I’ve realized for the last fifteen minutes I had taken the wrong road at the top of the ridge, between the South Fork of the Trask and the Big Nestucca, and had followed a road down to a creek. But, last winter’s storms had washed that road out. I had to take another road, and I got myself turned around a bit, until I found the road that led down to East Creek.
Every fall, since I was a little boy, I have made this journey, and always on a sunny, late fall day, after some rain, and just before a new rain front moves in.
I’ve always told myself I come here to see the leaves changing color, and to spend one last sunny day out in the mountains. When I was a boy, we took this drive with the excuse that we were deer hunting. Mom and Dad and I, all in our wool red hunting shirts, rifles and binoculars at the ready, and a lunch packed, with a thermos of coffee.
Oh, we were hunting, all right. Sometimes for deer, but usually for a spot of sunshine, an especially brilliant patch of red and orange leaves, or some especially interesting rocks, or a viewpoint. We kept a special eye out for a sunny spot for lunch, and it had to have a view. We usually didn’t stop to take photos, but I think we all were using our photographic minds and were absorbing the beauty of the day.
The landscape has changed so much, from long vistas overlooking ridges and mountains and down into valleys, just burnt snags and small new firs, and bracken fern turning gold. I’ve watched the forest grow back to its old self in my lifetime, and, perhaps that is a reason to make this drive every year, to make note of this year’s growth and change.
A few miles up the Trask, I see a bald eagle, standing next to what looks like a fawn, or a young calf, dead in the pasture. The eagle glares at me, as he guards his treasure, and I don’t linger here.
My companions change over time, and sometimes it was a friend in high school, and then, after my dad died when I was in college, just me and my mom. Later, my step dad got into the spirit of the trip, and we all watched the forest change, over time.
Today, I felt the urge to make the drive again, and I listened to the call, even to the point of packing a lunch and making some coffee, just for myself. My wife was off in eastern Washington, visiting family, and so, I went alone. My parents, my friends from high school, and even friends from twenty years ago, all gone now. I’m not one for visiting their graves, and perhaps this trip is a way of keeping in touch, and remembering why those times were good.
I felt them with me, as I drove down the road, now in a cathedral of alders bent over the river, and along tall, thick black columns of tree trunks. No young firs pushing above the bracken ferns now, no long vistas of ridges and distant mountains. Now, the forest is dark, crowded, thick with tall trees and overgrown roads. There’s logging here, again, and has been for years now. Even some of the clearcuts are grown up, again, ready for a new generation of loggers.
I pass by a hamlet of what were once worn, sad cabins. When I was a kid, this was where the loggers lived, as they cut down the snags from the fire-ravaged hills, and I remember when they would come into town, covered with sawdust and black ash, twenty years after the last fire. Today, those cabins are fixed up, turned into summer homes, complete with white fences, and big sheds for RVs and boats.
I stop every so often, so my camera can have some fun, and I try to capture the golden, soft light of this late fall day, filtered and weak, as the clouds for tomorrow’s rain start moving in. The air is crisp from last night’s frost, and I stick my head out to sniff the air, keeping the heater on to keep me warm. The dampness of the leaves and the river, flowing with last week’s rain, smells earthy, rich.
Soon, my eyes have turned into a camera, and I stop often, trying to find the best spot for a photo.
On the south slope, now that I’m finally over into the Nestucca country, the air is warmer, heated by the late morning sun. There are more clearcuts here, and so the country is more open, like it was when I was a kid.
I’ve still lost my way a bit, but I’m not really lost. I follow my dad’s advice, “go down” and you will always find a river, and likely a road, and the road will lead you out.
I’m going farther west than I would have liked, as it is my tradition to come out onto the road from Blaine over to the Valley around the Alder Glen campground. But, I’ve gotten turned around and took a wrong road, and all the road signs seem to be missing.
I round a corner, and the road is getting wider, and more traveled, and, at last, I see a cabin, and a power line. I know I am not lost any more, but I realize I’ve never been on this road before. I’m thinking Moon Creek, but there are no signs, not this far up.
I drive past the cabin, and it looks deserted, the side spray painted, “Ha ha, Joe,” and I wonder what that story is.
I follow the power line and the road downstream, and I actually stop the car to double check the direction of the creek, making sure I’m “going down”.
A few miles later, there are other cabins, and then a “school bus turnaround ahead” sign, and a bunch of mailboxes, grouped together. The houses here are a bit more than cabins, and some have freshly mowed lawns, and all the buildings look neat and tidy.
I recognize one of the names on a mailbox, a deputy sheriff, and now I almost know where I am.
At the stop sign, I learn I’ve been driving down East Creek and now I turn left on Moon Creek Road. I’ve been this far up Moon Creek before, and the road here is paved and wide. I know if I turn left, Blaine is just a mile away, and I go that way, as I have chores to do at home, and my time to explore has run out.
But, part of me wants to turn right, to go up Moon Creek Road, to a place I’ve never been. Moon Creek – just the name makes me want to explore.
Coming into Blaine, the road heads straight for the old store. I call it the old store, but it hasn’t been a store for forty years, and the folks living there probably don’t know it was once a store. But, it’s a landmark to me, and I’ve always been sorry we never stopped there to go inside, when I was a little boy and we had come to Blaine on a warm fall day, just like today. The store was open then, and I always wondered what they sold in there, at the Blaine Store.
So, I turn right, and go down river on the way to Beaver. I come up to the old Mennonite Church. It’s Sunday, and folks are still parked out in front, and some of the congregation is out in the parking lot, visiting. A lot of people go to this church, miles from anywhere. Its always been a big, white church, almost American Gothic, and today, it wears a fresh new coat of white paint. Ah, some things never change around here.
The big leaf maples in this valley are golden now, and stand out against the greened up pastures and the dark green of the Douglas firs. I pass the Blaine Grange, which was a famous stop on my past political campaigns. Any local candidate had to speak at the Blaine Grange political forum. But, the grange is long gone. It had been turned into a hay shed, and now is a house, standing empty by the side of the road. I wonder what happened to the whitewashed benches against the walls, and the hardwood floors, scuffed from many a Saturday night dance.
I see a new sign for the Tony Creek Road, and part of me wants to turn left, again, and see where that road goes. I knew a crazy lady who lived up Tony Creek, and I have always wanted to know where she lived. But, that quest will need to wait another day.
I count down the bridges from Blaine. That’s what one does on this road, as where you live on this road is measured by the numbers of bridges you cross.
Second bridge, and I don’t stop. That’s where Aunt Esther lived. She and her first husband had a dairy farm here, and she built her house from scratch, with a table saw and a hammer, and lumber cut from the Tillamook Burn, probably by the loggers who lived in the hamlet up the Trask, those men who were always covered in ashes when they came to town.
When I was a kid, we’d always stop to see Aunt Esther. She’d make tea and we’d visit with her, telling her what we saw on our trip. And, she’d show us her latest flowers and she’s talk about the latest book she’d read, or some interesting article she found in a magazine. I’d pet her cats and watch the river flow past her little patio. She always had a cookie or other treat for me.
But, she, too, is gone now. But, just for a bit, she’s in the car today, too, enjoying the sunshine and the maple leaves, and overseeing my photography. She had an eye for this, too, and was always quick to point out an artistic moment.
On to Beaver, where young men are coming out of the store with a case of beer. Its something to do on a Sunday afternoon, after the morning hunting trip, and before they go back to work on Monday. It’s just what one does on a Sunday afternoon in Beaver.
When I get home, its time to stow away the fishing and camping gear that got piled up in the garage at the end of summer. I put my fishing stuff away, and realize the tip of my new fishing pole got broken, when we had to pack up in a hurry at the lake, when my friend had to rush away on a family emergency. I don’t regret helping him out, but I’m a bit sore about breaking my pole after only one day of fishing. Never even got it properly broken in.
As I take my camera out of the car, and clean out the coffee cup and toss out the apple core, I wondered what I got out of the trip today, and even why I went. But, when I look up into the hills and see those golden leaves, and the dark outline of the mountains, I realize I was called up there today; it was time for a visit with people I hadn’t seen for a while.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Garrison Keiller talks politics
Here's a great article to ponder. Middle America speaks!
http://www.salon.com/opinion/keillor/2008/10/08/palin/
http://www.salon.com/opinion/keillor/2008/10/08/palin/
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Bill Moyers covers the National Guard
See Bill Moyers, on PBS, report on the National Guard's service in Iraq, and the experiences of the soldiers and their families as they prepare to be deployed. http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/blog/2008/09/sacrificing_to_serve.html
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Rivermen
As we move down the river of life, sometimes paddling, and sometimes
Moved only by the current, and sometimes
Tossed by rapids and whirlpools, and sometimes
Striking a rock, or an underwater log, and sometimes
Raked by an overhead branch,
We still grab onto our paddles, and try to move out of harm’s way and
Into the peaceful deep pools of clear water.
After all these years, we feel we are experienced rivermen,
Somewhat used to navigating our ways through the rapids, and
Able to avoid the dangers that may lurk ahead, and sometimes
We find ourselves thrust into a side channel, or into the
Worst of a rapids.
And, we almost always make it through, even after getting
Raked by the branches, or tossed about in the rapids, or even
Striking a rock and nearly capsizing.
And even if we overturn, we have our wits about us, and climb back in,
All wet, but little worse for the wear, and able to grab our paddles again,
Dig in, and set our boat back on course.
Of course, this journey is best undertaken with good friends,
Friends you can rely upon to dig hard and deep to move the boat into the
Best place in the rapids, or around the big boulder that lies dead ahead.
Friends who will laugh with you when its over, and help build the campfire at night,
Telling stories and jokes, and making you feel good about yourself, and
Proud of what you accomplished in the day, even though you fell
Overboard, and got soaked, scratched, and bruised.
Your friends know who you are and what you are made of, and
Believe in you, no matter how rough the waters, or how cold the rapids,
Or how sharp the sticks are in the brambles by the side of the river.
Moved only by the current, and sometimes
Tossed by rapids and whirlpools, and sometimes
Striking a rock, or an underwater log, and sometimes
Raked by an overhead branch,
We still grab onto our paddles, and try to move out of harm’s way and
Into the peaceful deep pools of clear water.
After all these years, we feel we are experienced rivermen,
Somewhat used to navigating our ways through the rapids, and
Able to avoid the dangers that may lurk ahead, and sometimes
We find ourselves thrust into a side channel, or into the
Worst of a rapids.
And, we almost always make it through, even after getting
Raked by the branches, or tossed about in the rapids, or even
Striking a rock and nearly capsizing.
And even if we overturn, we have our wits about us, and climb back in,
All wet, but little worse for the wear, and able to grab our paddles again,
Dig in, and set our boat back on course.
Of course, this journey is best undertaken with good friends,
Friends you can rely upon to dig hard and deep to move the boat into the
Best place in the rapids, or around the big boulder that lies dead ahead.
Friends who will laugh with you when its over, and help build the campfire at night,
Telling stories and jokes, and making you feel good about yourself, and
Proud of what you accomplished in the day, even though you fell
Overboard, and got soaked, scratched, and bruised.
Your friends know who you are and what you are made of, and
Believe in you, no matter how rough the waters, or how cold the rapids,
Or how sharp the sticks are in the brambles by the side of the river.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Pow Wow Thoughts
I attended the Nez Perce Pow Wow in July.
It was a wonderful experience, full of celebration, spirituality, and the joy of dance and music. Most powerful was the sense of community and acceptance.
All guests were invited to join in the dancing, and to join together in a communal feast, celebration our humanity, and our unity.
We are blessed to be in this rich world.
It was a wonderful experience, full of celebration, spirituality, and the joy of dance and music. Most powerful was the sense of community and acceptance.
All guests were invited to join in the dancing, and to join together in a communal feast, celebration our humanity, and our unity.
We are blessed to be in this rich world.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A Pirate For The Day
I was a pirate in the parade. It was the Fourth of July, and the Manzanita parade needed more pirates, I guess. My friend, the Captain on his band of pirates (he DOES have a day job), recruited me. Last year, he found me in the crowd and harassed me with his sword and his pirate voice. The long term penalty, I guess, for being “found” by the pirates in one parade, is to join their crew next year.
I showed up at the staging area, dressed in my new pirate T-shirt, and belt complete with plastic pirate pistol, sword, and a black bag for treasure, complete with pirate insignia. On my head was a pirate scarf, black of course, and one of my faded blue bandannas. I was ready to party, er pirate.
“Arghh,” was the word of the day, and the rest of the crew and I practiced our pirate talk. One pirate came complete with a parrot pinned to his shirt, and others had their decade-long collection of pirate clothes.
Our Captain soon “removed” a leg, affixed a peg leg made from driftwood, and assumed his throne on a small trailer behind the boat, appearing to water ski with his new peg leg, and grabbed onto his tow rope. He’s the minister at the local Methodist church, and he suddenly didn’t seem too “ministerial”. Perhaps it was the dreadlocks and the big gold earring and the Mardi Gras beads. But, today is the Fourth of July, and its time to live our fantasies.
I didn’t quite fit in as I didn’t wear any “ARGHhyle” socks, but next, year, of course, I will be expected to add to my costume.
We practiced with our large plywood and silver painted swords before the parade started, and filled our buckets with candy, to throw at the kids along the parade. Tension built among all the parade entrants, as we were all eager to get off onto the route, and have fun. We found another group of pirates and had a brief sword fight. Other participants in waiting simply laughed at our antics.
Finally, after the screaming Air Force jet rattled the skies with its booming engines, we were off. As our group was so, well, unique, we were nearly the last in line, and the head of the parade arrived back in our staging area before we left. And, we ended up following several horses, and their contributions to the roadway. Later on, I used my sword as a fake golf club, threatening to chip the “chips” into the crowd. Its not often you get away with this trick on the main street.
Soon, I’m prancing down the streets, yelling “arghhh” and throwing candy to kids. Everyone, it seemed, along the parade route was attired in red, white, and blue, and laughing, and enjoying the day and the parade. We stopped often, and our duct-taped seagull quickly squirted water out of its butt onto the unsuspecting crowd, producing a multitude of laughter and groans. Kids scampered for our candy, and so, we threw them more.
One boy engaged me in a sword fight, his sword meaner and more agile than mine, and we quickly reached a truce. I was too proud, being a pirate, to admit defeat. Another boy ran into the street, and squirted all of us with his big squirt gun, and we bravely fought back with swords and candy, to no avail. Fortunately, the parade kept moving and so we were able to retreat without too much embarrassment. The crowd roared its approval of our defeat by the young warrior.
All too soon, we reached the ocean and the end of the formal parade route. A good thing, too, as I was starting to get hoarse from too many “Arghhhhs”, and “Mateys” and my sword hand was tired. We were also running low on candy. We turned onto the street paralleling the ocean, and then right again, and uphill ten long blocks until we reached the staging area again.
Sadly, I surrendered my sword and my candy bucket, and walked another quarter of a mile to meet my wife, who patiently was waiting for her pirate husband to return, and resume his normal life. As I left the pirate boat and my “mates”, the Captain asked me if I’d be back again next year.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I replied. I’m hooked on this fun, this time to be a boy again, on the Fourth of July.
I showed up at the staging area, dressed in my new pirate T-shirt, and belt complete with plastic pirate pistol, sword, and a black bag for treasure, complete with pirate insignia. On my head was a pirate scarf, black of course, and one of my faded blue bandannas. I was ready to party, er pirate.
“Arghh,” was the word of the day, and the rest of the crew and I practiced our pirate talk. One pirate came complete with a parrot pinned to his shirt, and others had their decade-long collection of pirate clothes.
Our Captain soon “removed” a leg, affixed a peg leg made from driftwood, and assumed his throne on a small trailer behind the boat, appearing to water ski with his new peg leg, and grabbed onto his tow rope. He’s the minister at the local Methodist church, and he suddenly didn’t seem too “ministerial”. Perhaps it was the dreadlocks and the big gold earring and the Mardi Gras beads. But, today is the Fourth of July, and its time to live our fantasies.
I didn’t quite fit in as I didn’t wear any “ARGHhyle” socks, but next, year, of course, I will be expected to add to my costume.
We practiced with our large plywood and silver painted swords before the parade started, and filled our buckets with candy, to throw at the kids along the parade. Tension built among all the parade entrants, as we were all eager to get off onto the route, and have fun. We found another group of pirates and had a brief sword fight. Other participants in waiting simply laughed at our antics.
Finally, after the screaming Air Force jet rattled the skies with its booming engines, we were off. As our group was so, well, unique, we were nearly the last in line, and the head of the parade arrived back in our staging area before we left. And, we ended up following several horses, and their contributions to the roadway. Later on, I used my sword as a fake golf club, threatening to chip the “chips” into the crowd. Its not often you get away with this trick on the main street.
Soon, I’m prancing down the streets, yelling “arghhh” and throwing candy to kids. Everyone, it seemed, along the parade route was attired in red, white, and blue, and laughing, and enjoying the day and the parade. We stopped often, and our duct-taped seagull quickly squirted water out of its butt onto the unsuspecting crowd, producing a multitude of laughter and groans. Kids scampered for our candy, and so, we threw them more.
One boy engaged me in a sword fight, his sword meaner and more agile than mine, and we quickly reached a truce. I was too proud, being a pirate, to admit defeat. Another boy ran into the street, and squirted all of us with his big squirt gun, and we bravely fought back with swords and candy, to no avail. Fortunately, the parade kept moving and so we were able to retreat without too much embarrassment. The crowd roared its approval of our defeat by the young warrior.
All too soon, we reached the ocean and the end of the formal parade route. A good thing, too, as I was starting to get hoarse from too many “Arghhhhs”, and “Mateys” and my sword hand was tired. We were also running low on candy. We turned onto the street paralleling the ocean, and then right again, and uphill ten long blocks until we reached the staging area again.
Sadly, I surrendered my sword and my candy bucket, and walked another quarter of a mile to meet my wife, who patiently was waiting for her pirate husband to return, and resume his normal life. As I left the pirate boat and my “mates”, the Captain asked me if I’d be back again next year.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I replied. I’m hooked on this fun, this time to be a boy again, on the Fourth of July.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Father's Day Thoughts, 2008
As Father’s Day nears, I realize I truly celebrate fatherhood every day of the year.
I’ve always been a son, and have had to redefine that role as I moved from toddler status, to young boy, to adolescent, to early manhood, and then through the various stages of adulthood. Defining that role and that relationship, and feeling comfortable in that role has been one of the themes of my life.
I don’t think I really understood the role of the son and how my father influenced me until after he died. Once I lost the daily, or at least periodic interaction with him, as I was growing up, did I fully appreciate what he meant to me and how we interacted.
He died when I was almost twenty, and I was just starting to figure out the “college years” of my life, and to find my own adult identity. I’m grateful we were finally able to express our love for each other, out loud, just before he died. Just saying those words was healing and fulfilling.
Later on in life, I became a husband and, at the same time, a stepfather. Instant family. But, not so instant. It was a process and a lot of growing occurred, for all of us. It was, rather, an evolution, and a growing into a role, a relationship. I felt I grew more than my new son, but it was a good time for all of us. We came to love each other, and that love deepened. We were able to be free enough with each other to be able to truly respect each other, and to help each other grow in that relationship.
After my stepson left home for college and his own adult life, I realized I truly loved the role of father, and I found myself acting as a father in various capacities with nephews and with other young people. My wife and I became foster parents for a few years, and my fatherhood talents were again stretched and expanded, as those kids brought new and sometimes seemingly unsolvable issues into our lives.
I learned that some kids have really tough lives, and childhood can be really ugly for some people. And, sometimes, a kind adult in a parental role can make a big difference to someone who has always equated parenting with violence and fear and self destruction.
When I was still in college, my mother remarried, and as my new stepfather had been an uncle by marriage, he wasn’t a stranger. Yet, he being a stepfather to me, the college kid, was a new role for both of us, and we both had to redefine and stretch our relationship.
For most of my adult life, I’ve been both a stepson and a stepfather, and in that blend, good things have happened. I’ve grown a lot, and I’ve come to understand a lot. Now, with both my dad and my stepfather gone, and my stepson living in another state, married, and a homeowner, and working on his career, I have come to again appreciate the changes in life, and the cycles we all go through, as we move through life.
Part of me is still a kid, part of me is still the sassy, independent and challenging young adult, and part of me is the gray-haired patriarch, offering wisdom and sage advice, and trying to be a leader, an elder.
And in that mix, I find joy and contentment, and a feeling of satisfaction. Oh, some things I’ve done I look back on and feel I should have done some things differently. And, other events I look back on with pride and a sense of self satisfaction. I can’t change what has been done, but I really don’t regret most of what I’ve done as a son, a step son, a step father, and a foster dad. Now, age has given me more insight and more wisdom. Yet, I’m not going to cry over spilt milk and things not done that should have been done and things not done that should have been done. After all, that’s life.
And, all in all, what is most important in all of this is that we tell the people in our families that we really do love them and that we really do care for them, and that we want them to be happy, and to be gracious in dealing with all the challenges of life. Life can be lonely, but if we know that our family cares for us, and loves us for all our flaws and frailties, then any of us can more easily sail through the troubled waters of life, and keep our sights on our goals, and, hopefully, make some good progress in getting to where we want to go.
Today, I’m grateful for what I’ve done, and who I’ve become, and I’m also grateful for having the challenges that lie ahead. I’m probably ready for them, and more ready now that I once was. And, I know my family is behind me in all of this.
I’ve always been a son, and have had to redefine that role as I moved from toddler status, to young boy, to adolescent, to early manhood, and then through the various stages of adulthood. Defining that role and that relationship, and feeling comfortable in that role has been one of the themes of my life.
I don’t think I really understood the role of the son and how my father influenced me until after he died. Once I lost the daily, or at least periodic interaction with him, as I was growing up, did I fully appreciate what he meant to me and how we interacted.
He died when I was almost twenty, and I was just starting to figure out the “college years” of my life, and to find my own adult identity. I’m grateful we were finally able to express our love for each other, out loud, just before he died. Just saying those words was healing and fulfilling.
Later on in life, I became a husband and, at the same time, a stepfather. Instant family. But, not so instant. It was a process and a lot of growing occurred, for all of us. It was, rather, an evolution, and a growing into a role, a relationship. I felt I grew more than my new son, but it was a good time for all of us. We came to love each other, and that love deepened. We were able to be free enough with each other to be able to truly respect each other, and to help each other grow in that relationship.
After my stepson left home for college and his own adult life, I realized I truly loved the role of father, and I found myself acting as a father in various capacities with nephews and with other young people. My wife and I became foster parents for a few years, and my fatherhood talents were again stretched and expanded, as those kids brought new and sometimes seemingly unsolvable issues into our lives.
I learned that some kids have really tough lives, and childhood can be really ugly for some people. And, sometimes, a kind adult in a parental role can make a big difference to someone who has always equated parenting with violence and fear and self destruction.
When I was still in college, my mother remarried, and as my new stepfather had been an uncle by marriage, he wasn’t a stranger. Yet, he being a stepfather to me, the college kid, was a new role for both of us, and we both had to redefine and stretch our relationship.
For most of my adult life, I’ve been both a stepson and a stepfather, and in that blend, good things have happened. I’ve grown a lot, and I’ve come to understand a lot. Now, with both my dad and my stepfather gone, and my stepson living in another state, married, and a homeowner, and working on his career, I have come to again appreciate the changes in life, and the cycles we all go through, as we move through life.
Part of me is still a kid, part of me is still the sassy, independent and challenging young adult, and part of me is the gray-haired patriarch, offering wisdom and sage advice, and trying to be a leader, an elder.
And in that mix, I find joy and contentment, and a feeling of satisfaction. Oh, some things I’ve done I look back on and feel I should have done some things differently. And, other events I look back on with pride and a sense of self satisfaction. I can’t change what has been done, but I really don’t regret most of what I’ve done as a son, a step son, a step father, and a foster dad. Now, age has given me more insight and more wisdom. Yet, I’m not going to cry over spilt milk and things not done that should have been done and things not done that should have been done. After all, that’s life.
And, all in all, what is most important in all of this is that we tell the people in our families that we really do love them and that we really do care for them, and that we want them to be happy, and to be gracious in dealing with all the challenges of life. Life can be lonely, but if we know that our family cares for us, and loves us for all our flaws and frailties, then any of us can more easily sail through the troubled waters of life, and keep our sights on our goals, and, hopefully, make some good progress in getting to where we want to go.
Today, I’m grateful for what I’ve done, and who I’ve become, and I’m also grateful for having the challenges that lie ahead. I’m probably ready for them, and more ready now that I once was. And, I know my family is behind me in all of this.
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