality, they still convey a sense of hope, preserving the ideals our nation once embraced. However, the fallen landscapes of Oregon speak to a different time, our current age of discontent, an era of drug addiction, distant wars, and economic decline. Once, farms thrived and rural towns were quaint and welcoming, but such places are now few and far between, most having succumbed to opioids and depressed job markets. Certain things are done by design, at the very highest levels of power, and call out for detailed analysis, which we can explore a bit later in our journey.

As for my current stay, I plan to finish some work and proceed to Klamath Falls and Grants Pass shortly, Silver Lake being a necessary stop along the way.