OUR PONDEROSA HOME IN THE CASCADE’S BEAVER VALLEY
More than thirty years have passed since we turned left at Coles Corners and drove through Beaver Valley and up a windy Camp 12 road taking us into Ponderosa. We had no clue that a retreat weekend with friends would lead us to a life filled with friendships, community service, developing a garden, new interests and creating a home.
We are now in a transition time in our lives, a time to reflect on the many joys and challenges we’ve experienced during our life here. Our son Paul and his wife, Toni are now starting a new chapter in Shady Grove. The story will continue . . .
You are invited to enjoy our reflections in the following chapters about SHADY GROVE.
CHAPTER 1- FINDING PONDEROSA IN 1989 LORELIE & TIM OLSON
ROSE ANN & IAN SCOTT’S CABIN N PONDEROSA
We weren’t looking. At least I wasn’t. We’d had our vacation spot when the kids were in elementary school, with property on Wallace Island in the Gulf Islands of British Columbia. The boys were nearly out of college and retirement for both of us wasn’t that many years away. I already was looking toward a leave of absence the following school year and who knew what would happen after that? And especially, as we wound up a windy road from a couple of buildings called Plain, I wasn’t looking here. “Here” being announced on a weathered rectangular piece of wood in faded orange, hand painted letters tacked onto a flaking sun-bleached white background as Ponderosa Estates
“Some estates,” I said as we drove down the one-way road leading to the center of the development, past vacant lots, small cabins, and a few trailers.
“Tim, open your eyes. Don’t you see the pines, the meadows and wildflowers by the side of the road? How did
you miss sweeps of those big showy yellow flowers
we passed before we turned down the hill toward the river? Just you wait until you see the river below the Scott’s cabin.” Lorelie rolled down her window, “Smell that air. It’s heavenly. I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled air as fresh as this, and look at that deep blue sky. We never see that in Seattle anymore.”
“I know you would like to buy a cabin here,” I replied. “But it would be a lot of work and I want to do too much else with my life.”
“I had a wonderful week here with the Scotts last summer when you were in Alaska, so hold on to your opinions when we get to their place, and keep an open mind.”
Soon we turned into a driveway with a picture postcard A-frame cabin, welcoming friends Ian and Rose Ann, and a view of the tumbling Wenatchee River with the Cascade foothills in the distance.
The following morning, coffee cup in hand, I strolled out the back door away from the river into a shaft of early June sun. Coming from gray Seattle and headed for grayer Southeast Alaska in a few weeks, I basked in that warmth, then drifted with it across the road into a circular driveway with a FOR SALE sign propped against a stump. I followed the shaded driveway up an incline to an obviously empty faded lime green cabin with a tilting front 
deck, broken railings and warped, split steps. I walked around the A-frame and stepped up on a low rear deck. To the east, a grassy meadow with scattered yellow and white wild flowers and shimmering, deep green pines greeted me. To my right, a path through the knee high meadow grasses invited me to meander further up the hill where it disappeared into the trees. I sucked in the scented air, held it in my lungs, and slowly released it. Lorelie’s voice called me from the road. “Tim, where are you?”
“Up here in this meadow.”
“You didn’t tell us you’d be gone for so long. We’re planning a walk in a few minutes.”
I returned to Lorelie, “Did you notice that this place is for sale?”
“It is? Why are you interested in that? ”
“Come on up here.”
“Sure, but only for a moment. The Scotts are waiting for us.”
Standing side by side, the morning sun basked us in warmth; the meadow danced in the morning breeze. “Tim, what if …”
“Yeah! Maybe. I wonder what the price is? Can’t be much.”
Lorelie and I didn’t linger over the decision. A phone call brought a real estate agent within the hour to let us into the cabin. Ignoring the disaster inside, visions of what “could be” danced in our heads. This could be Lorelie’s “dollhouse”; my escape from the city; coffee on the sun flooded rear deck surrounded by our meadow in full spring bloom. We made an offer of $25,000 and the real estate agent assured us “the eager sellers would accept.” We drove to Leavenworth, bought a mug painted with mountains and drank locally brewed beer at a pub to celebrate.
Our celebration was short-lived because our offer reached the owner a day too late. Somebody else had already bought all those warped boards. We couldn’t tell whether we sighed with relief or disappointment.
We left Ponderosa the next day. The Leavenworth cup joined mugs from other vacation spots. The idea, however, of having a cabin in the mountains lingered in each of our imaginations all summer while we lived our separate lives.
In the fall, we returned to Ponderosa determined to find our cabin. We shook our heads at several affordable choices and then we found our cabin on the river. The big question was, “How do we make it happen?”
