Reynolds Creek

Good and Lost

As seen in IDAHO MAGAZINE

By nine-thirty, two things were obvious: my friend, Miss Direction, and I had missed the Eagle Scout flag-raising ceremony at Reynolds Cemetery in Owyhee County, and somewhere along the line, we’d missed a turn. The pavement had ended long ago, narrowing and dwindling to gravel before becoming packed dirt. Driving over a hillside into an expansive valley, we gazed out at miles of nothingness, in awe of the beauty and perhaps a little unnerved. Our map was inadequate, we had no GPS system, and we were surrounded by unapologetic mountains. Along the way, we could have taken about a half-dozen roads, and after traveling for more than an hour, we now weren’t as keen on trusting our instincts as we’d once been. Already, we had inadvertently found several muddy dead ends.

“It astounds me that there are even roads out here,” I said. “Why on earth did people make these? Where were they headed, anyway?”

I was getting a little nervous about our gasoline supply, which was still ample, but with another hour or two of driving aimlessly, that could change. I also felt remorse for not having brought any provisions beyond bottled water, which I merely sipped, in the event I’d need the remainder later. This seemed like a region where one could get good and lost.

Rounding a snow-filled corner, we were shocked to encounter a lone runner in matching long-sleeved shirt, running pants, cap, and shoes. I blinked, thinking I was seeing things. He turned, slightly annoyed at the disruption of his ponderings and privacy, gave a half-wave and moved closer to the edge of the road to allow us to pass.

“Okay, that was weird,” I told Miss Direction, “Where would he have come from?”

Neither of us could say; if we had known, we’d probably have been back on a main road.

A few minutes later, we came around another bend and spotted six more runners in full attire, moving in a formation small enough to allow discussion. The next corner revealed two runners. The corner after that yielded a lone athlete.

“It’s a runner’s mecca!” I exclaimed.

The fitness enthusiasts gave way to the occasional cow and, surprisingly, to ranches and farms, each nestled in its own valley. “Why would anyone want to build out here?” said the city in me. My question was answered almost immediately. Near each of these places was a row of telltale trees and saplings, meaning only one thing: water; exactly what the forefathers of the area had been looking for.

Eventually, we found our way back to Highway 78, coming upon what looked like the same road we had taken into the Owyhees. I now suspect that many of the roads out there connect to each other; I just have no idea how. Our search for the cemetery was abandoned, but I was determined to try again the following week.

During the days in between, I did a little research and found that the area where we’d been was actually Wilson Creek, not Reynolds Creek. We were only a couple of mountains off. The Wilson Creek area, I discovered, was indeed a hot spot for Saturday morning and afternoon runners.

Seven days later found me with a full tank of gas in my car, a generous lunch and plenty of snacks and beverages, plus an ample amount of company for moral support in the form of Mr. Larson, son Jared, daughter Erika and Gracie the gray dog. We were going to find that cemetery, no matter what.

“Turn here,” suggested my husband, who chose to act as navigator while I drove. He was looking at instructions we’d gleaned from the Internet.

“Is that Rabbit Creek road?” I asked, mildly concerned. No way did I want to get confused in this area again.

“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” he replied. Still, we traveled mile after mile without seeing a sign that proved the name.

“Do you think we’re heading in the right direction?” I asked.

“I’m sure we are,” Mr. Larson replied, possibly irritated by my apparent lack of trust.

“I’m turning around,” I said finally, and headed back towards Highway 78 and Murphy. Once back on the Highway, I found the local mercantile and pulled in.

“They’re just going to tell you we were on the right road,” Mr. Larson called out knowingly. We’d just see about that.

Like a scene out of a small-town movie, I walked into the practically-empty store to find the proprietor seated at a café table near an older couple, enjoying their company. He rose from his chair and smiled when he saw a new customer.

“We’re trying to find the Reynolds Cemetery,” I breathed, feeling a little silly. “We got lost last weekend trying to find it and I don’t want to get lost again,” I over-shared. “Could you tell me how to get out there?”

“Well,” said the man, “the only way to get there these days is by helicopter.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said, deflated. “Really?”

“No,” he answered, and then smiled. “You go down Old Highway 45, which turns into Rabbit Creek—”

“The one without the sign,” I muttered. “Rats. That means I’ll have to tell my navigator he was right.”

“Not necessarily,” said the man, “You can always go down a couple of roads beyond Rabbit Creek and turn left there. It ties in and will lead you to the exact same spot. He’ll never know the difference.”

I liked the way he thought.

Thirty minutes later our group pulled up to a farm, next to which was the sought-after ancient cemetery, complete with ornate iron gating and looming archway. Headstones were in varying states of tilting and dipping, seeming to undulate without actually moving. Some were only crumbling pieces of antique cement, time-warped wood or metal posts while others were made of intricately carved marble with shrouds, angels and bibles depicted on the alters of loved ones lost.

Wind, sun and rain had combined to wipe clean many of the epitaphs, but a few were still readable:

“Tis a little grave, but Oh! Have care! For cherished hopes are buried there.”

“How much of light, how much of joy, is buried with a darling boy.”

“Sleep, oh dearest babe, and take thy rest. God called thee home and thought it best.”

“Meet me.”

In several cases, children that had only lived to be eighteen months or so had the same size and quality gravestone as the parent they’d been laid beside. It seemed these were people that had valued a soul, no matter the age. I would eventually learn that diphtheria had often been the culprit, causing families to lose more than one member within days’ or weeks’ time. One man, I was later informed, returned home from business in the East to discover that two of his children had already been buried. A third child died the next day, and a fourth child died not long after.

I ran my fingers along the iron gatepost’s cool, smooth lines, curious about the long-gone hands that had fashioned it all. Curling, straight, pointed and exact, whoever created the only physical barrier for stray livestock, dogs and perhaps the coyote did so with care.

“Look over here!” called my daughter. Beyond the cemetery sat an old, abandoned schoolhouse. As we approached it, two farm dogs ran to greet us, joining our gray dog. They escorted us up the dilapidated steps and onto the school’s tired front porch; the setting, no doubt, for plenty of long-ago greetings and departures. The interior sported signs of multiple visits from birds, an olden-day attempt at decorating with a curtain still attached to its rod, and what I guessed was late nineteen-sixties fluorescent lighting and blackboards. 

Catching my attention and holding it hostage were the now glass-less windows, placed side-by-side to create a panoramic view of pastures and hills beyond. Had I attended school here during any era and at any age, I would not have been able to focus on my studies with that landscape calling. 

The basement was nearly as intriguing with its cement walls and high ceiling. I remembered that similar schoolhouses often had their lunch rooms and held plays and recitals downstairs. I wondered if this had been the case here, too. While the others lingered, I found myself drawn back to the cemetery, having an unexplainable desire to somehow connect with the people who had once been a part of this land. The Bernards, Brunzells, Drydens, Hallbergs, McDonalds and a whole lot of Giffords. As I looked around, “Native of Sweden” or “Born in Germany” was a frequent sight. I marveled that these folks could hail from so very far away, and yearned to know their stories. What choices had been placed before them that had brought them to this random, isolated place?

Once again, I was learning the lesson that life has many twists and turns; even more than the ones we’d seen last weekend on these winding Idaho country roads.


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