You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

PARADISE FOUND

Dad left our family when I was 11, so when, three years later, he offered to take me on a white water trip down the Rogue River, I was delighted. Dad was a whitewater boatman. He and two of his closest friends used wooden Mckenzie river boats to run most of the whitewater rivers in Oregon and the Salmon river in Idaho.

Running the Rogue usually requires three days on the water. We planned a four-day trip with a layover of two nights at Winkle Bar, across the river from Zane Grey’s cabin. When we pulled out of the river at Winkle Bar, I was enchanted by a small stream, Hewitt Creek, which had cut a steep canyon up into the wilderness behind our camp. It was a mossy mystical place of ferns, and small waterfalls. On the morning of our layover day, I left the men in camp after breakfast and climbed up the creek over slippery rocks and under mossy logs until I was far above the Rogue, and out of view of our camp. There, I came upon a washed-out weir, which once dammed the creek to divert water from it into a flume leading away from it. The flume was carefully cut into the steep canyon walls. It was well made and though it was filled with rotted leaves and branches it would still have conveyed water if the weir was intact. Curious about the origin of such a carefully crafted water conveyance, I followed it away from the creek’s canyon and around the face of the tree-covered mountain. The flume led to a collapsed cabin. I walked around the back of the cabin and found a clearing on the other side. Along the uphill side of the clearing, stood two gnarled apple trees, holding back the forest beyond. There was a level patch of land in the clearing which appeared to have once been a garden. Upon closer examination of the cabin, revealed that under the pile of rotten boards and shingles I could see that the former occupant had left his aluminum pot and cooking utensils. An iron skillet lay on the rusted remains of a wood cook stove. Outside, next to the broken cabin walls, was an iron apparatus. It was comprised of a circular plate held up on three legs. A rusty steel shaft projected up out of the center of the plate. On the plate lay a bean can filled with cement. A steel arm was embedded in the cement. The arm was about 18 inches long. The other end of the arm had a mechanical connection which, apparently, fit onto the shaft. On the ground, in the brush, lay another similar can with an arm. I realized that I was standing in the very place that Prince Helfrich had described in his stories of the inventive miner from the Rogue River. This was his cabin, his apple trees, and to confirm that it was indeed McCleary’s paradise, here it was; his famous perpetual motion machine. These all were here, like in the story I had heard six years earlier. I was struck by the astounding realization that; a story from my earlier childhood was not just a fable told by a camp guide. Instead it had been true. It had happened here. I stood there for several minutes, looking around, soaking up the reality of this place which, until now, had only existed in my imagination.

I scuttled down a steep game trail to the river and back to our camp. I was excited to tell the men that I had wandered onto McCleary’s cabin with his perpetual motion machine. They dropped what they were doing a hurried up to see it for themselves.