There is some, I think, in coming back from two days of geographical solitude, only to enforce that same solitude on myself out of some sense of ennui, or something more substantial which I hesitate to more than hint at here. Sigh.
But I promised myself a story. Rather, I promised myself that I would tell you a story (and never think for one second whoever you might be who might be reading this, never think that that is an ihr. It is always du) and as I can't seem to go a day without storytelling in one way or another, let me tell you this one. Besides, it may save me telling it over and over again in the meat world.
I had decided to go on a trip. I needed a vacation, it's true, but I'd also felt the need to connect with my friends of Thunderday, the Firm, my nerds, my boys (and men, in all fairness). I'd wanted to go to the Columbia Gorge, a remarkable, heartbreakingly beautiful place that was much the playground of my childhood. Hood River, Crown Point, Larch Mountain, and above all, Maryhill, were the backdrops to some of my fondest, safest adventures and I hope still to share them with my closest of friends.
Now, there are any number of you with whom I spend far too little time. And any and all of you would be welcome in my home and at my table. My Firm, though, are perhaps the most forgiving of all my friends, and the most familiar with my long-term self. Kevin I have known for more than 5 years now, and he's seen me once a week (barring the occasional hiatus) for most of those years. That's saying something. And for all the adventures we've had on paper and betwixt the pips of dice, I feel as though I owe them a real, honest-to-goodness out-there-in-the-wide-world adventure.
So anyway, I set out to go, took the time off and arranged transportation (more on that in a moment), and in the week prior...well, I began to churn. Several times in the recent past, I've found myself so upset, so enraged and angry that I had to sit silent and speak only to myself. At work, too, which is terribly inconvenient, as my not speaking is noted even by the least observant of my colleagues. All of whom had only the most helpful and compassionate advice. Except Donna, who told me, roughly, to "get over it".
I love Donna.
In light of this shift in humors, sanguine to choleric, I felt like I needed to spend some time with myself, rather than in the company of others. Even when I was quiet at work, it was less because I was angry at anyone than because I really needed to figure out what I was thinking/feeling/doing. This is a theme for me, by the way. If you're just getting here. So I changed my plans, my destination, and set out for another, newer place in my heart.
Some years ago, while reading magazines professionally at night, I learned about a place called Crack-In-the-Ground. A fissure, a split in the volcanic bedrock of central Oregon (catch that for me, would you Josh) that was two miles long and as deep as seventy feet in some places. I was intrigued, and on a whim, I went. I had never been to this part of the state before, as it's in the middle of fucking nowhere. But now, for my purposes, there was nowhere better than nowhere.
Friday, the 14th I got ready. Took a train to Salem where I borrowed my mother's Ford Explorer, which I've named Doreen. I love this car-it was, you may remember, the vehicle that sheltered and transmitted David and I all the way to Yerba Buena and back at the beginning of this blog, and it served me in a similarly capable manner for this trip. Old as it is, my mother keeps it up, and I feel as though her nature has rubbed off on it (we're all just dancing with the world, and my mother's gavotte is a wonder of precision and efficiency. Thanks again, Doris Jean), for it is unfailingly reliable. I filled Doreen with all the supplies and accoutrements I thought I'd need. In order-
Food: Biscuits, two batches. One bacon and cheese, the other maple-date. Chocolate Zuchinni Cake, with chips and walnuts. One dozen boiled eggs. Four Bartlett pears, green as to ripen over the coming days in the warm of the desert. Pretzels, sourdough everything from Capella, both 'cause I like 'em and because they are the same when stale as when you first open the bag. A thermos of potato-leek soup. Two gallons of water, assuming I'd acquire more when I got there.
A bed in the car, an itinerary that went right out the window, (much to the disappointment of any potential ninjiferous search-party) and enough gas to go I don't/didn't know how far. Bushnell binocs courtesy of Lance, digital camera thanks to Michael, and a new knife that I chose as it was the first one that drew my blood. Can't really not buy something's got your blood on it now, can you?
Entertainment: My IPOD and it's plug for the car's tape deck. This was great...for the first day, until it ran out of batteries and my hope of finding a friendly USB port proved fruitless. Five books, which I consumed at just the right rate. Cigarettes, which are entertaining, and pot, which was less so for reasons that became evident when I realized that I hadn't brought a pipe...silly stoner. And...psilocybin.
Christ, my mother reads this. Sorry, Doris Jean. Gonna have to be accountable here. Forthcoming, I mean.
Clothes: any number of useless items designed to keep me warm in the cold desert nights. Seriously, I don't get cold. More on that later too. Several pairs of decent socks and my work shoes, which I only wear to work, but are also the only thing I could hike in. My regular day-to-day preference is A. nothing B. sandals. Wouldn't do, so I took my work shoes...and DESTROYED them. My roommate would disagree, speaking to the fine state of their materials. But David...I know when I've killed a shoe's soul.
I didn't bring a map. This wasn't deliberate, just stupid.
I left the morning of the 15th, early enough to be surprised at a reply to a message I'd thought would go unanswered. What are you doing up at 8:30 on a Saturday, Norn? And I drove...and drove, and drove. Took the highway through Goshen (bible names are silly) and up the mountains to Oakridge, where I bought coffee and felt despair. This is not uncommon in Oakridge. Then up a little more, down a lot. Traffic in the mountains, trucks and trailers like big complicated speed-bumps. Construction too-other people are a pain in my ass. But soon enough, I reached Hwy. 31 and a land of nothing. No people, no buildings, no rain, no cracks in the perfect, smooth roads. Truly, once past the axis of Hwy. 97, there's no traffic and hardly any locals. Just the forest and the birds and the three colors that paint everything in the desert: the hazy blues of the sky, the green/grey/blonde of the dust and the sage, and the rusty red of all the basalt. Like old blood. I was thrilled.
I set out in the general direction of Crack-In-the-Ground, but hadn't been sure where I would go. I figured on going south that first day, calculating my remaining gas, and staying the night wherever I could. On the second day, I reasoned, I'd park myself somewhere isolated and, well...do some mushrooms. Once I reached the valley, though, I saw Fort Rock looming up on the horizon like God's knuckle pushed up out of the ground, and I had to go. I'd wanted to climb it the last time I was there...didn't have the wherewithal. This time, I had nothing but, and time to spend. There are some pictures further down of my hike, but know that it began with the knot of the soon-to-be-dead that stands out. Swear to god, I stepped out of the car after three hours of driving in the bright sun and stepped into a square dancing seminar. In a parking lot. In a state park. In the desert. I stood there and ate an egg, transfixed. Gobsmacked, even, at the sheer absurdity of it, listening to this man sing along to canned and ancient instrumental county music, arcane phrases like "clover-leaf" and "butterfly twirl" drifting to me across the hot asphalt and the continents of my childhood memories (when I was in school, Oregon's curriculum mandated the teaching of square dancing. I'm completely serious).
While I appreciate the odd more than most, I wasn't really prepared for this, so after I finished my egg, I plugged in my IPOD and set myself to climbing the rock. Took my camera, binocs and water and a little food. Crossed the field of sage quickly, and took to the climb. The route I took looked fairly easy, and brought me close to what must have been the nesting site of a pair of kestrels. They were completely uninterested in me, and spent to whole of my climb dancing on the wind and with each other. My affection for birds is well documented, and to see such a fine and beautiful thing boded well. The stone of Fort Rock is solid and knobbed by the action of long gone waves-Lake County is named for the lakes that were, ten-thousand years ago, rather than any preponderance of lakes in the now. Easy climbing, lots of handholds and shelves, but when I reached the top, all the crevices and vessels in the rocks were filled with a fine white gravel...the sun-bleached bones of small animals, left by the birds I was admiring. This too, was nothing but beautiful. I took my pictures, stole a stone for a chestnut, and lept down the rocks like a goat, too sure of my footing and careless with my well-being.
From here, I reasoned, I'd set off to Christmas Valley and the Crack, or perhaps the Lost Forest. Chrismas Valley is a strange area, irrigated into something other than itself. Greens where there should be none. More birds, and other wildlife. Stopped to take a picture of a twirling vortex of what I thought were raptors, turned out to be monstrously big crows. Climbing a thermal, sharing the heat and suddenly turning to dive over me. Big shadows in the sky, crossing mine in a way I found uncomfortable. Later, I watched something take off across the road, sloppily flapping and flopping it's wings. It was HUGE and I couldn't for the life of me identify it, and as I tried...I almost went off the road. When I came to a stop, the small herd of antelope that were grazing next to the road all looked at me like I was crazy. Antelope. Sure. Too many animals to stare at.
So...south. Decided to go and come back the next day, get as far as I could before I'd turn around. Seemed like...Paisley'd be a good destination. Driving on fine smooth swift roads that are so welcome and unfamiliar. Over a small pass, then down again into more lake country. It's like a platter, so flat for miles and then the edges rising at the horizon. All the lakes are dry, but some are drier than others, so marshes and cat-tails. And herons. All those birds, I swear. I saw blackbirds and robins and ducks and all kinds of raptors. My ornithomancy couldn't keep up with all the omens and portents. And I've given up on reading my fate, anyway. It was lovely, but only to look at, and I had my heart set on sleep at this point. When I reached the end of the road, there was, thankfully, a campground set next to a river and a spring. Tried trading an eye for wisdom at the spring, but apparently my proportions are all wrong, and they can't give change for all the extra aqueous and vitreous humors. Birds aplenty, but no ravens for me.
I'll say too, that for all the birds that I saw, even the most mundane were somehow more interesting than my usual Eugenean birds. I saw robins (robins!) pulling straight Blue-Angel bullshit. Goes to show. Something, I guess.
Slept, built a fire. Read. Woke up to stars. I'd not seen stars without the benefit of light pollution in a while, and they took my breath away. Stiff neck from craning it, dizzy from spinning to see. Up early in the morning, full of worry about gas, not knowing where I was going. Spent some time in Paisley on a Sunday morning. No stoplight, but a library and a town hall, old weathered homes and a really nice looking school. Streets full of cars, empty of people. North, now, but how far and where? Stopped at a wildlife refuge that seemed more geared toward the killing than the saving, but I suppose they do go together. Kept up to Christmas Valley again, and set out for the Lost Forest.
East of Christmas Valley there's a recreation area for OHVs...4-wheelers, ATVs, what have you. Trails and tracks and pull-offs and turnarounds. All in the dunes, like Florence. Except that this sand isn't sand-it's ash from Mt. Mazama and it provides a unique soil for a stand of ponderosa pine, out in the desert where they don't belong. I'd always wanted to go, but lacking proper transport and company, I'd not been. Once I got there, though, and all the yahoos on their OHVs had vanished for the work-week, it was perfect. Dunes and sage and junipers and weird old red pines...and no chance at all of being stumbled upon. Parked around noon, ate lunch, read another pair of books, and at about 3:30, ate some really fantastic mushrooms.
Now, I'm not looking to have some sort of hippy-dippy vision quest here. I have no illusions about either the theraputic or the transcendental power of drugs...but, as low as I've been it couldn't hurt. I think that I'm at my best when I remember how beautiful the world is, and under those circumstances, with the world turned up, it's hard to forget. The wind and the pillars of sunlight coming down. Walking in the ashes of a dead mountain, trees twisted by age and weather, thirsty and never to be really full. I kept hearing cars in the distance, old instinct from living next to the freeway. Not cars, but the hard sussurus of the aberrant trees that were my only neighbors. The wind picked up, brought in dark clouds that hid the sunset...I yelled at him about that-the sun, not the wind. I wandered around naked for a few hours(one of my goals), the ash cool on my feet and the wind less harsh that you might think. I felt sharp and nimble and formidable. I had a thoroughly marvelous time, and it's unfortunate that I carry only a little of that with me now. All the things I would wrangle are still here, unconfronted till tomorrow. But I have my story, and my pictures. And I am still sharp and nimble and formidable.
I slept and drove and...smelled bad. Forgot that happened. Came home and cleaned and ate and spoke to other people for the first time in days. And I came to a conclusion, an answer to a question I was asked last week. I don't know about favorites, be they things or otherwise. And I...dislike the idea of discharging a debt-you don't owe me anything, Norn. But if you'd give me a gift, share that with me, I'd like that. So if I could commission a painting, I'd ask for one of the moon, as I didn't see it at all while I was away. However you'd like, however you see it, I believe it will be well worth having. Thank you.
You were in my thoughts. All of you.
I had decided to go on a trip. I needed a vacation, it's true, but I'd also felt the need to connect with my friends of Thunderday, the Firm, my nerds, my boys (and men, in all fairness). I'd wanted to go to the Columbia Gorge, a remarkable, heartbreakingly beautiful place that was much the playground of my childhood. Hood River, Crown Point, Larch Mountain, and above all, Maryhill, were the backdrops to some of my fondest, safest adventures and I hope still to share them with my closest of friends.
Now, there are any number of you with whom I spend far too little time. And any and all of you would be welcome in my home and at my table. My Firm, though, are perhaps the most forgiving of all my friends, and the most familiar with my long-term self. Kevin I have known for more than 5 years now, and he's seen me once a week (barring the occasional hiatus) for most of those years. That's saying something. And for all the adventures we've had on paper and betwixt the pips of dice, I feel as though I owe them a real, honest-to-goodness out-there-in-the-wide-world adventure.
So anyway, I set out to go, took the time off and arranged transportation (more on that in a moment), and in the week prior...well, I began to churn. Several times in the recent past, I've found myself so upset, so enraged and angry that I had to sit silent and speak only to myself. At work, too, which is terribly inconvenient, as my not speaking is noted even by the least observant of my colleagues. All of whom had only the most helpful and compassionate advice. Except Donna, who told me, roughly, to "get over it".
I love Donna.
In light of this shift in humors, sanguine to choleric, I felt like I needed to spend some time with myself, rather than in the company of others. Even when I was quiet at work, it was less because I was angry at anyone than because I really needed to figure out what I was thinking/feeling/doing. This is a theme for me, by the way. If you're just getting here. So I changed my plans, my destination, and set out for another, newer place in my heart.
Some years ago, while reading magazines professionally at night, I learned about a place called Crack-In-the-Ground. A fissure, a split in the volcanic bedrock of central Oregon (catch that for me, would you Josh) that was two miles long and as deep as seventy feet in some places. I was intrigued, and on a whim, I went. I had never been to this part of the state before, as it's in the middle of fucking nowhere. But now, for my purposes, there was nowhere better than nowhere.
Friday, the 14th I got ready. Took a train to Salem where I borrowed my mother's Ford Explorer, which I've named Doreen. I love this car-it was, you may remember, the vehicle that sheltered and transmitted David and I all the way to Yerba Buena and back at the beginning of this blog, and it served me in a similarly capable manner for this trip. Old as it is, my mother keeps it up, and I feel as though her nature has rubbed off on it (we're all just dancing with the world, and my mother's gavotte is a wonder of precision and efficiency. Thanks again, Doris Jean), for it is unfailingly reliable. I filled Doreen with all the supplies and accoutrements I thought I'd need. In order-
Food: Biscuits, two batches. One bacon and cheese, the other maple-date. Chocolate Zuchinni Cake, with chips and walnuts. One dozen boiled eggs. Four Bartlett pears, green as to ripen over the coming days in the warm of the desert. Pretzels, sourdough everything from Capella, both 'cause I like 'em and because they are the same when stale as when you first open the bag. A thermos of potato-leek soup. Two gallons of water, assuming I'd acquire more when I got there.
A bed in the car, an itinerary that went right out the window, (much to the disappointment of any potential ninjiferous search-party) and enough gas to go I don't/didn't know how far. Bushnell binocs courtesy of Lance, digital camera thanks to Michael, and a new knife that I chose as it was the first one that drew my blood. Can't really not buy something's got your blood on it now, can you?
Entertainment: My IPOD and it's plug for the car's tape deck. This was great...for the first day, until it ran out of batteries and my hope of finding a friendly USB port proved fruitless. Five books, which I consumed at just the right rate. Cigarettes, which are entertaining, and pot, which was less so for reasons that became evident when I realized that I hadn't brought a pipe...silly stoner. And...psilocybin.
Christ, my mother reads this. Sorry, Doris Jean. Gonna have to be accountable here. Forthcoming, I mean.
Clothes: any number of useless items designed to keep me warm in the cold desert nights. Seriously, I don't get cold. More on that later too. Several pairs of decent socks and my work shoes, which I only wear to work, but are also the only thing I could hike in. My regular day-to-day preference is A. nothing B. sandals. Wouldn't do, so I took my work shoes...and DESTROYED them. My roommate would disagree, speaking to the fine state of their materials. But David...I know when I've killed a shoe's soul.
I didn't bring a map. This wasn't deliberate, just stupid.
I left the morning of the 15th, early enough to be surprised at a reply to a message I'd thought would go unanswered. What are you doing up at 8:30 on a Saturday, Norn? And I drove...and drove, and drove. Took the highway through Goshen (bible names are silly) and up the mountains to Oakridge, where I bought coffee and felt despair. This is not uncommon in Oakridge. Then up a little more, down a lot. Traffic in the mountains, trucks and trailers like big complicated speed-bumps. Construction too-other people are a pain in my ass. But soon enough, I reached Hwy. 31 and a land of nothing. No people, no buildings, no rain, no cracks in the perfect, smooth roads. Truly, once past the axis of Hwy. 97, there's no traffic and hardly any locals. Just the forest and the birds and the three colors that paint everything in the desert: the hazy blues of the sky, the green/grey/blonde of the dust and the sage, and the rusty red of all the basalt. Like old blood. I was thrilled.
I set out in the general direction of Crack-In-the-Ground, but hadn't been sure where I would go. I figured on going south that first day, calculating my remaining gas, and staying the night wherever I could. On the second day, I reasoned, I'd park myself somewhere isolated and, well...do some mushrooms. Once I reached the valley, though, I saw Fort Rock looming up on the horizon like God's knuckle pushed up out of the ground, and I had to go. I'd wanted to climb it the last time I was there...didn't have the wherewithal. This time, I had nothing but, and time to spend. There are some pictures further down of my hike, but know that it began with the knot of the soon-to-be-dead that stands out. Swear to god, I stepped out of the car after three hours of driving in the bright sun and stepped into a square dancing seminar. In a parking lot. In a state park. In the desert. I stood there and ate an egg, transfixed. Gobsmacked, even, at the sheer absurdity of it, listening to this man sing along to canned and ancient instrumental county music, arcane phrases like "clover-leaf" and "butterfly twirl" drifting to me across the hot asphalt and the continents of my childhood memories (when I was in school, Oregon's curriculum mandated the teaching of square dancing. I'm completely serious).
While I appreciate the odd more than most, I wasn't really prepared for this, so after I finished my egg, I plugged in my IPOD and set myself to climbing the rock. Took my camera, binocs and water and a little food. Crossed the field of sage quickly, and took to the climb. The route I took looked fairly easy, and brought me close to what must have been the nesting site of a pair of kestrels. They were completely uninterested in me, and spent to whole of my climb dancing on the wind and with each other. My affection for birds is well documented, and to see such a fine and beautiful thing boded well. The stone of Fort Rock is solid and knobbed by the action of long gone waves-Lake County is named for the lakes that were, ten-thousand years ago, rather than any preponderance of lakes in the now. Easy climbing, lots of handholds and shelves, but when I reached the top, all the crevices and vessels in the rocks were filled with a fine white gravel...the sun-bleached bones of small animals, left by the birds I was admiring. This too, was nothing but beautiful. I took my pictures, stole a stone for a chestnut, and lept down the rocks like a goat, too sure of my footing and careless with my well-being.
From here, I reasoned, I'd set off to Christmas Valley and the Crack, or perhaps the Lost Forest. Chrismas Valley is a strange area, irrigated into something other than itself. Greens where there should be none. More birds, and other wildlife. Stopped to take a picture of a twirling vortex of what I thought were raptors, turned out to be monstrously big crows. Climbing a thermal, sharing the heat and suddenly turning to dive over me. Big shadows in the sky, crossing mine in a way I found uncomfortable. Later, I watched something take off across the road, sloppily flapping and flopping it's wings. It was HUGE and I couldn't for the life of me identify it, and as I tried...I almost went off the road. When I came to a stop, the small herd of antelope that were grazing next to the road all looked at me like I was crazy. Antelope. Sure. Too many animals to stare at.
So...south. Decided to go and come back the next day, get as far as I could before I'd turn around. Seemed like...Paisley'd be a good destination. Driving on fine smooth swift roads that are so welcome and unfamiliar. Over a small pass, then down again into more lake country. It's like a platter, so flat for miles and then the edges rising at the horizon. All the lakes are dry, but some are drier than others, so marshes and cat-tails. And herons. All those birds, I swear. I saw blackbirds and robins and ducks and all kinds of raptors. My ornithomancy couldn't keep up with all the omens and portents. And I've given up on reading my fate, anyway. It was lovely, but only to look at, and I had my heart set on sleep at this point. When I reached the end of the road, there was, thankfully, a campground set next to a river and a spring. Tried trading an eye for wisdom at the spring, but apparently my proportions are all wrong, and they can't give change for all the extra aqueous and vitreous humors. Birds aplenty, but no ravens for me.
I'll say too, that for all the birds that I saw, even the most mundane were somehow more interesting than my usual Eugenean birds. I saw robins (robins!) pulling straight Blue-Angel bullshit. Goes to show. Something, I guess.
Slept, built a fire. Read. Woke up to stars. I'd not seen stars without the benefit of light pollution in a while, and they took my breath away. Stiff neck from craning it, dizzy from spinning to see. Up early in the morning, full of worry about gas, not knowing where I was going. Spent some time in Paisley on a Sunday morning. No stoplight, but a library and a town hall, old weathered homes and a really nice looking school. Streets full of cars, empty of people. North, now, but how far and where? Stopped at a wildlife refuge that seemed more geared toward the killing than the saving, but I suppose they do go together. Kept up to Christmas Valley again, and set out for the Lost Forest.
East of Christmas Valley there's a recreation area for OHVs...4-wheelers, ATVs, what have you. Trails and tracks and pull-offs and turnarounds. All in the dunes, like Florence. Except that this sand isn't sand-it's ash from Mt. Mazama and it provides a unique soil for a stand of ponderosa pine, out in the desert where they don't belong. I'd always wanted to go, but lacking proper transport and company, I'd not been. Once I got there, though, and all the yahoos on their OHVs had vanished for the work-week, it was perfect. Dunes and sage and junipers and weird old red pines...and no chance at all of being stumbled upon. Parked around noon, ate lunch, read another pair of books, and at about 3:30, ate some really fantastic mushrooms.
Now, I'm not looking to have some sort of hippy-dippy vision quest here. I have no illusions about either the theraputic or the transcendental power of drugs...but, as low as I've been it couldn't hurt. I think that I'm at my best when I remember how beautiful the world is, and under those circumstances, with the world turned up, it's hard to forget. The wind and the pillars of sunlight coming down. Walking in the ashes of a dead mountain, trees twisted by age and weather, thirsty and never to be really full. I kept hearing cars in the distance, old instinct from living next to the freeway. Not cars, but the hard sussurus of the aberrant trees that were my only neighbors. The wind picked up, brought in dark clouds that hid the sunset...I yelled at him about that-the sun, not the wind. I wandered around naked for a few hours(one of my goals), the ash cool on my feet and the wind less harsh that you might think. I felt sharp and nimble and formidable. I had a thoroughly marvelous time, and it's unfortunate that I carry only a little of that with me now. All the things I would wrangle are still here, unconfronted till tomorrow. But I have my story, and my pictures. And I am still sharp and nimble and formidable.
I slept and drove and...smelled bad. Forgot that happened. Came home and cleaned and ate and spoke to other people for the first time in days. And I came to a conclusion, an answer to a question I was asked last week. I don't know about favorites, be they things or otherwise. And I...dislike the idea of discharging a debt-you don't owe me anything, Norn. But if you'd give me a gift, share that with me, I'd like that. So if I could commission a painting, I'd ask for one of the moon, as I didn't see it at all while I was away. However you'd like, however you see it, I believe it will be well worth having. Thank you.
You were in my thoughts. All of you.
4 comments:
i don't get the "norn" thing, but i know i will force it out of you eventually ...
you will get something majestic, do believe (and if it's just a painting of the moon, it will be fucking amazing, trust me) ...
and i love donna, too ... lordy, lordy, do i love that lady ... she missed you while you were away (i heard her talkin' during one of my lunchly naps)
susurrus. sigh. lovely word from a lovely man. you added an extra ess, you know. a poetic misspelling that adds more sibilance.
Central Oregon is my old stomping grounds - my dad used to go to Fort Rock a lot, because he knew some of the cowboys out there and liked to help with round ups, go out riding and doing cowboy stuff. That's when I first heard of spam. In a can, I mean. There's a place we camped, one time, way back, when I was a kid, called the devil's garden. It was a relatively flat area, almost completely enclosed by walls/ ridges/ rock piles, whatever you want to call the lava rock formations out there, kind of like a horseshoe. There was a windmill, and a falling down old homestead. Very strange and desolate, like you might expect. I don't know if it was public or not, but I'm thinking you might like it...
Nice stories!
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