Knights Ferry, California.
Before I met my husband, my dog was one of my constant travel companions. When I needed to get away, I would load him into the car and away we’d go. The adventures didn’t need to be far from home - a simple walk on a local bike path, chucking rocks into the river or heading down to the beach for a run - but they helped clear my head and calm him down.
With the busy rushing around of the last several months, the dog has frequently been left behind to guard the house when we took off to explore or shake out the cobwebs. But on Sunday, I told my husband I wanted to take him with us up into the foothills to explore a ghost town. I walked outside to clean out the back seat of the car, shuffling papers, coffee cups and gum wrappers while Sam happily wandered about, marking his territory in the front yard.
As I walked back toward the house, Sam jumped in the front seat of the car and sat in the driver’s side. I called him, ridiculously patting my thighs, hoping he’d get out but he stubbornly refused. I eventually gave up and as I turned back toward the house, he honked the horn.
This time, there would be no leaving the dog behind.
We wound our way around the green foothills of the central Sierra Nevadas, Sam’s head happily hanging from the window. As we approached Knights Ferry, our search for the history of this hidden gem began in earnest. I mentioned the cemetary, having heard some of the lore from family and friends but never seeing it for myself. The road curved tightly to the left and the right, climbing steeply to the top of the hill.
As the road widened in front of us, the rusted iron sign of the Oak Grove Cemetery greeted us. We parked the car outside the gates and entered the quiet stillness of the ancient resting grounds. Sam walked to the gate and sat, somehow knowing to respect the sanctity of the plots of earth before him. He would wait for us while we explored.
The cemetery revealed the unique history of the community, an infusion of Irish and English immigrants, a rush of deaths as a result of a massive flood in 1862, small children who did not survive childhood illness, families who had settled and raised generations in this enclave of 95 residents. The more recent headstones glistened in the morning sun, the older covered in lichen and moss, overgrown and the victims of vandals. We headed back toward the gate, having walked the periphery of the grounds.
Upon reaching the gate, Sam’s tail quietly thumped the ground. My husband reached down and patted his head.
“Come on boy, let’s go.”
