Communications

 How many of you remember picking up the phone and hearing the operator ask, “number please?”   Usually this was on a party line and sometimes you could hear the neighbor talking and had to wait for them to hang up before getting your call connected.   If the neighbor tied up the line too long sometimes mom had to interrupt and tell Mabelle down the road to stop hogging the line with her gossiping.    By the late 1950’s they came out with the rotary dial phones on private lines and there was no more dealing with the neighbors.  

My first summer job with the Forest Service in 1969 was at the Hilton Spike Camp Guard Station on the Modoc National Forest.    One of our first duties was maintaining the phone line between the guard station and Manzanita Lookout.  It took a few days to clear the fallen branches and trees from the line and splice it where it had been broken.   This line connected two phones that had to be cranked in order to make it ring at the other end.   The lady on the lookout used it whenever she needed us to bring her a load of water or haul her garbage off.   It was used once to report a lightning fire to us since it was after office hours and she was unable to call the dispatcher from her two-way radio.   The problem with this system was not hearing it ring when nobody was near the phone.  The two-way radio system was more reliable, but everybody could hear you all over the Forest depending on your location.    At nights the lookouts could talk to each other over the radio on a social level.  This reminds me of a story a lookout on Hammerhorn Mountain told us when a friend and I spent a night there in 1962 while backpacking through the Yolla Bolly Wilderness on the Mendocino National Forest.   He told us a recently young married couple were the lookouts on a peak to the south of his location, I think called Black Butte.   He said they had left the base set radio transmitter lever on and during the night many of the other Forest lookouts could hear the heated commotion after the lights went out.  

Sometime in the 1990’s cell phones came into use.   Through my credit union in Springfield I got my first analog cell phone in 1997 for free from Verizon with a monthly cost of $20.   When everything went digital they informed my phone had to be replaced and they sent me a Motorola phone, again for free and still $20 a month.   I believe this was in 1999, not sure, but I still have this phone with the original battery.  Took a while to learn how to use it and never fully understood all the functions available on it.    A few years ago I took the phone into the Verizon shop in Roseburg where the people there had never seen one this old.    They checked it out and got it programed for caller ID, call waiting and showed me it could receive and send text messages.   They tried to sell me a new smart phone where my monthly bill would be increased to pay for it over time.   I declined in fear of never learning all its functions and besides my old Motorola could do all the basic things I needed.    When we had our land line phone disconnected four or five years ago we got a second cell phone for Celia.  It is the flip type phone and more complicated to use than my phone.    Our monthly rate for the two phones is $54 with a limit of 700 hours.   Our old land line phone was about the same amount per month and did not include long distant calls.    Now we never leave home without our cell phones.  

How did we ever survive in our younger days riding our bikes down country roads, getting flat tires, crashing into the ditch and getting bruised knees with no way to call mom?    

Doctor Visits

 With age come health issues and a regiment of pills.   Must have started when I turned 50 with high blood pressure.     Then came high cholesterol and high triglycerides and more pills.  Now I have pills in the morning to get me through the day and pills in the evening to get me through the night.   In addition to my primary care doctor I think I have been to every medical specialist there is, some more than once.   Can’t name them all here, besides don’t know how to spell all the different specialties, and the spell check doesn’t know either.

The dermatologist is one I see regularly or at least three or four times a year and can even spell it now.   Skin cancer reoccurs with me almost on a daily basis.   There always seems to be a new barnacle sprouting up somewhere on my old body, always something new to look at in the mirror each morning.  Every visit is the same old routine; spray on the liquid nitrogen, biopsies a few suspicious looking things and complete removal of others.   Sometimes I feel like I lost a pound of flesh when I leave the place.   They place pressure bandages on my face, arms, sometime on my ears making me look like I’m leaving a war zone.   There were times they asked me if it would be all right if some young interns can watch the examination for training purposes, which I agreed to.    Being almost naked as the doctor points out this and that to the interns while I’m feeling like a specimen in a lab.    Maybe I can have my body pickled after death and sent to a research lab for all to see and study.   Would not have to worry about burial or cremation expenses. 

Then comes the pathology report with all kinds of words only a doctor can understand.   Why can’t they just tell me that one was a good barnacle and that one was a bad barnacle?   The more they apply the nitrogen and the more cutting the higher the bill.    They all seem to smile when I enter the office as I can imagine they all get a big bonus in pay when I come in.  

With all the years of working outside with no protection from the sun I’m now paying the price.   Hopefully the younger generation can learn from my mistakes and avoid the pain, expense and scares later in life. 

Dog Days of Summer

 Seems like this time of year the days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months with the hot dry weather.   Last major rainfall here was June 17th with half an inch.   With high fire danger there is the fear of being burned out, either by a big lightning storm or some human doing something dumb.  Already there have been wildfires throughout the county from somebody mowing dry grass, burning yard debris illegally or other unknown causes.   When will they ever learn?   Only five more days until August, than 31 days until September, seems like an eternity until the fall weather arrives.   The poison oak started turning red a few weeks ago and we heard crickets for the first time last evening, an indication of a change in the weather.   At least the north wind has stopped blowing for now.    

Attached pictures of the forest and Amosa tree in bloom below the house. 

Only a high of 87 so far today.

Beans

 Beans have always been a favorite of mine.   Easy to cook, can go well with about any other dish and fairly cheap.   Not sure at what age I became addicted to them.  Do remember my dad cooking up a big pot of white beans with ham hocks that would last us a good part of a week.    No need for receipts, make it up as you go; black beans with rice, small red beans with rice, pinto beans with rice or any kind of beans with rice.   Large red beans with pasta salad along with a can of black olives, chopped kale, squash, especially all those zucchinis from the garden that you don’t know what to do with.   

One of the great dishes I have come up with is black bean enchiladas.    Take black beans with rice and wrap up in flour tortillas, pour over with a can of green enchilada sauce, topped with grated cheese and olives.    Bake in oven for 35 minutes and enjoy morning, noon or night.   I usually bake two dishes of this to make it through a couple of days.  

Bean soup can include about anything.   Need to clean out the refrigerator?   Throw it all in a pot of bean soup, except those items that are too far gone, such as those moldy items in the far back corners that have been in there a while.   Best to put those in the compost.  Some of my soups Celia has called a pot of compost swill. 

A few months back when this pandemic hit and people were in a panic at the stores, mostly stocking up on toilet paper is when I noticed Bob’s Red Mill 13 Bean Soup Mix that the general public was passing by.   I grabbed a couple bags thinking it could be our last meal if we got caught short, as my old grandfather use to say.   Any time I go shopping now I throw a bag of it in the cart to be on the safe side.    Ways to cook a pot of this are endless.   It will cure any problems with irregularity.   Don’t forget the Tabasco Sauce for additional seasoning. 

Enjoy!

Moving to Douglas County

 MOVING TO DOUGLAS COUNTY

                                                                      2006

 

In 2003 we bought 10 acres in the hills west of Oakland in Douglas County.   This property had a one room cabin with wood stove, two sheds, a 2500 water tank with a solar pump and no neighbors in sight.  Our intention was to have a place to escape to, start a native plant nursery and have a source of firewood for our home in Cottage Grove.    We moved our 16 foot travel trailer on the property to provide us with a kitchen, bathroom and sleeping quarters when we came to spend a night or two. 

In 2002 our quiet neighborhood on the west side of Cottage Grove was about to change with the development of the forested hill side behind our house, called Mt. David.   The developer was proposing a subdivision of 400 to 600 homes.    He was in the process of obtaining the necessary permits from the city as many of our neighbors were protesting this development because of the lack of city infrastructure to support this size of development and the increase in future traffic.  This was evident in the winter of 2004 when our neighborhood was flooded due inadequate storm water drainage when all the water came off Mt. David from the newly constructed roads.   We joined a group called the Friends of Mt. David to fight with city government over this development, but the city could only smell money from increased tax revenue and we were fighting a losing battle.   Soon the sound of construction equipment would wake us in the early morning hours.  It was time to move.

Celia found a real estate ad for an old two story house on five acres near Elkton, about 35 miles southwest of Cottage Grove.   We made an offer on the place contingent on us selling the Cottage Grove house, which we put on the market in the spring of 2006.   A few months went by with no interest from buyers until we lowered the asking price by $10k then we started having people looking at the house.  An older woman made us a good offer that we accepted and we had 30 days to vacate the place.  In the meantime the place near Elkton had sold to a cash buyer.   Our only option was moving to our 10 acres outside of Oakland or become homeless in the short-term.   During a visit to our 10 acres we noticed a for sale sign up the road on the next 10 acre lot just north of our place.   It had a newer manufactured home on it, plus a big shop and a water house with a 2500 gallon tank and pressure pump, since there was no well water here.    The owner was a school teacher working in Elkton and had purchased a house there to be closer to her school.   We made her an offer that she accepted and the move began.  The lady that had bought the Cottage Grove house had to be out of her rented apartment soon, so she started moving stuff into the garage as we started moving stuff out the front door and hauling it to our new place with our pickup and trailer.  Instead of returning to Cottage Grove empty we helped move the school teacher to her new house in Elkton before returning to Cottage Grove.  She allowed us to move stuff in the back door as she was moving out the front door.   It was pure chaos and we don’t care to repeat it again. 

We have lived here 14 years, the longest place I have lived since leaving my hometown of Willows, in northern California in 1966.   It is the longest place where Celia has ever continuously lived.    We’re not moving any time soon.  

In the Land of the Grasshopper Song

 Looking for a good book to read during these difficult times, try this one--In the Land of the Grasshopper Song by Mary Arnold and Mabel Reed.   Brief description attached

Place was still lawless when I was there in the 1970's.

Orleans Ranger District

In the Land of the Grasshopper Song

 

 

In 1909 one of the last uncivilized and roughest places in the lower 48 states was a along the Klamath River between Orleans and Happy Camp in northwestern California.  Most residents here were Karok Indians and some descendants of the early miners that came into this country in the 1850’s.  After the gold disappeared most the miners left, but a few remained, took up with Indian women and settled down as farmers.  Some of these people still carried six shooters and on occasions used them.   The only law enforcement was an ocassional visit by the sheriff from Yreka, but in most cases wrong doings were settled by neighbors in a variety of ways.  In an attempt to bring civilization into this area the Indian Service hired two young women, Mary Ellicot Arnold and Mabel Reed as field matrons to live among the natives in the Klamath and Salmon River country.  In 1908 they sailed from San Francisco to Eureka where they caught a train to the end of the rail line at Korbel.  From here they followed the mail carrier by horseback up into the Klamath Mountains through all kinds of rough terrain and adverse weather.  For two years they lived among the Indians learning more about their customs and way of life than what they were able to teach the Indians about what civilization was all about.  They were the only white women in this sixty-mile stretch of the river.   Both these women wrote about their adventures in the book titled, In the Land of the Grasshopper Song, by Bison Books.  Once you start reading this book it will be hard to stop.  

                                              Six Rivers National Forest

                                                           1971-1977

 

Orleans is located along the Klamath River in northwestern California.  In the gold mining days of the 1850’s it was known as Orleans Bar when the only access was by horseback.  Today state highway 96 goes through this small community, and if you don’t have to stop for food, gas or information at the Ranger Station you might not even notice the posted speed limit. 

In the spring of 1971, I accepted a job with the Forest Service as a GS-4 Forestry Aid on the Orleans Ranger District.  Without any knowledge of this community I loaded up my old 1963 Ford pickup and made the big move.   It was an eight hour drive from Stockton, California up through the Klamath Mountains to Orleans.  As I drove up highway 96 the sun was setting.  When I arrived in Orleans it was dark, and I could only see a few lights from houses scattered along both sides of the highway.  I looked for a place to spend the night, like a motel or a side street where I could park and sleep in my truck; there was neither.  I ended up in a campground just outside of town.  The next morning I reported for work thinking there might be temporary space to stay in the bunk house until I found a place to stay permanently.  The bunkhouse was full.  Somebody informed me there was a small house for rent next to the tackle shop.  After work I made contact with the owner, who lived next door to the small house for rent.  Since I quickly saw there was not much to this town, I decided to take it for $70 per month.  Half of this house was an old trailer making up a bedroom and kitchen attached to a wooden structure containing the bathroom and small living room, maybe for a total of 200 square feet of living space all under one roof.  I spent four years living in this place until I was promoted to a position that included a government trailer to live in located in a community trailer park. 

In addition to the Ranger Station, Orleans consisted of two gas stations, two stores, a post office, an elementary school, a veneer mill, three trailer courts, three bars, a hotel and a church.  The population was about 600 people in the summer, including all those that lived within a ten mile radius and a seasonal work force of contractors and their employees.  The Ranger Station was made up of an office, seven homes for the staff, a shop, warehouse, bunk house and a small house for a crew foreman.  There were about 14 permanent people assigned to this station and a seasonal work force of about 20, including a fire crew, a brush disposal crew, a silvicuture and timber crew . 

The local economy was based on logging, road construction, recreation, and the cultivation of marijuana.  It was not uncommon to come across marijuana plantations while working out in the forest or seeing shifty looking characters in town showing off their big rolls of cash.  Social events consisted of floating on inner tubes down the Klamath River, fishing, potluck dinners on the Ranger Station, baseball games with local loggers, drinking beer and fighting.   The nearest law enforcement officer was a deputy sheriff 30 miles away in Hoopa and was never known to patrol after dark in or around Orleans.   There were some citizen deputies appointed to keep a watchful eye on any local mischief, especially at any community functions.  In most cases some of these people were in no better condition than the local Indians in regard to their alcohol consumption

There was an Indian population here that had a hard time controlling their use of alcohol, which usually led to fights in one of the drinking establishments called the Ishi Pishi Bar.  Some of these fights resulted in the death of some people over the years I lived here.  Sometimes it was closed down by the state, but usually opened again in a few weeks.  Seems the windows to this place were always covered with plywood.  Most white people stayed away and gathered at the Orleans Hotel Bar across the highway or the Fisherman’s Inn across the river. 

The first three years of my career here involved doing a little of everything from performing plantation surveys in the spring, timber cruising and mapping in the summer, falling hardwoods and burning logging slash in the fall, planting trees and assisting with timber sale appraisals in the winter.  Within the first year I was promoted to a GS-5 Forestry Technician after becoming a certified timber cruiser and by the end of my second year was promoted to a GS-7 Lead Forestry Technician in charge of timber sale layout.   By the spring of 1975 I was promoted to a GS-9 Forestry Technician doing timber sale administration which became a year-round job.   This District had a hard time recruiting people due to the remote location which made it not that attractive to many professional people with families.  In the six years I worked here I saw three District Rangers come and go.   It was relatively easy to get promotions as a technician, plus it was a good way for management to keep you from looking for transfers in order to get a promotion.   

This District had an annual timber cut of 80 million board feet, mostly in the form of clearcuts.  Most timber sales were purchased by Fortuna Veneer that had the mill in Orleans, Humboldt Fir Lumber Company in Hoopa or Sierra-Pacific Lumber Company in Arcata.  Many of the logging and road construction contractors came from out of the area, such as Willow Creek, Hoopa or Happy Camp and one as far away as Medford, Oregon.  The three trailer courts in Orleans were filled in the summer where many of the employees of these contractors took up residence.   After the first fall rains District personnel, except the clerical staff were divided into two slash burning teams.  One team was assigned all completed logging units south of the river and the other everything north of the river, about 800 acres for each team to burn.  It usually took a week of 12 to 14 hour days until the job was done in preparation for tree planting contractors to begin their work on the many clearcuts ranging in size from 10 to 80 acres.   

The biggest project on the District was the construction of the Gasquet-Orleans Road, better known as the G-O Road that was to open up the timber supply in the Klamath River to mills in Crescent City where much of their timber supply was cut off by the formation of the Redwood National Park in the 1960’s.  The G-O Road was designed as a two-lane paved highway from Orleans up over the summit of the Siskiyou Mountains and down into the Smith River to state highway 199.  Much of this road was financed by timber sales along the proposed route.   In addition to construction from Orleans toward the summit road construction was also in progress from the Gasquet District up the south fork of the Smith River toward the summit. 

The local Indians protested the proposed route through their sacred grounds near a high peak called Doctor Rock located along the summit ridge.  Because of the concerns of the Indians, environmental groups and a ruling by the Supreme Court the G-O Road was never completed.  Today parts of the uncompleted road is included within the Siskiyou Wilderness Area as a very expensive walking trail. 

In the winter of 1975 a young woman by the name of Christine was hired on as a receptionist.  One thing I had learned in my four years before she appeared on the scene was there was a definite shortage of single women here and a man had to move quickly because of the many available bachelors.   By August of that year we were married and in October of 1976 our son Jason was born in Eureka, the largest city, a two hour drive from Orleans.  We lived a small cabin that we rented a few miles out of town until we moved.

It was common to look at the Forest Service vacancy notices posted in the main office from time to time and dream of working in a location that was a little more civilized, and not so steep and brushy.  In the spring of 1977, I applied for two job vacancies that I qualified for, one in Prairie City, Oregon the other was in Greenville, California.   After visiting Prairie City and scoping out that community Christine was not too excited about moving there, so we agreed on Greenville.   The Orleans District Ranger informed me he did not want me to transfer due to the heavy work load.  About a week later, after much thought and a few personal tragedies, like my dog getting run over, I confronted the Ranger one Saturday morning in front of his residence on this issue.   Without me getting too confrontational, he could tell I wanted this transfer and agreed to it. 

After living in Orleans for six years, I learned the following—there were no ugly women here, all the local natives were related to one way or another, so if you had a disagreement with one you better be ready to deal with the others and the end of the world was not far away. 

Today the Orleans Ranger Station is combined with the Ukonom Ranger Station which is a district on the Klamath National Forest to the east of the Orleans District.  There is much less logging now, the veneer mill is gone and the Ishi Pishi Bar has passed into history liked many of us who worked there.   

Ocean Adventures

 The ocean treats everybody equal, for those not prepared it shows no mercy.    In the years we lived in Gold Beach, along the southern Oregon coast we heard about a number of incidents and a few fatalities out at sea.   Two Forest Service co-workers went fishing near the mouth of the Pistol River, south of Gold Beach.    One turned his back to the ocean for a minute to discipline his dog.  A sneaker wave came in behind him taking him and his dog out to sea.  The other co-worker looked on in horror not able to do anything to save them.   Their bodies were never found. 

North of Gold Beach along the coast there are hidden coves that were used by smugglers using small boats or zodiacs to bring in drugs from larger ships out at seas.   One night law enforcement got wise to what was going on.   In a panic much of the cargo, high grade marijuana wrapped in waterproof packages, was dumped into the ocean and washed ashore near Gold Beach.  The next day the beach was filled with beach combers collecting the debris and there was much doubt how much of it was turned over to the authorities. 

My boss, Earl, had a small boat with an outboard engine and would go out over the Rogue River bar into the ocean where he would fish whenever conditions were right.   There was a seasonal Coast Guard station at the mouth of the Rogue River that would respond to any bar crossing that did not go well.    This bar was notorious for sediment building up on the south end of the opening between the jetties, and the only way was to enter on the north end which could be narrow at times.  Earl told about one time he was out at sea fishing and the fog came in, restricting his view of the jetties.   He knew to find the buoys and follow a compass course from each ocean buoy to make it to the river.    The only problem was, would the compass bearing from the last buoy take him over the south entrance or north entrance?   He put full throttle to the engine and luckily made it through the north entrance of the bar. 

Earl would invite me to go fishing with him, but I was reluctant hearing all the incidents with small crafts on the ocean.   During the fall the ocean would settle down and some days looked like a big pond with no white caps or swells.   On one of these days Earl persuaded me to go with him and off we went with a few beers for enlightenment.   Earl was a knowledgeable sailor, had been in the Navy and his boat was well equipped with all the necessary items in case of an emergency.   He had a CB radio with a base set at his home where his wife could be called about our whereabouts.   We made it over the bar with no problems and made our way out to some rocky outcrops where there was good bottom fishing for red snapper and ling cod.   These rocks were covered with sea lions.   While fishing Earl had to make sure the boat did not drift into the rocks, so he would move it out until it would drift again.   Some of those seas lions looked like they would eat us if we ended up on the rocks.   At the end of the day we made it home in one piece with all kinds of bottom fish to fill our freezers.

There was another co-worker that had bought a jet boat, which are intended to be used on the river, not the ocean.   One day he and some other Forest Service people took it out on the ocean to fish about a mile south of the mouth of the Rogue River.   They had no problems getting over the bar and the sea was fairly calm.   Within a few hours the north wind was blowing and the swells getting bigger.   They headed back toward the river with full throttle, bouncing over the swells and at times the suction pump could not take in water due to rise and fall of the boat.   It only took them 20 minutes or less to get to their fishing spot, but the return trip took two hours as they fought the wind and swells.   Some on board were tempted to jump ship and try to swim to shore, which was just beyond the breakers or less than an eighth of a mile.    All stayed with the boat and eventually made it back.  It was something they never repeated. 

When I worked for the Forest Service at Cottage Grove, I volunteered for a work detail to the Tongass National Forest in Alaska in September of 1993.   We worked out of the Rowan Bay logging camp on Kuiu Island.   There was a Forest Service boat there we used to access sections of the island where roads had not been constructed.  After work hours we were allowed to use the boat for fishing as there was not much other entertainment there and it was a dry camp—no alcohol allowed.    One evening after dinner the crew leader Don and I took the boat out to catch halibut in the channel outside the bay.   We were fishing about an eighth of mile from shore where some Orca whales were also going after fish.   They were not happy with us in their waters as they bounced against the boat and surfaced under the boat, making us fear they could overturn us.   The thought raced through me of having to swim to shore and could I make it as 20 minutes in these waters was about the limit for a human to survive.    One of the whales got snagged by Don’s hook and the fishing line, a small cable was racing off his reel as he was trying to hold on to the pole in fear of losing it all.  He told me to get my pocket knife out and try to cut the line which I was able to do.   During all this the whale was actually pulling the boat away from the shore line.    We made it back to camp with no fish, but were content with surviving the ordeal. 

Today I feel lucky to have made it this far, and for me the ocean is there to look at and admire from a distance, while standing on solid land.

The Three-legged Deer

 This deer, a buck, does have four legs, but one of his rear legs has been injured somehow below the knee and he only uses three legs to get around.  He showed up earlier this year.   He probably is a deer that was raised around here and knows our place is safe to hang out around during these hot summer days.   We do keep water out for the deer and it has sharply decreased the slaughter we used to see along highway 138 below us, where the only water source this time of year is Dodge Creek across the highway.   This deer only has one two point antler and the other antler is deformed or stunted, so he is called One Horn.   There are four other younger bucks that hang out with him.   In the heat of the afternoon these deer find shade near the woodshed below the house.    This is where I usually park the truck and whenever I go down there I move slowly so as not to disturb them.    One Horn is usually laying down in the woodshed while the others are on the north side of the shed where the shade is.    At times I find myself talking to One Horn about his injured leg and my own problems.  He seems to listen and acts like he wants to understand.   Maybe I’m starting to lose it during these times of isolation and uncertainty.   Thank God the neighbors can’t hear me.    Later in the day when things cool down and I’m out watering plants or doing whatever while these deer are out grazing nearby.  Sometimes they are startled by my movements and the younger bucks run off, but One Horn hesitates looking back at me like he wants to converse or pick up where we left off on the last conversation.   There have been times when I try to imitate his walking by limping myself.    He watches me and I believe he knows I understand his problem.    Here again the neighbors can’t see any of this strange activity as they drive by out of sight on the road above the house.    

This hot afternoon I was out looking for One Horn.  The usual young bucks were around the woodshed, but no One Horn.   Like an old friend I hope he is doing OK.  I should be cleaning house during these hot afternoons and not worrying about a deer.  Maybe I do need help.

A can of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup

 During those hot summer days when we lived in the small town of Willows in northern California, my mother would occasionally buy ice cream and a can of Hershey’s Chocolate for all of us to enjoy.    This can was opened with the old style can opener that punctured the top of the can in two places, one for pouring and the other for air intake.   They were commonly used to open beer cans in those days and called church keys.  

There were six of us children, me being the oldest and having some responsibility in disciplining some of my younger siblings which could be a full-time job at times.   Of course none of us would ever get enough of that chocolate on our ice cream.   My mother would draw the line when some of us went back for seconds.   After the can had been opened it was placed in the refrigerator and there was always the temptation to indulge by sneaking into the kitchen when nobody was looking and take a swig or two directly from the can.    My mother was usually too busy with house work that she did not have the time to run herd on who was doing what.   In the heat of the afternoon when temperatures were in the triple digits and some of the younger children could no longer tolerate the heat they would retreat into the air conditioned house.   Some times while passing through the far side of the kitchen to access the garage, I would notice the refrigerator door open and somebody partaking of the chocolate.  Being caught they would quickly close the refrigerator door and run off.   I had to inspect the situation to see how much of the chocolate had been consumed by sampling a little myself.  Over the next week the contents were pretty much consumed, some on ice cream under the supervision of mom, but mostly by those taking it directly from the can.   Whoever was last to empty it always placed it back in the refrigerator due to guilt and not wanting to be accused of doing the unthinkable.   Mom would be shocked and angry when she went to the refrigerator to find the can empty and asked who had been drinking from it.  Everybody pointed the finger at the other, especially brother Pat, who was usually known for his mischievous ways.   Mom would tell us she was not going to buy anymore if we could not control ourselves, but she  would give in and buy some more in a few weeks and it all started again.   

Sleep

 Remember the days when you got eight hours of sleep?  Not anymore, lucky to get four hours now.   These days try to get to bed by 9 pm, load up on melatonin which will put me to sleep then about 1 am there is the urge to use the bathroom, never fails.   Getting back to sleep after that is a challenge.   When and if sleep occurs after the bathroom visit then comes the continuing nightmare of still being in high school in my old age with one more year to go, or living in some old house of days gone by that is in need of critical upkeep.   If I don’t fall back to sleep my mind fills with all kinds of thoughts, including all the subjects I can write about.   Then there is our old cat Toby who starts whining about 4 am wanting to go outside.   By then any more sleep is out of the question and salvation comes in a cup of coffee.   It is during these early morning hours when I do my writing.    By 8 am the daily chores await, including being a caregiver to Celia, making a pot of swill to get us through the day, some limited housekeeping and a trip to town once or twice a week for supplies.   With this pandemic we don’t go anywhere any more, giving me more time to write, connect with the outside world and ponder the meaning of it all. 

A good day of physical labor cutting firewood, grass or brush helps with getting an extra hour or two of sleep.   Now a days that is limited due to arthritis and nerve damage in the hands from too many years operating power equipment.   Usually can get in 4 hours of work on a good day with a break every 20 minutes.  During the hot summer afternoons or cold wet days of winter I drag myself back to the house and end up in the easy chair for a nap.   Sometimes I go into such a deep sleep when I wake have no idea where I’m at—scary!   An old friend past away a few years back as he never woke from his afternoon nap.   His wife called me informing me of his passing.   Might be the ideal way to go these days.   Sure wouldn’t be a sleep problem anymore.    

Grandparents

 Becoming a grandparent is one of those extra bonuses of life.    It is something we never gave much thought to in our younger days when busy with a career and raising a family of our own.   Now in our senior years it brings us much joy.  The only problem is we do not get to see them in person enough, except by Skype or pictures sent by email. 

Some of the fondest memories I have of my own grandparents was riding the Southern Pacific passenger train from Willows, in northern California to Glendale in southern California in the 1950’s with my maternal grandmother.   Each spring grandma would arrive by train, stay for a week and return home and this time my younger sister and I got to ride with her.  My parents would drive down a few days later.  It was a two- day trip and involved eating in the dining car and sleeping one night on the train.   Another memory is walking to the grocery store with my mother’s father, who was born in 1889.  He must have been about 65 years of age as we made our way down the back alley to the store some 10 or more blocks from their house.  Once in the store all I remember him buying was a can of Dinty Moore stew and saying, “better get this if we get caught short in case grandma does not want to cook.”  Later we learned he would make the walk by himself at times to replenish his supply of booze in his garage.   Most of his days were spent watching sports on the TV while smoking little black cigarettes and cussing out some politicians or telling us how he would tell solders in the trenches of WWI to keep their heads down as he was their sergeant.    He would mow his lawn with an old reel push mower with iron wheels.  He died at the age of 90 or 91 in a rest home after falling and breaking his hip.   Grandma died a year or two later at the age of 80 or 81 of cancer.  They both came from Pennsylvania and we know very little else about them or their ancestors. 

My father’s parents lived across the street from my mother’s parents making it convenient for visiting.  Both these grandparents were real estate brokers and worked right up until the day they died, my grandfather at the age of 68 and my grandmother at 72.   Both were smokers and died of strokes.   Going to work with them was an adventure showing houses to clients and helping put up “For Sale” signs.   My grandmother was born in Alabama in 1900 (?) and her family migrated to Alberta in the early 1900’s to work on the railroads.   My grandfather was born in Nebraska in 1894.  His ancestors migrated from Ireland to Ontario, Canada in the 1840’s where they took up farming.   Sometime in the early 1900’s after moving to Nebraska they moved to Alberta, Canada to work on the railroads and that is where my grandparents met and where my father was born.   

All I have to remember them by is a few pictures, some with writing on the back of where and when.   Hopefully my writings will be around for my grandchildren to remember me by.     

Water

 Remember the days when you could drink from a mountain stream?   That probably came to an end sometime in the 1960’s, except for a few good springs that had not been touched by the hand of man.   Thereafter it became necessary to use a filter, water purification pills or boil it to save yourself from having dysentery.    My first case of giardia was in the 1980’s while living near Gold Beach where the city water source was from the Rogue River.   Many others got sick too.  They increased the amount of chorine hoping to put an end to it, sure did not improve the taste.   It took about 10 days of pills to get the lower tract back in working order where we felt safe enough to leave home without having an accident.  As the last community on the Rogue River who knows what was coming down stream, could have been the winter rains flushing out all those camp sites in the Wild River section or brown trout escaping from the Grants Pass sewage system.

We use to take for granted the water coming from the tap and thought it was an endless supply, not any more.   With no well water we are at the mercy of rain water collected off our shop roof in the winter and truck water delivered during the dry season from the Oakland municipal water facility.    This water is taken from Calapooya Creek and infused with much chorine because of the many ranches and pastures where the livestock roams freely as it all flows downstream toward Oakland.   We use it for everything but drinking.  For drinking water we rely on a local distributor for bottled water.   The total price for the truck water and the bottled water is about what we paid for city water when we lived in Cottage Grove 14 years ago and I am sure the rates there have gone up with time.  

Having a good water source today is a blessing.    Most the wells around us go dry in the summer or have poor quality water due to sulfur, arsenic or some other unpleasant element.   One thing for sure is we don’t take water for granted anymore, but will always have the memory of drinking from that mountain stream. 

 

Chaos in the Woods

 In the winter of 1983-84 there was a big wind storm on the Gold Beach Ranger District of the Siskiyou National Forest.   Many leave strips and isolated timber stands were blown down.   There was a big push to get all this timber designated for salvage harvest and made available for sale by the spring of 1984 in order to get it removed before the bugs would start doing damage.   It was done quickly under a Categorical Exclusion that exempted the need for an environmental analysis. 

Most of the small sales were set aside for bidding by small loggers only, a few of the larger areas were made available for the large mills to bid on.    The pre-sale crew ran around the woods like mad men marking trees, posting unit boundaries, cruising and getting the timber appraised for the auction block.   Mistakes were made.   If I remember correctly there was a total of 13 sales put up for bid with units ranging in size from less than 1 acre up to 30 acres with one year contracts to remove the timber.   Depending on the extent of blow down trees, some units had clear-cut boundary posters, other had partial cut boundary posters where trees within the boundary were marked for removal.    These posters had a space where the sale name and unit number could be written in, but usually only the posters near the road or corners of the unit had the sale name and unit number filled in.  Each sale had its own sale area map showing each unit, road system and contractual requirements for each unit.   Sales were sold based on their geographical locations to avoid any overlapping of sale area boundaries.   Number of units per sale ranged from 10 to 20 units, mostly accessible by existing roads.  

The District had three contract administrators to oversee the logging on these sales, plus their assigned standing green sales that were being logged.    At the time I had two large green sales operating and was assigned four of the salvage sales.   I don’t remember the sale names, but do remember the names of the loggers since I had dealt with them before on other sales.   There was Zuber Logging from Port Orford, Ellis Logging from Powers, Keith Smith from Brookings and Westbrook from Coos Bay.   As soon as these sales were awarded cutting started immediately because of the one year contracts.    As soon as units were cut tractors or small yarders were moved in to get the logs to the roads for loading onto to trucks.   Many units required slash cleanup either by machine piling or hand piling, plus erosion control requirements.   Loggers did not want to move equipment, including fire equipment from one unit to the next without getting Forest Service acceptance of work to avoid moving equipment back to complete whatever was not found to be acceptable.   Loggers would call me at home in the evenings, asking if I could be at a unit in the morning to accept cleanup work as they wanted to move to the next unit.   One morning as I was driving from Zuber’s sale to Ellis’s sale when I noticed Zuber’s cutting crew bucking logs in a unit that was part of the sale belonging to Ellis.  I stopped and informed the cutters that was not their unit.  They did not have a sale map and saw no writing on the boundary posters and assumed it was Zuber’s unit.   I drove back to where Zuber was loading logs to inform him.   It was a breach of contract due to poor supervision by Zuber for not directing his cutters to his units or providing them a map.   A meeting took place in the office with the District Ranger to allow his operations to continue.   It was like misbehaving in school and going to the principal’s office.   Ellis had no problem with it and paid Zuber for the cutting expenses. 

In the meantime Westbrook had hauled out more logs than what was covered by his payment bond for that 30 day period and he was late paying for his scaled volume removed from the last 30 days which was another breach of contract, resulting in their shut down until payment was received and payment bond increased.   They hand carried a check to the Supervisor’s Office in Grants Pass and operations were allowed to resume. 

Keith Smith called me at home one evening to see if I could make it the next day to his sale and my wife had answered the phone to tell him I was not available.  Afterwards she told me enough is enough, you have a family to spend time with.  I did make it to his sale a day or two later and he did understand my wife’s concern, enough was enough!

Some Tillage

 Just started digging potatoes today, use much char, mostly dry land farming here because of limited water supply.  Rabbits ate all our greens, squash and beans survived.  Neighbors had a bumper crop of greens, so we did not go without.

Spent our stimulus money on a new toy for quenching char this next winter--300 gallon water wagon/pump/20 ft hose.  

90 degrees and rising this afternoon 

Stay safe!

The Misery Whip

 Another story from my days working on the Orleans District of the Six Rivers National Forest from 1971-77.    Hope you find these entertaining during these uncertain times.

In the fire warehouse at the Orleans Ranger station hung these large white canvas backpacks on the wall.   They were called lightning fire packs and contained a gallon canteen of water, sleeping bag, first aid kit, falling wedges, hand axe, files and meals ready to eat, better known as MRE’s or rations.   Over the top of these packs was a misery whip blade bent over the top and attached to the sides of the pack.   It was a two man crosscut saw for falling trees.   These packs must have weighed 60 to 80 pounds and just the sight of them would make us break out in a sweat.    Being on the timber crew we always thought those packs were reserved for the fire crew during any initial attack on a wild fire in a remote area.    In the summer of 1972 we learned differently after a thunder storm wreaked havoc across the Forest.   The fire crews were dispatched on many lightning fires on the roaded areas of the Forest where fire trucks could access many of the fires, along with hand crews.  A fire was reported in the upper watershed of the South Fork of the Smith River on the Gasquet Ranger District which was north of our District.   This area was road less, except for an old jeep road that crossed the Siskiyou divide between the Klamath River drainage and the Smith River drainage.   (Today this is all part of the Siskiyou Wilderness Area)  Six of us, including the pre-sale forester on the timber crew were told to respond to this fire.   The pre-sale forester was assigned as our crew boss and given a two-way radio.   We loaded up our personal gear in back of the 4x4 crew truck and noticed those dreaded white packs, along with an assortment of hand tools and few extra canteens of water were in the bed of the truck.   By the time we reached the jeep road we could see the smoke way down a brushy ridge leading into a side creek of the South Fork of the Smith River.   There was not a foot trail or even a deer trail going down this ridge as we made our way down toward the smoke through the brush.  The going was slow, it was hot and those packs seem to get heavier with each step.   In addition to the packs we all carried a hand tool and some canteens.   When we got near the fire it had consumed an acre or two as we started cutting a fire line around it with our hand tools.   There were a few snags that had caught fire and needed to be felled and this is when the misery whips were brought in to action.  I don’t remember how much time was spent trying to get them on the ground, but there was lots of swearing and sweating.    As we pushed and pulled on these saws we could imagine how loggers had to use these before the days of power saws and why there were no such thing as a fat logger. 

When the sun started setting we grubbed out a camp site within the burned over area, ate our rations and fell asleep.    Usually a box of rations contained a can of meat stew, a can of mixed fruit, crackers, utensils, chewing gum, some kind of candy and the best part of all, a can of pound cake.  You haven’t lived if you have never eaten pound cake from a can.  Now imagine eating this stuff three times a day.   We were on this fire for four days and three nights.  By the end of the second day our drinking water supply was about to run out and we had no water to mop up all the hot spots within the fire line.   A helicopter was called in that dumped a net full of canteens, bladder bags of water to extinguish the hot spots and more of those delicious rations.   On the fourth day we called in the fire as dead out.   We were told to construct a heliport and place all our equipment, including those white packs with the misery whips in the net for the helicopter to fly it all out.   We walked back up the ridge to our vehicle without having to carry anything, except some canteens of water.   After arriving back in Orleans we had only one thing on our minds—drinking a beer or two and extinguishing any thoughts of those white packs.     

Wildlife Encounters

 Some of you may have seen the story of my encounter with the cougar.

The encounter with the turkey is a new addition.

Stay safe out there

Happy 4th!

COUGAR ENCOUNTER

 

Living in the forest of southwest Oregon it is common to see wild animals on a daily basis, mostly deer, birds of all kinds and occasionally a few other critters.   There is a system of trials on our property we utilize for recreational hiking and taking inventory of our trees.   One trail has a foot bridge crossing a seasonal creek and leads uphill to our house from the lower 10 acres.  A few years back while hiking this trail on a pleasant spring day, looking at trees and just slowly taking my time I approached the foot bridge and noticed a deer laying down on the other side of the bridge.   I was about 15 feet from crossing the bridge when I noticed the deer had long tail.    Deer do not have long tails.  Then to my shock I realized it was a cougar.  I had no weapon, except a Swiss Army knife in my pocket.  I looked around for a big stick, there was nothing.  I could not see the cougar’s head as it seem to be busy chewing on something.  I slowly backed away thinking it must have heard me and I will probably have to fight for my life using my Swiss Army knife.    After getting some distance away without being attacked I made it home by another route and called the neighbor down the road.   We both returned with weapons, but the cougar was gone and we could see it had killed a deer.  Another neighbor informed us that he had been working near his house a few days before my encounter and a cougar was sitting about 20 feet from him just watching what he was doing.   We all came to the conclusion that this cougar or cougars were too familiar with us humans in their habitat.   A government hunter with dogs was called in and a cougar scent was picked up and the dogs chased it out of our area.   No harm came to the cougar.  

Cougars usually avoid humans and when they do kill a deer they will bury portions of it and return over time to indulge in a meal.   When hiking the trails now, I keep an eye out for them and carry a tool or run power equipment, such as my DR power wagon down the trial to let them knows I’m coming.  

TURKEY ENCOUNTER

 

A year or two after the encounter with the cougar I went down the trail below the house to check on some trees I had planted the past winter with a shovel to clear away any brush that might be growing near the newly planted trees.   As I made my way off the trail through the tall grass and blackberries a hen turkey jumped out at me.   She was not happy with my presence and began coming at me.   I used the shovel to keep her at bay as I made my way back to the trail.  She was jumping up toward my face as I was swinging the shovel in self-defense.    In between swings she would try again to get my face with her claws, it was hand to hand combat.  At times I could not swing the shovel fast enough to keep her away.  Once on the trail I tried to out run her, but she was hot on my heals as I had to turn and swing the shovel to get her away.   She jumped up above the trail to overtake me, but the brush slowed her down and I was able to escape in one piece. 

Thinking back, I wonder how it would have turned out if I did not have that shovel, purely hand to hand combat.