Beautiful Kittitas Valley View Lot
For Sale by Owner

Small acreage lots near Ellensburg, in central Washington, provide a natural choice for those who are looking for both a simpler, quieter existence and a hearty outdoor, active life in an area of picturesque beauty. Nearby recreational opportunities abound for outdoor enthusiasts interested in fishing, birdwatching, hiking, backpacking, skiing, horseback riding and more. (Click for more detailed owner sale real estate information)

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Fishing at the pond at sunset. Wenatchee Mountains. Washington. August 12, 1999.
Photograph by Kathryn Eberhart. Copyright 1999, Kathryn Eberhart.

The mountains have always been a place to explore from the mini to the macro, gopher holes in meadow grass, to the ponderosa pine grove up the road. We discovered ice cold water trickling into a springbox from a rusty, moss covered iron pipe in the side of a hill. There was no faucet, we couldn't believe someone left the water running all year round.

It was a hot drive in the summertime, chipmunks and squirrels darted across the road, our shorts-clad legs stuck to the seat, while dust collected and ran in rivulets down the back window of the GMC wagon. Summer trips to the mountains would find us catching Dixie cups full of tadpoles, and jars full of ants to take home to Seattle. We soon learned that the redheaded kind chewed through cheesecloth covers, overnight. I wasn't too popular with my kindergarten teacher. She and all the janitors were mustered to do an early morning war dance to exterminate the pests I had brought for show and tell.

Photograph by Kathryn Eberhart. Copyright 1999, Kathryn Eberhart.

Stick bugs, Grandpa called them periwinkles, would cling to the diapers Mom washed in the spring. She would lay the diapers out in the meadow to dry. From a distance they looked like white patches scattered on a golden flag field. It was during the month of July that flocks of sheep would be herded high up the mountains for summer grazing. There were men and dogs, horses and mules that followed the sheep. Dad taught us to count, "uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis..." for the Spaniards and Basques. They were formidable men, and scared me a little. If it wasn't for their horses I would never have gone near. The herd dogs kept aloof, watching their charges from a distance.

Photograph by Debbie Young

Sheep, their noise and smell, were everywhere. They made short work of all the vegetation, including skunk cabbage and baby aspen trees. The morning the sheep arrived we'd wake up in our sleeping bags, on half-flat air mattresses to the rumble of feet, clang of bells, and the all pervasive baas. Dad would get up, find his green oilcloth bound Spanish-English, English-Spanish dictionary and headout for a hike and conversation with this year's herders. We would tag along while Mom made breakfast, usually returning with either a bloody leg of lamb, or an invitation to dinner. Mom didn't know which was worse.

Over the next few summers, Dad and Uncle Allen fixed up the cabin. They repaired the floor, covered the roof, added a loft, windows and doors. Uncle Allen built the shutters for the windows after all the other work was done. Brothers and sisters, we spent more time on hikes, finding favorite places and returning to them. Wading in Tiger Bay, in Lion Gulch Creek became a necessary rite. Climbing the sandstone outcroppings was a gradual developmental process. The Flat Rock was easiest and came first, DeGaulle's nose, much more difficult wasn't attempted for years, and George Washington's bust we just admired.

The trip to the Dunning Meadow was a long, tough hike, not to be attempted by ourselves. Dad went with us. He showed us the fields of timothy left over from homesteading days, and the Dunning Ranch Barn that still stood at that time. We'd scavenge for bits of precious purple glass of old mason jars, square headed iron nails, and hand hewn wooden dowels. Nettles were nasty enemies, to be avoided with care. It was a longer, tougher hike back to the cabin dragging our treasures.

The fire pit in the "kitchen" was for hotdogs, hamburgers and toasted marshmallows. I found a rusty Camp King pocketknife one summer and learned to whittle willow sticks to a point, walking sticks, handle smooth for hikes.

Dunning Meadow, July 23, 2000. Photograph by Kathryn Eberhart.
Copyright 2000, Kathryn Eberhart.

As I got older, I ventured farther, the sheepherders though still foreign were no longer a threat. Two or three of us, my brothers and sisters and I would venture to their camp without the added protection of Dad and his dictionary. Our language, made up of smiles and nods of agreement, would sometimes get us into trouble. More than once I remember sitting there with a cup of strong black coffee or Spanish red wine in my hand, wondering how to gracefully get rid of it without hurting somebody's' feelings.

When our family moved to Kittitas County, the Wenatchee Mountains magically appeared in our front yard. Short summer day trips became the norm. After I was 16, driver's license pocketed with pride, my first "long" drives away from home were to the mountains and back. Picnics, walks, and music were shared with friends there. Trios and quartets, tenor, alto, soprano recorders, sometimes guitar would sound from the upper to the lower "eighty".

My 17th summer I found the courage to invite Kirk, a high school boyfriend, on a picnic to the mountains. I wanted to share with him a special part of my life. Disillusioned and disappointed, I was astounded to discover he didn't want to hike, swim, or even eat. He sat in the cabin and wrote the final chapter of his first novel. While I had to recognize his dedication, I felt he missed my cue. I decided it wasn't true love after all. The next time I ventured to invite a young man to the mountains, it was two years later. Bruce, I felt I knew a little better. The mountains approved my choice. He was a great success. We went on hikes, I showed him the sandstone and Tiger Bay, the place where the Dunning Ranch Barn once stood, we sat at the table the sheepherders had built years ago on the hillock where they camped. In the distance were the mountains, Rainier and the Stuarts. He ran up every hill I showed him. Together we walked through scattered pines, and stood still while a startled buck and a doe brushed close by. Bruce tossed the caber, a twelve foot pitchy pine log, with a grimace and a yell, true to his Scottish descent, and ate all the food I brought with us. It was a great day for me, sharing my favorite place with a new friend who showed me he liked it every bit as much as I always had. Yes indeed I decided, it must be true love. - Cory J. Eberhart (February 21, 1979)

D.R. Eberhart & Associates, Inc. - P.O. Box 877 - Ellensburg, WA 98926
Telephone: 509-968-4488

This Page Last Updated January 19, 2007

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