Everyone who wasn't born here has a special story about finding Dunsmuir. Here's mine.

Late 2001 my wife, Cherie, and I didn't want to live anywhere near the L.A. anymore. She wanted a quieter lifestyle; I wanted community.

So we both quit our jobs, had a good-bye Thanksgiving dinner with her kids, then headed north, up the coast, in seach of a new home for she and I and our cat.

Ruggles was a middle-aged cat, a Turkish Van we raised from puffball. In his first five and a half years he had never stepped a paw outdoors. His world had extended no further than the second-floor balcony.

Until now. What an adventure for him.

By the time we reached Gold Beach, Oregon, we knew we didn't want to live on the coast. We, especially I, love the beach, but it seemed more like a place to visit, not to live. The beach did not feel like Home.

So we headed inland and then down. We knew about the Mt. Shasta area from internet searches, and we knew of small town called Dunsmuir. We would not decide wheree we were going to live until we visited South Siskiyou.

It was late when we pulled in at the the Cedar Lodge. The car crunched into about two feet of snow on the ground, and more was falling fast. Owner Rita Hilsenbeck said it was unsually heavy for this time of year.

We began unloading all we needed into Room 8, when I made a big mistake. I was carrying things in both arms, and was holding the cats leash . Ruggles panicked and bolted, jerking the leash out of my hand.

He disappeared into a snowy void.

We passed a miserable night.

I arose, if I slept at all, around 5 a.m, and went out into the surrounding neighborhood to spread the word of the lost cat. Finding a white cat in deep snow seemed impossible, but the fact he was dragging with him a three-foot black leather leash gave us reason for hope.

I waded out into a dark snowscape,and knocked only on doors of homes where I could see lights burning.

I was out to find my cat, but instead I found Dunsmuir.

Everyone expressed concern for the situation and listened to all I had to say. One man even offered to go out, right now, and help find my cat. I thanked him, but declined, explaining that he had been gone about seven hours by that time.

Wow, what a difference from Southern California. These people really cared.

Only one woman didn't open up for an unannounced, pre-dawn visitor, but she apologized from the other side of her closed door for not being ready for company.

Back at the motel we waited, and it wasn't long before the motel handyman came to our door with our cat in his arms. Ruggles had taken shelter near the pumphouse for the Cedar Lodge aviary.

So, trauma over, we explored out options. We soon found there weren't many. Our car was buried in snow and the freeway was closed.

We walked downtown.

We talked to the merchants. We visited the library and I paged through Steve Cuttings bound newspaper clippings dating back to the 1880's.

Then came the moment we stood on the corner of Dunsmuir Avenue and Pine Street and looked at each other and said emphatically, "This is it. This is Home."

Ten days later, we moved from Upland to Dunsmuir.

To this day, I stop and think with a sense of awe, "We live here. We really LIVE here."