My Favorite Place
Beyond the roaring river there was a magical place with fresh, fir-scented air, enriched oxygen, and a forest separate from the world.
It was so magical the Forest Service didn’t have it on their maps.
My mother’s first husband, Laban, fished that river and found a location where the raucous river bent around a point. When he asked the Forest Service about a lease for that spot, they could not identify it. He bet them: If they could pinpoint it, they would give him a 99-year lease.
And so it was.
When the surveyors had worked that stretch of the river, they stopped where a creek flowed into the river. When they started their work again, they began where a creek flowed into the river. But they weren’t the same creek. One creek was upstream, and the other creek was downstream. That entire beautiful stretch was missing from their map.
Years later, after Laban’s death, Mom’s remarriage, and my arrival, Dinner Bell Cottage became my favorite place on earth.
We arrived on a dusty dirt road to a pull off by a footbridge formed over two big, long tree trunks spanning the river. On the far side was a path leading to Dinner Bell Cottage, which got its name from a dinner bell brought to Oregon by Laban’s pioneer family.
The cabin didn’t have electricity or running water. Heat came from a wood stove and the river rock fireplace. Light came from the sun, or oil lanterns, or Coleman lanterns. Water came from the river. Noise from the little traffic on the road was drowned by the river’s voice. Dust from the dirt road didn’t dare enter.
I would often return to the footbridge and just stand there, watching and listening and feeling the water crash on the rocks.
When I went to bed, I soaked in the sounds: the roar of the river, the hiss of the Coleman lantern, the crackle of the fire, and the murmur of my parents talking.
All was well.
