Dateline: Camp Sherman, Oregon

I clawed my way over the 5000-foot pass of the Scott Mountains, coasted all the way down to Gazelle on the vast lava plateau that bases the entire Cascade Range and, in the northern lee of snow-covered Mt. Shasta, turned northwest at Weed for the long straight trek to Bend, Oregon.

This dull haul is relieved by breathtaking glimpses of the glinting, white-capped Cascades that pop up off to the left every now and then: Mt. McLaughlin as, just over the Oregon border, you pass Upper Klamath Lake; Pelican Butte, back over your shoulder at Ciloquin; then Goose Neck; Crater Peak; and Mt. Scott as you pass the turn-off to Crater Lake. Diamond Peak soon follows; then Mt. Theilsen; Odell Butte; and Lookout Mountain. I turned left at Bend; Mt. Bachelor appeared, then the Famous Three Sisters, each one over 10,000 feet—absolutely spectacular!

Nearly 200 miles from Weed, I rolled into Sisters. Things are happening here; my first sight is of a gentrified, gold-leafed-signed, real estate office and, as of the last census, there are only 397 households here. You see, just outside town is Black Butte Ranch, a huge resort with everything one can imagine for the entire family, and the whole area swells during summer vacation and winter ski seasons. In keeping with someone’s idea of a resort area, much of Sisters has put on a cowboy face and looks like a Hollywood-western set.

I phoned ahead to let the folks know I’d arrived in Sisters, picked up some breakfast fixin’s across the street, and asked the gal which spot would be best for dinner.

Unhesitatingly, she recommended Bronco Billy’s Ranch Grill and Saloon in what was once the Sisters Hotel. She was right; later that night, I had a blackened steak that was truly delicious, and service with smiles the like of which I hadn’t seen in months.

Now comes the adventure. Take 126 out of Sisters and after ten miles, turn right at the Camp Sherman turn-off. Now, all I’m going to tell you is that if you’re not expected, you don’t need to know any more; if you are, you will have been sent the directions.

Drive on; soon you will find yourself in the depths of a deep, Ponderosa Pine forest; the paved road quit some time back. Sooner or later you come upon what looks like a break in the fence. There’s an illuminated calculator panel strapped to a tree. The combination you received along with the directions raises the gate and you coast into one of the most beautiful, and beautifully preserved, secrets in the world—The House on the Metolius.

The first time I arrived, it was nearly dark as I bumped the railroad tie marking the end of the road; a golden glow filtered through the trees. I walked into the lawn-covered clearing: Mt. Jefferson's snowy summit was shining in the last rays of the sun and every flickering color was reflected in the Metolius River as it splayed from its gorge out onto the pine-edged meadow in front of me.

Following my map, I found my cabin (there actually isn’t one particular “House”); a note of welcome and the key were pinned to the door. Inside, a king size bed, good reading lamps, a table for two under the window—there was that unbelievable view again; two easy chairs in front of the ready-to-light fire, a simple, large-showered bathroom, and a fully-equipped kitchenette were a delight to my road-weary eyes: The House was perfect.

I filled the fridge, turned down the bed, and let the needles of the shower do the rest. As the mountains' evensong faded to moon glow, I wandered outside to discover I wasn’t completely alone. A charming couple in their seventies waved me over to their cabin and proffered some popcorn and a welcoming Bourbon. This charming doctor and his friendly wife had been coming home to their cabin at The House for thirty years and even though the place was best known to people who take their fishing very seriously, he'd only taken up the barbless sport since he retired. After a while, I left them to the soothing solitude and drove off for dinner. They were gone before I woke the next morning.

While The House's 200 acres encloses the best private section of the river, the Metolius is a very difficult catch—the fish are well fed and very wary. Fishing rules: barbless hooks only; native trout: catch and release; hatchery trout, identifiable by their notched fin, may be kept. Most folks, like me, come simply to get away from it all.

At 3000 feet, the clean air smells of the woods, and the woods—my grandfather will spin as I say this—are more beautiful than the Adirondacks. However, one can feel at home in the Adirondacks, buy some land, build a camp, and establish a tradition. In Oregon one is very much aware that one is a temporary visitor. Most of this land is reserved for public use, and much of the traffic consists of R.V.’s.

In California it seems everything is being used up to fuel the urges of the moment, but there is a sense in Oregon that there just may be a future generation or two (although every time I passed a log truck, I wanted to run it off the road). Consequently, as it’s very hard to find anything one would want to buy, the privacy of The House is an exception to be relished, and protected.

There are three accommodations; one week minimum. Unit one can accommodate four people (one king size and two single beds). Unit two has one king size bed. Both of these units, booked months, sometimes years in advance, are individual cabins which front the gorge through which courses the river on its way to rest in the meadow. Cabin three has two king size beds and the view is of the meadow.

In spite of is rusticity, everything works very smoothly. The manager sensitively looks after the affairs of The House; preserves the privacy of the guests; recommends the day's best bet on The House's private, one-half mile stretch of the river; suggests wilderness outings; and organizes guides if you wish.

This is one of the most wonderful places in the world; don’t spread the word beyond your very best friends. Unless they actually want to make a reservation, all you should tell them is that it is three hours from Portland, Oregon by car; private planes may land in Redmond, Bend, or Sisters (20 miles away). Commercial flights land in Redmond, 35 miles away. While I can’t get you to sign a NDA, the fewer people you tell about it, the longer it will remain special.

All the best,

Uncle Ted

Hand-drawn illustration by Sue Hunter.

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