The Derry Dell Dollars

 DERRY DELL CREEK, in Tigard Or, begins at some lost spring on Bull Mountain, and rolls downhill through a narrow canyon to a beaver pond and beyond that, Fanno Creek. For a little over half its run, it flows through a public greenway, with the main trail in the park—the Pathfinder-Genesis Trail—built to follow it. Half of it is paved, but after crossing 115th Avenue, the path changes to dirt, winding and twisting, as it follows the terrain, making use of several simple wooden bridges over bogs or creek itself. The Pathfinder-Genesis Trail itself is enjoyable for an afternoon walk, but it’s the mysterious art I’ve found here that make it stand out. I don’t

A Deer walks along Derry Dell Creek

mean graffiti—that is pleasantly absent. But scattered throughout these woods, are pieces from a unique set of homemade play money, which I still have no explanation for.

The dollars have been appearing for some time; on one of my first trips to the area, I had noticed a few of these depicting the Pink Panther laying beneath a sign post. It being my first visit to the park, I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed that it was a classroom giveaway that had fallen out of a child’s backpack on the way home from school. I expected to see them once, and that would have been the end of it...but it wasn’t. Each time I revisited the park, there were new dollars: stuck in the crutch of trees, laying on top of man hole covers, or stuck between boards of a privacy fence. Someone was putting them out deliberately.

The Pathfinder-Genesis Trail seems to have a way with impromptu art. Those painted stones that became common during Covid make regular appearances; locals say it’s the work of a couple of neighborhood girls. A manhole cover toward the middle of the trail is covered in clothing stickers,

intended for paper dolls. I found a “Quilted Heart” asking to be moved to a new location, and Christmas ornaments and decorations appeared in trees and along the path. More recently, I found a medal from the Oregon Games. It sometimes feels like the park has an underground art scene all it’s own, one which I can glance in on, but have no part in.

Even among the other projects though, the dollars are unique. They’re clearly homemade, ranging in theme from Pokemon, and South Park, to older or more obscure subjects: Gilligan’s Isle, I Love Lucy, A local radio station, and various holidays, all with humorous illustrations. Out of curiosity, I tried to build a mental profile of this mysterious money-maker—whom I codenamed “Dollar-Hide”— but I found it nearly impossible. The template Dollar-Hide used had a Beaverton Zip Code, and sometimes they appeared to be printed on the back of scrap-paper. But the partial text on the back of the “scrap paper” was always identical— a checklist of some sort mentioning “Rooms Control” and “Agent Handbooks.” It made no sense, and it seemed unlikely to me that each scrap paper would be exactly the same. Maybe it wasn’t scrap paper after all, but if it was a clue, it wasn’t one I could crack. I even tried contacting the radio station that Dollar-Hide had mentioned. They told me they were doing no such promotion, but asked me to send them a picture so that they could start. I declined.

An assortment of dollars referencing (top to bottom) Magnum PI, Cinco de Mayo, Mr. Ed, The Simpsons, and the Green Bay Packers. They all appear to be modifications of the same template.

As the strange dollars continued to pile up, my curiosity finally boiled over. It seemed that there was only way to solve the mystery: I needed to ask Dollar-Hide directly. I had never seen this mysterious artist, and probably never would. I would need to shout into the void as it were, like those antennae arrays, sending messages into deep space, just in case somebody was listening. Except in my case, I knew that someone was there, but would they answer me? I considered making play money of my own, but decided that I might be better off just leaving a note. So I walked through the park one last time to admire Dollar-Hide’s work, before leaving my messages. But for the first time, there were no pieces of colorful paper in twigs, or stuck in fenceposts. The dollars had simply disappeared. Perhaps Dollar-Hide had moved, or maybe they had finally been caught.

At least, that’s what I thought, and I might have gone on believing that, had I not decided to take a photo of the inside of a hollow maple tree. I’m not sure what I expected, but I was surprised to see a handful of blue dollars lying several feet down beside the corpse of an unfortunate raccoon—and the bills looked new. Sure enough, as I checked the other hiding places, I realized that fresh dollars had been added there too: the bills weren’t gone, Dollar-Hide had just changed tactics.

I ended up putting out two sets of notes, placed at two of his regular hiding places. In the note, I asked to speak to him—one creative to another—and I put down an obscure email of mine, one I only use to sign up for an internet forum that I frequent, just in case our conversation didn’t go well. Then I waited. The first set of notes were damaged by water, rendering my email address illegible. I drew up another set, put it in a ziplock bag, and waited again.

I’m still waiting. As I wrote this, I checked the gmail account that I gave him, looking for a ‘hello’ from an unfamiliar address, but there’s nothing. Like those satellite arrays, my calls into the void have gone unanswered. I may meet him some day, but in the meantime, I can only speculate. It’s clear that Dollar-Hide doesn’t want to be known. I will have to respect that. 

    S. Kramer, Photo, unknown artist