Sniffing the familiar pungent odor of juniper, I dropped down on the remnant of an old log to rest. It was a warm day in early October and I had walked over a mile through the sagebrush that almost obliterated the old road that wound down from the top of the hill where I had left my car. Loosening the collar of my blouse which seemed tight, I looked around. How quiet and peaceful it was. In the sunshine, the little valley looked as virgin as it did fifty-seven years ago before a plow had turned over the soil. There was no trace of fences; no buildings, except a few old decaying logs, to show that man had once lived here. But the old juniper tree was still standing–at least one fork of it was. The other half had broken away and was now a dried up mass of wood on the ground. How well I remembered the day that Papa drove his wagon up beside it, reined in the horses and said as he jumped out, “Well, here we are, We’ll pitch our tents under this tree; then we’ll build a log house.”

Now all that remained of that log house were a few old rotting logs. There wasn’t a piece of the pretty pink stones that he and Grover had so carefully chipped and shaped to make the big fireplace. Laying my hands on the rough, old log, I thought of the crisp, cold days we all spent up in the mountains felling the trees to build the log house. How thrilling it was to hear Papa shout “Timber” and watch a stately big pine tree quiver, sway and crash to earth. Such trees make a house, I thought, and people laugh and love and weep under its roof. It takes on character and becomes a home. Then they go away and then, is no more warmth, the rooms are silent. It is then that the pilferers come, like thieves in the night, and piece by piece it is dismantled and taken away.

Why, after leaving in 1914, did I want to come back and see it again? I don’t know. Memories of a happy, carefree childhood, perhaps, and a simple way of life that is fast disappearing. Thoughts of money never entered my head in any practical way, only in my land of make believe when I played the part of a fine lady. I was never hungry. There were always plenty of potatoes, bacon, and good rich milk. I had a soft feather bed to tumble into at night. All the great, wonderful outdoors was my play house and I didn’t have a worry in the world. We were all together then–Papa, Mama, Grover, Jim and I. Now only Grover and I are left. After Papa died, the land was sold and in a few years, the new owner abandoned it. No one had lived on it since.

Brushing an inquisitive ant off my ankle, I got up and tried to orient myself. The barn, I remembered, was south of the house and on a hill above it was the big pile of pink rocks that Jim and I called our castle. There was a small cave there that was our private hideaway. Whenever we felt that we were being unjustly treated by our family, we would raid Mama’s bread box and leave home for the cave. Then, with a fire at the mouth of it and wrapped in an old horse blanket we would spend hours choking with smoke trying to roast potatoes in the hot ashes.

Another source of our childhood fun was the pond. Papa had planted trees around it that grew to Lombardy Poplars that were always swaying in the breeze. The pond was big and deep. We spend many a warm summer day splashing around in the cool water and learned to swim by holding on to a board and propelling our feet. Where was it now? Was that circle of dead spikes pointing accusing fingers towards the sky the once graceful trees? Walking over to them, I found what was left of the pond overgrown with sagebrush. There had been no water in it for years. Sadly I turned away. Yes, nature had reclaimed this land. If man didn’t want it, she welcomed it back and, in her own way, absorbed it.

Leaving the pond, I went back to my seat on the old log. A cool breeze from the snow banks of the mountains fanned my hot cheeks. How I always loved those mountains. There was no change there with the passing of time. The same stony expressions on the faces of the Three Sisters, and there was Broken Top which must have been a fourth sister before she exploded ages ago. Farther south, aloof and lonely was the peak called Bachelor Butte. As a child I had spent many hours lying on the warm ground in the sunshine just looking at them wondering about the awful day when Broken Top erupted and the hot, fiery lava burst open the top of her head and raced down her cheeks leaving her scarred forever more.

It was the mountains and the pure, invigorating air of central Oregon that my father George Pulliam raved about when he returned to our home in Wasco from a fishing trip on the Deschutes River. “I tell you, Lou,” he said to Mama, “there’s nothing like that air. I feel like a new man.” The air in Wasco was always filled with dust that the wind constantly stirred up from the fields of summer fallow. After that trip, the dust seemed thicker than ever. He wanted to leave Wasco and take up land in that wonderful new country. The main drawback to the move was taking the three of us children out of a good school. Grover was in high school. I was entering fourth grade and Jim had only one year of school behind him.

But education was not stressed as being so important as it is now and Papa had his way. He filed on a homestead and a water right on so many inches of water in a stream flowing from the snow banks of the Three Sisters. He sold his property in Wasco, loaded two wagons with household furnishings and everything he thought we would need in the new country and one September morning in 1904 we said goodbye to a small group of old friends who came to see us off and started for the homestead in central Oregon.

When we reached Madras, which was just beginning to sprout on a sagebrush flat, the sight of houses and people relieved me of my anxiety. But the fear of being lost was nothing compared to the shock that my first glimpse of Crooked River gave me. Suddenly, without warning, we were at the rim of a deep chasm in the earth. Peering way, way down I could see the river, a tiny ribbon of water far below. Terrified, I began to howl. Jim gave a look and joined in. We knew we would be killed trying to get down into that canyon. Then Papa pointed to the other side. “Look over there” he said. “If a six-horse team pulling two wagons can safely get in and out of this canyon, we ought to be able to. You two kids quiet down and get back into the hack.”

Now, there is a high bridge across the top of this deep cut, but driving down into Crooked River canyon in those days was a harrowing experience. No nice banked grades or guard rails for protection. The road twisted back and forth and the horses braced themselves along with the brakes to hold the wagons back going down and strained and pulled to get them back out of the canyon. Jim and I crouched down on the bed of the hack and pulled a blanket over our heads. Once peeking out we saw part of an old wagon lying on a narrow ledge above the river and smothering screams we dived under the blanket again. It seemed ages before Mama pulled it off and announced we were safe. She looked a little pale herself.

That evening when we stopped to make camp, we heard shouts and the loud crack of a whip. Soon a stagecoach, drawn by four galloping horses, whirled by in a could of dust. The end of a rose colored scarf was trailing out of the coach’s window. Oh, this was so romantic! I went to bed that night wondering who the woman was, where she was going, was she young and beautiful, was she a schoolteacher like Molly Wood in “The Virginian” until I fell asleep.

We had our first view of the mountains after we reached Madras. One snow-capped peak after another, rising above the forested Cascade Range came into view. They were like a protective barrier of sentinels surrounding this special country. Papa named them for us. “That one rising to a perfect peak is Mount Jefferson. The oval shaped one with a sharp peak on top is Mount Washington. Next to it with three sharp peaks is Three Fingered Jack. I don’t know how it got such a name. The big butte in the foreground is Black Butte. Metolius River flows out of its side.” This bit of information intrigued me. How could a big river gush out of a mountain’s side? Maybe Hercules had stabbed it with his sword. I had read some Greek tales about that mighty man in my school readers.

But where are the Three Sisters?” I kept asking.

“They are there, keep looking. You’ll see them soon,” he always replied. Now that I was sure that Papa knew where he was going, I began to watch eagerly for these certain mountains. He had said that our future home would be at the feet of the Three Sisters. They gradually came into view and began to take on certain features and expressions. To me, the North Sister had a large rocky nose which gave her a strong horse-like face. The Middle Sister was the best looking. Her skin was smooth and white. She had an arm thrown around the North Sister and seemed to be apologizing for her looks. The South Sister remained aloof. Perhaps the big lump on her jaw made her self-conscious. South of her was the mutilated peak of Broken Top. I never tired of looking at these mountains. Sometimes in lofty condescending tones they seemed to talk to me. “Listen, Small One, come closer and we will tell you how it all happened.”

“Oh, how pretty,” Mama exclaimed when we reached the Deschutes River. After crossing on the Tetherow Bridge, we all jumped out of the wagons and ran to look at this clear, sparkling little river winding its way to joyfully through the low juniper trees that dotted the flats and buttes that popped up all over the country. Pap and Grover wanted to stop and fish for a while. Mama wanted to make camp and stay all night. Jim and I wanted to play in the water. So, in complete accord, we stayed. The horses were hobbled and turned out to graze on the bunch grass the covered the ground. Jim and I tore off our shoes and stockings and dashed for the river; each picking a rock to sit on while we wiggled our toes around in the cold water blissfully ignorant of the rattlesnakes lurking around the riverbank. Mama got a washtub out of one of the wagons, gathered up some dirty clothes and with a bar of her favorite fels-naptha cold water soap went down to the river’s edge to put out a washing. Soon a piercing yell from Grover put an end to all our fun. “You kids get away from those rocks. This place is alive with rattlesnakes!” He had killed one and was waving it in the air. That was enough to send us scrambling back up the hill to safety, but Mama stayed and finished her washing and the men still fished. That night for supper we had fresh trout along with our stewed potatoes. When I crawled under my blankets and lay looking at the stars, I felt so excited and happy. It had been a wonderful day in spite of rattlesnakes and tomorrow we would reach our new home at the feet of the Three Sisters.

A temporary camp was made until Papa could go up into the pine timber to a small sawmill for lumber which would be needed to make a floor and frame to stretch the tents over. Soon there were three tents grouped under the big juniper tree. A large one for the living room and sleeping quarters for all but Grover, who had his own tent. The third was the kitchen. We lived in those tents all winter and were warm and comfortable.

Our first post office was twelve miles away in the little town of Sisters. Just as soon as we were settled in the tents, we all piled into the hack and went after the mail. Sisters was an old settled town–the last one ono this side of the mountain pass across the Cascade Range to the Willamette Valley. The country around Sisters was very pretty, so many little meadows with natural grass that was cut for hay. All this land had been taken up years ago when the state was in its infancy. Crude yet graceful rail fences still criss-crossed some of the land. Sisters itself was a pretty little town nestled under the pine trees on the banks of Squaw Creek. It supported a general store, blacksmith shop, post office, dance hall and saloon. As we neared this awful place (Mama had thoroughly brainwashed us about saloons), a man fell through the door right into the street. Another was right behind him with upraised foot. Papa grinned. “Neatly done.” he said, looking sideways at Mama, whose lips held a straight line as she looked the other way and missed seeing the man in the street struggling to his feet to shake his fists and shout terrible threats to the man still standing in the doorway. I was thrilled. This was the raw West I had read about.

But the reception Jim and I received on our first trip to Bend from the town’s roughneck was far from romantic. We were quietly sitting on the sidewalk in front of Sather’s Grocery store surveying our surroundings when this boy walked up, looked us over, and figured he would have some fun out this country boy and girl. “What are you kids doing here?” he growled.

“Just sitting,” I replied tartly.

“You can’t just sit here, move along.” He sounded and looked threatening.

Anger flared up inside me. “You can’t make us.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Scowling, he reached over and shoved Jim off the walk. I sprang to my brother’s defense. Blows flew thick and fast. Then we entrenched ourselves behind a big rock and threw small stones at our tormentor. He dug in behind a pile of dirt across the street and stick and stones were rapidly exchanged until a man came and broke up the fight. Then the folks appeared and to my deep humiliation, apologized for our behavior. Mama brushed as much dirt off us as she could. Sticking out my tongue at my enemy, I followed them to the river to see the Hunting Lodges.

My first look at those lodges entranced me. They were so picturesque and fitted so naturally into the landscape of forest and river. Low, brown log houses with huge fireplaces and sheltered by tall pine trees faced the Deschutes River which wound gracefully through Bend. For days afterward, I would dream about them and the hunters who would come to fish in the river and hunt the deer that roamed through the mountains.

It was about this time that our first neighbor arrived: a lone bachelor, Bill Leverenz, who took up a homestead adjoining ours on the west. He built a one room house and shared it with his horses.

One day Papa said to Mama, “I don’t think Bill has anything to eat but beans and he sleeps on a pile of straw in the corner.”

“Ask him down to supper then,” she replied. She had brought lots of canned fruit from Wasco and we had plenty of other provisions. Bill was sure glad to come. He ate heartily and almost forgot to go home. He was a dedicated socialist and once he got started on the “bloated rich” he couldn’t stop. Everything should be divided up equally.

Papa listened patiently for a while, then broke in. “Well, Bill, if that’s what should be done, how about you dividing up what you have with your neighbor. I could use a little hay.” But Bill couldn’t see it that way. What he had was his; only the wealthy should divide.

After Bill came, more homesteaders arrived. Some were from Wasco. Ellis Edgington, a school friend of Grover’s, filed on some land not far from us. I adored Ellis. He never talked down to Jim and me. He was big and droll–always had something funny to say and we were continually giggling. He would walk to the door of the tent in the evenings, swing his long arms towards the mountains, and loudly declaim, “The golden sun is slowly sinking in the west,” while I giggled and hiccuped my applause.

One day Ellis’s brother Gib rode in from Wasco. Gib had an insatiable appetite and so did his dog, Spindles, who always accompanied him. While we were all out greeting Gib, Spindles caught the scent of freshly baked bread and followed it to the cook tent. Later, Mama came rushing wildly out of the tent. “Where has all my bread gone to?” Nobody had any idea until Papa pointed to Spindles who, well rounded out, lay contentedly licking his paws.

More families came. Soon all the land around us was taken that first year. All through the summer, the house went up log by log; and piece by piece the big fireplace was taking on shape inside it. Papa cut a big window on the west side that framed the Three Sisters like a picture and Mama hung a large picture of Lions eating the early Christians above the fireplace, her only picture worthy of that special spot. In the fall, the house was ready to move into and Mama planned a big house warming. All the neighbors were invited. In a way, it was similar to the Pilgrims’ first Thanksgiving. We had raised a big garden. The pigs were nice and fat, so were the chickens. The rye and potato crops were good. We had a new house. We were all well and ready for winter. It was good to celebrate and share out thankfulness with our neighbors.

What a party that was. A big fire blazed in the fireplace and the hunters bayed a welcome to the guests as they arrived. We played guessing games. One of our new neighbors brought their phonograph and we listened to the latest songs “Silver Threads Among The Gold”, “Pretty Red Wing”, and others. Then our singing neighbors, the Scoggins (I always called them that because they were always singing) sang songs that most of us were familiar with such as “My Old Kentucky Home” and everybody joined in.

There was a joyous shout when Ellis brought out his mandolin and Grover tuned up his violin. Papa cleared the big living room floor, sets were formed, and the square dancers sailed around keeping time to “Turkey In The Straw” while Papa called out the formations. “Crack The Whip” was my favorite. Whoever was on the end sure had to hang on.

The crowning event of the evening for me came when Mama brought out the homemade ice cream and cake. How we feasted. Then there was more dancing and the eastern sky was turning pink before the party broke up. It was broad daylight before the last buggy disappeared over the hill.

Oh, those were the good old days! The happy carefree days of childhood. I was stiff from sitting so long. Lifting my arms to stretch a little, I thought I heard something. Wating a few minutes, I was sure that I did. An eerie, ghostly wail seemed to be coming from a great distance. I felt a chill run up my spine. I had read muchg about spirits being drawn back to their earthly homes. Could it be that my coming back had–but no, something was beginning to click in my memory.

The well–the well that Albert had drilled for us. Albert was an old acquaintance whose business was well-drilling. He wanted to get started in the new country and drilled his first well on our place. It took him a good many months because he hit first one underground cave after another before reaching water and there was always a moaning sound coming from the depths that swelled to a whistle before a change in the weather. Many times I would sit by the well and wonder if there wasn’t some strange sort of life down there that was desperately trying to break through to the sunlight.

Papa died about that time and money was very scarce so the well opening was covered with boards to protect it until more prosperous times came along to install a device to lift the water to the surface. But that time evidently was not yet and the well was still broadcasting the weather. Following the sound, I located it. Low sagebrush had spread a protective covering over it. Maybe some day someone will bring the water up.

Giving a farewell look around at the old homestead, I went back to the gnarled old juniper tree and broke off a branch to take with me, then I turned my face toward the mountains and started back on the road out of the valley. I glanced down at my watch, then at the sun hovering close to the western horizon. It was evening–I had been all afternoon living in the past!