Open Writing

Gay came home from her week’s visit to Arizona extremely sick with bronchitis, influenza, and pneumonia. The day after her arrival, we took her to see John Wilcox, our excellent family physician who made his diagnoses and prescribed medicines to alleviate her condition. Then, for the better part of two weeks she was not well enough to go anywhere, so when our friend, Wendy, arrived from Almondbury for a fortnight’s holiday, Gay stayed home when I took Wendy to see some local beauty spots.

One of the ‘must-see’ beauty spots is Ross Creek Cedar Grove. This is an area of about twenty acres on a small creek with a stand of ancient cedars, some of which exceed twelve feet in diameter, and tower upwards as high as two hundred feet. It is located in a mountain fastness about twenty miles from our home, so while Gay coughed her heart out, Wendy and I took the dogs in the rig and headed south on Highway 56. As we travelled, I regaled Wendy with word descriptions of this stately grove of trees. She must have thought I had the bragging rights to them.

The trees make the grove awe inspiring and peace inducing, especially to those who follow the trail that winds for a mile under the leafy sun-pierced canopy of these massive hardwoods, many of which exceed two hundred years of age. The whole area around the rippling creek is enriched and enchanted by the variety of lush ferns and wild flowers thriving on the damp forest floor, where woodpeckers, squirrels, martens, and other wild animals make their habitation or make regular visits.

After driving for a few miles, we turned west off the main road driving on the road leading to Bad Medicine Campground and Ross Creek Cedars. The Kootenai National Forest Service had made a half decent job of clearing most of the several feet of recent snowfall from the road, leaving only a few inches of impacted snow on the carriageway. The Ford Explorer picked its all-wheel-drive way steadily over the rough ground until we turned uphill on the lonely road to Ross Creek that wound its way up the precipitous mountainside, twisting round its contours, always threatening a steep drop-off to our left hand side should we lose our grip on the icy pitted surface.

Eventually, we reached the top where the road turns sharp right and begins its three-mile descent to the Grove. We had gone less than fifty yards when we found the road blocked by Forestry vehicles. A low loader occupied the right carriageway, and a pickup and trailer occupied the right lane, facing the wrong way. The vehicles had no occupants, and there was no sign or sound that the workers were nearby. So, we surveyed the scene, bewailed out lot, took some photographs and shot some video, then headed back down the mountain.

Two days later, we decided to try again, hoping that the Forestry Service had moved its vehicles so that we could get to the grove. We followed our previous route and, as we made the right turn at the peak, were gratified to see that the vehicles were no longer there. Again, I began to exult on the beauty and grandeur of the scene that would soon burst upon Wendy’s eyes. However, my triumphalism was short lived, for as we reached the spot where the vehicles had been parked, we saw that the roadway beyond that place was occupied a three feet deep layer of unploughed snow! Had we had our eyes open to see anything but the vehicle barrier on our first attempt, we would more than likely have been able to see the obstruction that lay immediately beyond it. Like the tide, we turned again home.

Needless to say, Wendy has not seen Ross Creek Cedars and unless there is a massive thaw capable of melting down the feet of snow without washing out the road way at the same time, she will not see them before she goes back to Huddersfield this coming Saturday. She does have some photographs of them, but they are as nothing compared with standing at the foot of a forest giant that began life before the invention of such modernities as the electric cell, gas street lighting, steam locomotives, the Davy lamp, tinned food, photography, and the stethoscope.

You have to understand that anything over two hundred years old is ancient history to America, especially in the West, even though it might be thought small beer to someone who lives in Domesday Book Almondbury, with its sixteenth century Jacobean house, its fourteenth century church, and its stone age settlement dating from the Meridian of Time, once inhabited by woad-painted, skin-clad, fierce ancient Britons who gave fealty to Boadicea. Still, if you ever come to visit, I’ll take you to see our famous Ross Creek Cedars. At least, I promise that I will try my very best!

Copyright © 2004 Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHT RESERVED