Summer Adventures in Phoenix, Oregon
The summers of the early 1960s hold some of my most treasured childhood memories, centered around family vacation visits with my cousin Frank at his family’s place in Phoenix, Oregon. It was a world away from our home in West Pittsburg; where we had refinery stacks and the muddy Sacramento River Delta; they had the lush Rogue River Valley and clean mountain air. His father, George Cox, made his living repairing boats and owned a piece of property just off Fern Valley Road that would soon become a front-row seat to history in the making.
Phoenix was one of the first settlements in Southern Oregon, founded by the Colver brothers, Hiran and Samuel, in the mid-19th century. For a time, the settlement was known locally as Gasburg after a talkative employee in the kitchen serving the mill hands. The original name is now commemorated in the quarterly newsletter of the Phoenix Historical Society Museum, known as the “Gasburg Gazette“. The town’s early development was influenced by events along the Rogue River and Modoc Indian Wars, the Northwest gold rush, the Civil War, and the completion of the Oregon & California Railroad. The place was named by Sylvester M. Wait, who was the agent for the Phoenix Insurance Company of Hartford, Connecticut, and he took that name for the post office.
The Rogue River’s history is defined by significant events, including the discovery of gold in 1851, the bitter Rogue River Wars between Native Americans and settlers from 1851 to 1856, and its enduring popularity for salmon and steelhead fishing and whitewater rafting. The river’s name comes from early European traders who described the native Shasta, Takelma, and Tututni tribes as “rogues” or “rascals.” The area transitioned from Native American use to intensive gold mining, followed by the development of recreation and conservation efforts.
Those were the days when Interstate 5 was just carving its way through southern Oregon, and Frank and I would spend hours perched on the edge of George’s property, mesmerized by the massive earthmovers and construction crews reshaping the landscape before our eyes. The new highway would eventually split the Cox family land right down the middle, separating George’s property from his parents’ place, but to us boys, it was simply the most exciting show on earth.
When we were tired of watching the road builders, we’d wander down to Bear Creek with our eyes glued to the gravel beds, hunting for agates. There’s something magical about finding those translucent gems hiding among ordinary rocks – each discovery felt like uncovering buried treasure. We’d return home with our pockets heavy with the best specimens, already planning our next expedition.
However, our most popular adventure was undoubtedly blackberry picking. We’d disappear into the tangled thickets that seemed to grow everywhere around Phoenix, emerging scratched and purple-stained but triumphant with buckets full of the sweetest berries you could imagine. The real reward came when we’d present our harvest to Aunt Irene, who would transform them into the most incredible blackberry cobbler. The smell of that dessert baking in her kitchen still takes me back to those carefree summer afternoons.
It was during one of these visits that I bought my very first BB gun – a purchase that felt like a rite of passage into something approaching adulthood. Frank and I spent countless hours with that gun, practicing our aim and feeling wonderfully grown-up. George’s property had its own little landfill area where old Coke cans, tin containers, and other miscellaneous items had been discarded over the years, and these became our unfortunate targets. We must have “killed” a hundred Coca-Cola cans that summer, turning that makeshift dump into our personal shooting gallery. Looking back, we probably gave those poor discarded items more attention than they’d received in years!
Another unforgettable part of our adventures was visiting the cows in Uncle George’s barn. He’d feed them this special additive with a smell that’s been stuck in my mind ever since—creamy, sweet, and oddly comforting. Even now, cracking open a jar of Coffeemate whisks me right back to that dusty, warm barn, because the scent is exactly the same.
Frank and I would often dare each other to race across the pasture, which was less a sprint and more of a hilarious obstacle course thanks to the generous scattering of “cow patties” all over the field. We’d take off, legs pumping and arms flailing, performing ridiculous leaps and sudden zigzags to avoid the landmines. We were less like graceful athletes and more like two kids trying desperately not to wipe out, usually failing spectacularly. One of us would inevitably misjudge a jump, skid, and nearly go down, which would send us both collapsing into helpless laughter. Those races were equal parts competition and pure comedy, and they remain some of my most cherished memories of those carefree summer days.
Of course, not all our adventures went according to plan. One evening, Frank and I hatched what we thought was a brilliant scheme to scare his sisters, Linda and Susy, at bedtime. We snuck into their bedroom and squeezed ourselves under one of the beds, barely containing our giggles as we waited for the perfect moment to spring our surprise. When the girls finally came in and settled down, I decided to unplug their bedside lamp to add some dramatic darkness to our grand reveal. In my excitement, I forgot the cardinal rule about electrical safety – I grabbed the plug by the prongs as I yanked it from the socket. The shock that shot through my hand was definitely more surprising than anything we had planned for Linda and Susy! My yelp of pain and surprise probably scared the girls more than our original prank ever would have. Frank couldn’t stop laughing, and I learned a valuable lesson about electricity that night – one that probably stuck with me better than any safety lecture ever could have.
Time has transformed that landscape in ways we never could have imagined. Where George Cox once repaired boats and we once watched the birth of Interstate 5, there’s now a mobile home park occupying the family property, with a bustling Petro Travel Center serving the endless stream of travelers at the nearby interstate exit. Across that same highway we watched being built, the Meadow View subdivision has sprouted up – a collection of beautiful half-million dollar homes accented by a 2-acre woodland preserve and proudly known as the 2nd friendliest neighborhood in Phoenix. Progress marches on, but those summer memories of simpler times remain as clear and precious as the agates we once plucked from Bear Creek.
Looking back now, those summers in Phoenix represented more than just childhood fun. They were about family bonds, the simple pleasures of discovery, and the magic of a time when progress and nature coexisted. George’s boat repair business, the construction of the interstate, the creek full of agates, and Aunt Irene’s kitchen – they all wove together to create the fabric of some of my most beloved family memories.