The other day my online writing class took inspiration from
the first line of Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa: "I had a farm in
Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My friend Ron Smith wrote this story in response to the prompt. I love the way he skillfully captures the beauty of a place he had to leave behind. What an act of generosity to let us see Lonerock through his eyes.
Lonerock, Oregon
I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon, one hundred and seventy-five miles east of Portland, from 1999 until 2005, when I sold it to Boyd Harris, the realtor.
Situated in the approximate center of the Columbia River
Gorge basin in Eastern Oregon, Lonerock is located twenty-two miles southeast
of Condon, Oregon. It is customary to think of Eastern Oregon as mostly flat or
rugged wasteland, supporting little vegetation, home only to jack rabbits and
people who want to get away from it all. However, Lonerock nestles in a
gentle ravine, with surrounding clusters of low pine and cedar.
The last several miles to Lonerock are traveled on a narrow, descending gravel road, the hamlet seeming toylike and far away, huddled in the ravine in the shimmering distance. Closer, rising from the small group of dwellings and long-empty storefronts, a stiletto steeple rises above a perfectly maintained white New England style church.
As you cross a small bridge over a part-time creek and enter the small town, population twenty-six, the chief attraction of Lonerock and the source of its name appears, a huge lone rock, egglike, half the size of the church it roosts next to, deposited about seventy-five thousand years ago during the last ice age.
It is a mystery why people don't flock to this spectacle, but all the better that they don't. If a log truck isn't passing through or the sheep aren't quarrelling, there is a quiet in Lonerock that was such a revelation to this Portlander. The stars at night are so clear, numerous and bright that they seem artificial if you are not ready for them.
I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon for six years, no rude hut, twin sinks in the bathroom (his and hers), the pride of Madden Street, but the maintenance at that distance became too difficult so I let it go. I've never been back.
About the author:
Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs.
