OREGON SUMMER: A STUDY OF LIGHT AND RURAL SHADOWS

A column of clouds approached a red figure in the sky, a form which, rather gradually, became the sunlight of dusk as it faded before a wildfire. Neither close nor far enough for comfort, flames burned the ridge of a nearby valley, the name of which I did not know, generating small tornadoes as my neighbor and I looked on in silence. What could we do but appreciate the spectacle? And the air remained oddly fragrant, rich with the smell of pine consumed by fire. We were facing two modest eruptions that evening, one to the west and the other slightly north of our location. Regarding the latter, its smoke assumed the shape of something alive and restless, resembling a plant growing wildly without human consent, rising to accompany the sun. Although remarkable at first, the billows soon gave way to another intervention of clouds, creating within the space of several minutes, a muting effect. It was summer in Oregon, in the far regions of the United States.

I look back on my travels here with wonder and not a little admiration for the ways of nature. There is, indeed, something indescribable about the Pacific Northwest, each day revealing some new level of splendor. As for the town of Silver Lake, Oregon, where I spent much of the summer, it bears special consideration.

In the presence of sagebrush, fallen wooden buildings, and cows meandering near the highway, the place feels peaceful but unsettling, as if something unnamed lurks and awaits the arrival of night. In Oregon, I encountered a time of silent darkness unlike anything I had previously known—the aura of a very rural town. Although once possessed of an ice cream parlor and thriving locals, the community of Silver Lake has, in recent years, decomposed into tragic remains. Still hopeful, however, residents inexplicably fly banners in support of Trump and chat amiably at the gas station, always pleasant to truckers and RV nomads who arrive for necessities. A member of the latter group, I enjoy the restfulness of this small town. Even with the persistent barking of dogs--creatures hidden by sagebrush and the darkness of night--sleep comes easily here, which is both comforting and a bit alarming, as if one might be lulled into complacency when alertness would be more advantageous. The atmosphere of decaying spaces is, in no small way, filled with dangers and delights. All of this called for my attention as I drove into the heart of things.

Swathes of high desert divide the panhandle of Idaho from Silver Lake, the contrasting textures of which are, at once, bleak and majestic with countless pines and sandy regions in their embrace. Interestingly, the rural contrasts invoke nostalgia for city life, as I drive farther into the landscape. From the distant past, I recall canyons of modernist skyscrapers, and the fetid air of trash day in Manhattan, noise and traffic surrounding me at every moment. Leaving Idaho, such memories feel delightful and persist, almost in defiance of the desolate highway before me. And, as always, a sense of illbeing influenced my journey, nothing clearly defined but present, nonetheless.

In Silver Lake, I cannot quite put my finger on anything I sense or attempt to discern from the visible world. The yards teeming with old farm equipment and trash; once useful wooden structures falling away, season after season; Rottweilers and pit bulls snarling behind chicken wire fences, as hogs bathe in late summer heat, all such things speak to decay but rarely arrive at their logical conclusion. Yards are never entirely engulfed by trash. In the same manner, wood decays while structures remain standing against all odds, and the dogs that burst from inadequate fences rarely attack passersby. Everything is, at once, intangible and overbearing. And in light of the paradoxical environment, stories abound.

A local rancher, a tall and weathered man who prospered as a rodeo cowboy, told me a great deal. According to him, the habitable structures are often occasional residences, occupied for hunting season and the days of harvest. As for the creepy ambience, most residents believe it has to do with the fire of 1894, a tragedy that claimed a substantial amount of the population in nearby Christmas Valley and remains at the heart of local lore. After an attendee of the Christmas Eve festival toppled a lamp, and ignited a wooden floor, nearly all present for the occasion were trapped in flames, wedged behind an inward-opening door. For good reason, the presence of fire is never regarded lightly here, which I consider while planning the next portion of my journey. Thereafter, I continued to travel west for a time, heading for the coast.

Grants Pass, Oregon was livelier in comparison, with its coffee places, shopping, and bookstores, which I explored before reaching my destination, the town of Gold Beach. With refreshing summer fog, and beaches rich with black sand and rocks of the most delightful colors, the westernmost part of Oregon was worth the long drive. Then, in typical nomadic fashion, I discovered additional points of interest. Guided by map notes from a local, I explored redwoods in Northern California—and photographed slugs in coastal forests—before returning to Silver Lake for the remainder of summer. Upon arrival I began to reflect, yet again, on the remarkable contrasts that divide rural life from days spent in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and Seattle.

To cross the street in Manhattan, one must be persistent, moving between cars while avoiding fellow pedestrians—mainly in defiance of traffic signals. In the cities mentioned above, I enjoy architecture, bookstores, and navigating crowds as I search for cafés and markets, always seeking destinations favored by the locals. And, of course, there are the famous points of interest; the water tower in Chicago and the Flatiron Building in New York, as well as Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco and the Space Needle of Seattle. And what about the secrets they hold?

Unlike the creepier elements of rural life, something about urban strangeness feels a bit less forbidding. Perhaps it has to do with the intrusions of countless people and the illumination of neon lights, which, although unwholesome, entertain visitors with glamour and the excesses of wealth. In small towns, no such pleasure exists. All of these things came to mind one chilly night, as I enjoyed the comforts of my bed, and the dog whined to go outside.

For the record, venturing into the darkness of rural spaces is something I try to avoid. However, as nature sometimes calls for the dogs at 2am, my mini golden and I proceeded a few steps into the night. Immediately, she froze and stared into the black distance with alarm, this, as we listened to dreadful barking from unseen Rottweilers. The situation felt specific to the country. By contrast, in the city, one might fear the sudden appearance of a hooded figure with a knife, or the perils of heavy traffic. However, in rural Oregon, late at night, the strange sense of danger often remains unidentified, as it filters through the darkness and whispers unsettling things. With this in mind, I persuaded my little dog to finish her business quickly.

After sunrise, I discovered that the fire had moved west of our location, a fragrance of burning pine and the grayness of smoke still presiding. The fullness of wildfire lights and rural darkness had concluded for me, signaling the end of summer.

A. M. Palmer is an award-winning nonfiction author and retired City of San Diego park ranger with work appearing in Brevity Magazine, Decolonial Passage, Belle Ombre, and other publications. A member of the National Association of Independent Writers and Editors, Palmer’s second book, Workman’s Orthodoxy: Collected Essays & Poems, was published in 2023.