mark the center. The
bullet-riddled sign at the west end of town claimed a population of
sixty-seven hundred souls. Stevens Falls used to be a lot bigger
place. Twenty years ago, the better part of thirty thousand people
had lived at this end of the valley. There’d been half a dozen
lumber mills, a couple of plywood plants and enough work in the woods
to keep everybody busy. Nowadays it was standardissue Northwest
rural. A mill town without a mill. A forest community without a
forest. Five blocks on either side of the highway. Ten blocks long.
Most of the inhabitants living off in the hills somewhere. One of
everything except taverns. Those numbered three.
Trying like hell to draw tourists. Old West motif. The businesses
along the main drag were connected by raised wooden walkways. Cute
little hitching posts and horse-watering troughs used for parking
barriers. Hanging baskets of flowers were evenly spaced along both
sides of the main drag. Red-and-white-striped ice-cream parlor.
Antiques. Espresso. Collectibles. Step right up. The surrounding
hills were painted with the browns, the reds and yellows of fall.
Pretty this time of year, if you didn’t know any better. Nothing
but scrub oak, big-leaf maple and madrone. The money trees—the
cedar and spruce, the Douglas fir, the pine—they were long gone. In
the Pacific Northwest it’s customary to leave fifty yards of tall
trees immediately adjacent to all highways. That way the tourists
were treated to the illusion of the unspoiled forest and the timber
barons could then feel free to clear-cut every saleable stick of
timber for the next fifty miles. Or until the next highway, of
course. Whichever came first. Around here, they hadn’t even
bothered with the fifty-yard tourist barriers. They’d cut down
everything that would bring a dime. I pointed to a Texaco station at
the far end of town. “Pull in there. I’ll ask.”
Urban renewal hadn’t gotten this far. Behind the counter a
skinny guy in filthy gray overalls. Bad teeth and the narrow eyes of
a weasel. He was wiping the grease from his hands with a rough red
rag. On the radio Buck Owens was caterwauling about the streets of
Bakersfield. “Hi,” I said. A patch on his chest said Linc .
He nodded slightly, looking me over as if he were thinking of
cannibalizing me for spare parts. “What can I do for ya?”
he asked.
I told him about our problem with the closed bridge.
“Ain’t nothin’ over there anyhow,” was his response.
“Looking for a guy named J.D. Springer,” I said. He looked me
over for a long moment and then turned his back and began fiddling
with some carburetor parts on the counter. “Told ya, ain’t
nothin’ over there,” he said. Ten years ago, I’d have jumped
the counter and taught ferret face some manners. Sure it would have
involved bail. Probably have to come all the way back for court, but
goddammit I’d have felt better. Today, I jammed my hands in my
pocket and went back outside feeling old and ineffective. I walked
around to the driver’s window.
Rebecca lowered the window and raised her eyebrows.
“So?”
“I think I may be losing my boyish charm,” I said.
“So…what else is new?”
“So, I’m going to need to ask across the street. Stay here.”
I trotted out my best Arnie impression. “I’ll be back,” I
intoned. I tried a different tack on the lady in the Laundromat. Not
looking for a soul. Just tourists who wanted to get off the beaten
path. She pointed with a three-inch purple fingernail. Another bridge
eight miles back. Just turn right and you could drive right back to
the closed bridge. Longer, bumpier, but eventually you’d get there.
Eventually, we did. Forty minutes later, we rolled to a stop at
the head of a paved driveway. Above the idling engine, I could hear
the rush of water somewhere below. Twenty-fouroh-seven, it read.
Three Rivers Lodge. Nice hand-crafted sign. A posted NO TRESPASSING
sign every fifty feet along the fence.
Rebecca
bullet-riddled sign at the west end of town claimed a population of
sixty-seven hundred souls. Stevens Falls used to be a lot bigger
place. Twenty years ago, the better part of thirty thousand people
had lived at this end of the valley. There’d been half a dozen
lumber mills, a couple of plywood plants and enough work in the woods
to keep everybody busy. Nowadays it was standardissue Northwest
rural. A mill town without a mill. A forest community without a
forest. Five blocks on either side of the highway. Ten blocks long.
Most of the inhabitants living off in the hills somewhere. One of
everything except taverns. Those numbered three.
Trying like hell to draw tourists. Old West motif. The businesses
along the main drag were connected by raised wooden walkways. Cute
little hitching posts and horse-watering troughs used for parking
barriers. Hanging baskets of flowers were evenly spaced along both
sides of the main drag. Red-and-white-striped ice-cream parlor.
Antiques. Espresso. Collectibles. Step right up. The surrounding
hills were painted with the browns, the reds and yellows of fall.
Pretty this time of year, if you didn’t know any better. Nothing
but scrub oak, big-leaf maple and madrone. The money trees—the
cedar and spruce, the Douglas fir, the pine—they were long gone. In
the Pacific Northwest it’s customary to leave fifty yards of tall
trees immediately adjacent to all highways. That way the tourists
were treated to the illusion of the unspoiled forest and the timber
barons could then feel free to clear-cut every saleable stick of
timber for the next fifty miles. Or until the next highway, of
course. Whichever came first. Around here, they hadn’t even
bothered with the fifty-yard tourist barriers. They’d cut down
everything that would bring a dime. I pointed to a Texaco station at
the far end of town. “Pull in there. I’ll ask.”
Urban renewal hadn’t gotten this far. Behind the counter a
skinny guy in filthy gray overalls. Bad teeth and the narrow eyes of
a weasel. He was wiping the grease from his hands with a rough red
rag. On the radio Buck Owens was caterwauling about the streets of
Bakersfield. “Hi,” I said. A patch on his chest said Linc .
He nodded slightly, looking me over as if he were thinking of
cannibalizing me for spare parts. “What can I do for ya?”
he asked.
I told him about our problem with the closed bridge.
“Ain’t nothin’ over there anyhow,” was his response.
“Looking for a guy named J.D. Springer,” I said. He looked me
over for a long moment and then turned his back and began fiddling
with some carburetor parts on the counter. “Told ya, ain’t
nothin’ over there,” he said. Ten years ago, I’d have jumped
the counter and taught ferret face some manners. Sure it would have
involved bail. Probably have to come all the way back for court, but
goddammit I’d have felt better. Today, I jammed my hands in my
pocket and went back outside feeling old and ineffective. I walked
around to the driver’s window.
Rebecca lowered the window and raised her eyebrows.
“So?”
“I think I may be losing my boyish charm,” I said.
“So…what else is new?”
“So, I’m going to need to ask across the street. Stay here.”
I trotted out my best Arnie impression. “I’ll be back,” I
intoned. I tried a different tack on the lady in the Laundromat. Not
looking for a soul. Just tourists who wanted to get off the beaten
path. She pointed with a three-inch purple fingernail. Another bridge
eight miles back. Just turn right and you could drive right back to
the closed bridge. Longer, bumpier, but eventually you’d get there.
Eventually, we did. Forty minutes later, we rolled to a stop at
the head of a paved driveway. Above the idling engine, I could hear
the rush of water somewhere below. Twenty-fouroh-seven, it read.
Three Rivers Lodge. Nice hand-crafted sign. A posted NO TRESPASSING
sign every fifty feet along the fence.
Rebecca
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