lovely as any in the state, ran by the road at Glenburn, and I remembered how I had once met John McArthur, a cattle rancher, at the bar of a lodge where I was staying on a fishing trip. His family was the family of McArthur Road and the town of McArthur, emigrants from Scotland who’d been in the valley for ages. When I showed an interest in seeing his spread, he told me to give him a call in advance, any time, at home or at The Buckhorn, his saloon of choice.
The fishing was too good, though, and I couldn’t tear myself away from the river, but I thought that I might call McArthur this trip.
Fall River Valley was among my favorite spots in California. The sense of space, the broad vistas, the fenced pastures dotted with cows, they all took me back to a primal image of the West that I had formed as a boy, relying on comic books and movies. I liked the streams flowing through the valley, and the flocks of ducks and geese flying by overhead, their bodies framed against a big sky that was sprinkled at night with a million stars.
On the horizon, there was the craggy shape of Mount Lassen, another cinder cone, and when the weather was clear Mount Shasta, too, was visible in the distance. The trout also gratified me, fat browns and rainbows lying in the slack current, little monarchs of a watery, food-rich kingdom. Above all, it was the calm of Fall River Valley that appealed to me, a feeling that I would never be cramped or invaded or pushed up against by others, that there was, in the end, quite enough room for everybody.
So I started having fantasies—ranch fantasies, middle-aged cowboy fantasies. I imagined myself on the porch of my spread, picking my teeth with the stem of a wild oat and dreaming about the evening rise, when feeding trout would surface to dimple the river. The fantasy was captivating enough that I stopped at a real estate office in Fall River Mills, the largest town in the valley
The realtors on duty were Hoss and Georgie Bader. As his name implied, Hoss was a very sizable fellow. He looked as if Ben Cartwright had raised him on the Ponderosa, but he was really a refugee from Los Angeles. Georgie came from Fall River Mills. Like the McArthurs, her family went way back. Her grandfather was the first white baby to be born at Fork Crook, a military outpost nearby that had been built in 1857 as a shelter against Indian attacks.
“I’m thinking about buying a ranch,” I said, surprised by my own boldness. “Have you got one to sell me?”
Hoss and Georgie reeled off some properties. There was a tract ranchette on one-and-a-half acres that went for $69,000. There was a huge, clapboard fixer-upper farmhouse on twenty-five acres for$187,500. But an actual ranch? There weren’t many big ranches anymore. They’d been parceled off and subdivided to provide homes for all the retired people who were coming to the valley, golfers who played on the links at Fall River Country Club, over by Fort Crook. Farmers had also grabbed some of the ranchland, to grow such exotic crops as garlic and wild rice.
“People are retiring here?” I asked, stunned by a vision of arthritic duffers in tam-o’-shanters chipping and wedging where the cowpies used to be.
“Yes, sir,” Hoss said. “More and more of them. Our own young people don’t stay around. There’s no jobs for them.”
The Baders were singing a song I’d heard before, from Crescent City to Weed. They gave me some tourist newspapers that had copious real estate listings. The entirety of northern California, it seemed, was up for grabs.
As I was going out the door, I asked if John McArthur was still around, thinking that he might have sold out, as well, but Georgie laughed and said fondly, “Oh, that John McArthur! Did you know that he still gets up on horseback and drives his cattle home right down the middle of Highway 299?”
T HINGS HAPPEN ON A CATTLE RANCH , unexpected things. The cows in their lazy grazing create an illusion of placidity, but
The fishing was too good, though, and I couldn’t tear myself away from the river, but I thought that I might call McArthur this trip.
Fall River Valley was among my favorite spots in California. The sense of space, the broad vistas, the fenced pastures dotted with cows, they all took me back to a primal image of the West that I had formed as a boy, relying on comic books and movies. I liked the streams flowing through the valley, and the flocks of ducks and geese flying by overhead, their bodies framed against a big sky that was sprinkled at night with a million stars.
On the horizon, there was the craggy shape of Mount Lassen, another cinder cone, and when the weather was clear Mount Shasta, too, was visible in the distance. The trout also gratified me, fat browns and rainbows lying in the slack current, little monarchs of a watery, food-rich kingdom. Above all, it was the calm of Fall River Valley that appealed to me, a feeling that I would never be cramped or invaded or pushed up against by others, that there was, in the end, quite enough room for everybody.
So I started having fantasies—ranch fantasies, middle-aged cowboy fantasies. I imagined myself on the porch of my spread, picking my teeth with the stem of a wild oat and dreaming about the evening rise, when feeding trout would surface to dimple the river. The fantasy was captivating enough that I stopped at a real estate office in Fall River Mills, the largest town in the valley
The realtors on duty were Hoss and Georgie Bader. As his name implied, Hoss was a very sizable fellow. He looked as if Ben Cartwright had raised him on the Ponderosa, but he was really a refugee from Los Angeles. Georgie came from Fall River Mills. Like the McArthurs, her family went way back. Her grandfather was the first white baby to be born at Fork Crook, a military outpost nearby that had been built in 1857 as a shelter against Indian attacks.
“I’m thinking about buying a ranch,” I said, surprised by my own boldness. “Have you got one to sell me?”
Hoss and Georgie reeled off some properties. There was a tract ranchette on one-and-a-half acres that went for $69,000. There was a huge, clapboard fixer-upper farmhouse on twenty-five acres for$187,500. But an actual ranch? There weren’t many big ranches anymore. They’d been parceled off and subdivided to provide homes for all the retired people who were coming to the valley, golfers who played on the links at Fall River Country Club, over by Fort Crook. Farmers had also grabbed some of the ranchland, to grow such exotic crops as garlic and wild rice.
“People are retiring here?” I asked, stunned by a vision of arthritic duffers in tam-o’-shanters chipping and wedging where the cowpies used to be.
“Yes, sir,” Hoss said. “More and more of them. Our own young people don’t stay around. There’s no jobs for them.”
The Baders were singing a song I’d heard before, from Crescent City to Weed. They gave me some tourist newspapers that had copious real estate listings. The entirety of northern California, it seemed, was up for grabs.
As I was going out the door, I asked if John McArthur was still around, thinking that he might have sold out, as well, but Georgie laughed and said fondly, “Oh, that John McArthur! Did you know that he still gets up on horseback and drives his cattle home right down the middle of Highway 299?”
T HINGS HAPPEN ON A CATTLE RANCH , unexpected things. The cows in their lazy grazing create an illusion of placidity, but
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