half of the photo they were unbroken, but below the river there was a patch of cleared land. On the bottom right- hand corner of the picture a serial number was imprinted and the image itself looked slightly grainy, as though it had been blown up from a smaller print.
“Did you go up in a plane and take it, Dad?”
My father laughed. “Not me, Stan.”
“Are you going to put it on the wall?” Stan sounded dubious.
“I was planning to.”
“You should have gotten something with colors.”
“This is a special picture. What do you notice about it?”
Stan squinted hard at it, then stepped back and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Whew, that made me dizzy. It’s just a river, Dad. Is it the Swallow River?”
“Well done. See anything else?”
“Yikes, you’re going to make my head spin round. I can’t see anything. Ask Johnny.”
“It’s just trees and a river to me too.”
My father smiled and looked at the photo and shook his head as though he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Come on. We’re going for a drive.”
We left the house and got into my father’s car. As we rolled out of the driveway Stan put on a pair of mirrored aviator shades and tied a patterned silk handkerchief around his neck.
The place my father took us to was called Empty Mile. Once we were out of Oakridge it was about a twenty- minute drive, the last few miles of it along a single winding lane of blacktop known only as Rural Route 12. Along the sides of this road dusty wooden poles supported an old electricity feed that served isolated dwellings erected over the years by a handful of families who preferred a more reclusive lifestyle. Neither tourists nor townsfolk had any reason to come out this way-there was nothing to see here that couldn’t be seen closer to town or in more scenic surroundings. The only sign that the area was inhabited came from occasional boards, hand-painted with family names, that marked the entrances to unpaved trails.
At one of these my father turned off the road and onto a track that was just two tire furrows worn in the earth. We drove along this through sparse forest until we emerged at the top of a wide meadow of deep grass that sloped downhill for several hundred yards. My father stopped the car and we got out.
The trees we’d passed through were behind us and to the left and ahead of us also the meadow was bordered by forest. On our right the land rose in a steep rock wall about seventy feet high.
In the top left corner of the meadow there was an old wooden house that needed paint. It was set off the ground and had a short flight of steps leading up to a roofed veranda. A beaten-up orange Datsun was parked beside it and in an unfenced garden washing hung on a line.
On the opposite side of the meadow from this house, about halfway down the slope, there was a much newer log cabin. This too had a stoop along its front and there was a large rainwater tank and a small shed out back.
Stan lay down on the grass. He rolled over a couple of times, then stood up and brushed himself off. My father was wearing a suit as he almost always did. He had his hands in his pants pockets, his jacket hooked back behind his wrists.
“What do you think, boys?”
Stan looked perplexed, trying to figure out what answer my father wanted. “It’s not any good for rolling.”
“What about you, Johnny.”
“Nice spot. Are you marketing it?”
“I own it.”
“Really?”
“Closed the deal today.”
“The whole field?”
“Most of the meadow and on down through those trees at the bottom. The Swallow River runs on the other side of them and that’s where the property ends. That log cabin comes with it too, but the house over there is on a separate title.”
Stan ran his hands nervously through his hair. “Oh boy, Dad. Oh boy.”
“What’s the matter, Stan?”
“Are we moving here?”
“No, we’re not moving.”
“But you bought a place with a cabin.”
“We’re not moving, Stanley. Don’t worry.”
Although I didn’t share Stan’s nervousness about moving to a new house I could understand his confusion. The piece of land my father had bought appeared to have no other use than as a place to relocate to. It had nothing going for it as an investment. It was too far from town and too isolated to subdivide and sell off in property lots. And as something to do with the tourist trade it was also a washout. Pretty and peaceful as it was, it had nothing that anyone would spend time traveling to see.
My father strode off across the deep grass. He swung his arms as he went and there was a jauntiness to his step that seemed put on, as though this man who had so much difficulty with his feelings was making a deliberate attempt to communicate his happiness to us.
We entered the trees that lined the bottom of the meadow. They grew thickly at first and there was grass underfoot, but after about ten yards the ground became dusty and the trees weaker and thinner and more widely spaced. My father stopped here and looked around as though he had no interest in continuing to the river. He scuffed at the dry earth with the toe of his shoe then walked a few yards to his left to a small hole someone had dug in the ground. Stan and I waited for him to start moving again but he seemed lost in a daydream, looking at the hole and nodding to himself. Stan cupped his hands and raised them to his mouth. He made a noise like static on a radio.
“Earth to Dad. Come in.”
My father lifted his head and chuckled and started walking again. Twenty yards further on the trees ended and we stepped out onto the bank of the Swallow River.
After the Swallow passed under the bridge at the southern end of Oakridge it ran through ranks of quartz- bearing hills until it joined the middle fork of the Yuba. It was nowhere near the size of famous Gold Rush rivers like the American or the Feather, but it had been well known as a river that was consistently rich along its length. We stood now on the inner curve of a bend in its path where the water ran shallow and wide. To our right, looking upstream, I could see the ragged end of the meadow’s rock wall sloping down through the trees to the edge of the riverbank.
Stan looked knowingly back and forth along the river. “I know where we are, Dad. This is your photo, isn’t it? This is the river in that photo.”
“Correct, Stan.”
“I thought so! Cool.”
I knew my father didn’t have the kind of money to go around buying land for the heck of it and it crossed my mind that after a lifetime of financial failure, of looking after Stan single-handedly, he might finally have succumbed to some sort of mental illness.
“What are you going to do with this place, raise crops?”
My father tapped the side of his nose. “You’ll see, John. You’ll see.” He took a deep breath and clapped his hands. “Remember this day, boys.”
We followed him back through the trees and up the meadow to where we’d left the car. As we came level with the wooden house I heard Stan draw his breath in sharply. Two people were sitting on the stoop in the afternoon sun. One of them was the girl from his dance class. He tugged my sleeve and whispered, “It’s Rosie!”
The girl saw Stan and lifted her hand in a weak wave.
“You better go over, dude.”
“But what am I going to say?”
“You talk to her at dance lessons, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
