The sky is grey and the wind makes a cold day feel
colder. It’s Halloween, which might be the creepiest day of the year, and we’re
exploring what might be the creepiest tourist attraction in Central Oregon.
Katelin and I are the only ones on the property. The only humans, that is.
Dozens of large peacocks roam the area, lazily climbing the miniature stone
structures. The air is saturated with the sounds of dogs barking and chickens yelping.
A black cat crosses our path. A black cat on Halloween. “What do you think they
feed all of these animals?” Katelin asks me.
“You mean, who do they feed to all of these animals?” I answer.
“Probably tourists,” she says.
“And unfortunately, we’re the only
ones here today,” I say. Of course, we’re both only joking, but deep down, we’re
thinking the same thing: This is exactly
how horror movies begin.
On Route 97, between the towns of
Redmond and Bend, there are large homemade signs for “Petersen Rock Garden”—signs
that left me absolutely intrigued every time I drove past them. What could that possibly be? I always
asked myself. I know what a rock garden is—my parents had a small one when I
was growing up—but what could be so special about Petersen’s that they felt the
need to advertise to strangers? I had to find out.
We followed the signs—a right, a
left, another right—three miles off the main highway, until we found ourselves in
what many would refer to as “the middle of nowhere.” The gate was open, but
there didn’t appear to be a single soul on the grounds. I parked the car in a
large lot that was empty except for a small, unattended fire, which was sending
dark smoke into the air. We got out of the vehicle, I put the “suggested
donation” into the drop box, and we slowly walked around a small city, crossing
bridges suspended between miniature houses, churches, towers, palaces, and
statues. Moats and ponds were scattered around the structures, all of them dry
and empty, which gave the area an added sense of eeriness. A sign caught my
attention. It said “ENJOY YOURSELF—IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK.” What the hell is this place? The phrase
repeatedly ran through my mind. And, who
could have been crazy enough to build it?
The crazy man’s name was Rasmus
Petersen, a Danish immigrant who settled in the region in 1906. In 1935, he
began to build structures from the many different kinds of rock that had been
strewn about the area from volcanic activity that occurred thousands of years
ago. For the next seventeen years, until his death in 1952, Rasmus continued to
arrange a variety of different rocks: obsidian, agate, malachite, and thunder
eggs, among others. Because of its oddity, the site quickly became a popular
roadside attraction.
At the peak of its popularity, the
garden saw about 150,000 visitors a year, but today, Katelin and I are the only
ones here. But then, as we’re just about to leave, a van pulls into the lot and
stops. Nobody gets out. A woman sits in the driver’s seat, talking into a cell
phone. Is she looking at us?
“What do you think she’s doing?”
Katelin asks after a few minutes.
“Calling her redneck relatives,” I
answer, “to let them know a couple of “victims” are here all by themselves.”
“Do you think the gate will be
locked when we try to leave?”
“Most likely,” I say with a smile.
We pull out of the lot and down the
drive, where we find the gate wide open. We continue on to Bend, where we enjoy
a wonderful weekend getaway—eating and drinking and racing bicycles. But I know
that years from now, when I think back upon our short vacation, it’ll be the Petersen
Rock Garden that I’ll remember the most. So, the next time you’re driving down
the road and notice an intriguing sign that has always left you curious—take
the time, stop, explore. What’s the worst that could happen? You could get murdered by rednecks and fed
to a flock of peacocks, but that seems like the kind of thing that would only
happen in a horror movie.
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