It seems to be human nature to do battle with each other. Battles have been fought over defending one's territory, religious beliefs, to conquer foreign lands, to put down rebellions within a country and these battles are usually fought by the lower class that have very little say so in the decision to go into battle. In many ways wars never end these days, especially for those that fought them as they suffer from the physical and physiological effects of war. Probably the greatest loss of life was in eastern Europe during WWII, when the Soviet Union lost 27 million people, both civilian and military, and not just to the German invasion, but also to Stalin.
Since WWII this country has not really been victorious in a war, except the first Gulf war to free Kuwait, when we all learned about smart bombs and surgical strikes. It seemed like a testing ground for these new high tech weapons. Eisenhower warned us about the military industrial complex as they have become a big part of our economic base. The United States is the largest exporter of arms and I'm sure it provides a good return to stock holders in the arms industry.
Just think if there was no more need for weapons of war and all these big corporations went out of the business of making weapons, or better yet transformed into producing products for the betterment of mankind and the planet.
With the threat of war in eastern Europe it could effect the entire world and possibly lead to WWIII and the end of humanity if nuclear weapons are employed. Lets hope not. In my opinion wars are not winnable anymore, they just go on forever and more civilians die in the long-term than military people.
Even though the marriage ended in 1990, we still maintain a relationship as parents and grandparents, and feel very fortunate for the two children we have.
We all suffer pain, be it physical or emotional during our life. There is no way around it, even if we resort to drugs or alcohol which only makes things worse. We all have our own ways of dealing with pain. For me writing has offered some relief. Support from family and friends can help with understanding, but they can not remove the pain.
Pain is the most individualizing thing on earth. It is true that it is the great common bond as well, but that realization comes only when it is over. To suffer is to be alone. To watch another suffer is to know the barrier that shuts each of us away by himself. Only individuals can suffer.
Edith Hamilton
We used to think Orleans was remote, but once we drove to Forks of Salmon we found out what the word remote really meant. This place was beyond remote, just a small elementary school, a store, Post Office and Forest Service seasonal guard station. The Forks of Salmon is located at the confluence of the north and south forks of the Salmon River. Just to get gas people here had to drive 25 miles to Orleans, by way of a single lane winding paved road along the Salmon River to get to Highway 96, and it took an hour to get to Orleans. One bad mistake driving the Salmon River road could be fatal if you were not paying attention. The inhabitants of this community were scattered all up and down the river and up many of the side creeks flowing into the Salmon River. They were miners, loggers, hippies and outlaws living in cabins, shacks and tents. Some were squatting on illegal mining claims and others were just living off the land. Is was within the Klamath National Forest and Siskiyou County, where the county seat of Yreka was a two hour drive with very little or no law enforcement between here and there. If something bad was to happen you were at the mercy of the locals here.
On one of my weekend trips to Arcata to do my monthly shopping, I picked up a hitchhiker just outside of Orleans. While driving he told me he had a degree in English, had been a grade school teacher in the Bay Area, left it all behind and moved to a mining claim near Forks of Salmon to get away from the maddening world. He had no vehicle, no phone, grew some vegetables in a garden by his cabin and made his way around by hitchhiking three or four times a year to restock up on things that were not available in the small store at Forks of Salmon. I don't remember where I let him off, but he said he would wander around a few days in Arcata and Eureka before hitchhiking back up to Forks of Salmon. Never saw him again, but did come across more people from the Forks coming and going through Orleans.
How can we survive in this maddening world without our pets? Be it a dog, cat or some other critter, they fill a void in our lives as we bond to them and they bond to us. It must be the old need of wanting to be needed by both us humans and those domesticated critters, it must be in the DNA of both species?
In the end we pay a price, as in any relationship we get involved with. It is hard to think of the many one-way trips I have made to a vet to send a pet over the Rainbow Bridge or others that went out the door and never returned. Through the pain, tears and grief there is some relief knowing they had a good life with us and many would not have survived without us Their love for us is unconditional and when they are gone we seek another to fill that void in our life.
How can we live without them?
When we lived in Cottage Grove on Ash Street, our neighborhood on the westside of town backed up to a forested hillside called Mt. David. The history of the mountain included a sacred rock of the Calapooya Indians, Indian artifacts, the site of an old oil well that never produced any oil, and a playground for many children who roamed this hillside that lived in the neighborhood over the ages. There were two or three owners of this mountain and it was within the urban growth boundary of Cottage Grove. In short, there was money to be made. One morning we woke up to the sound of chain saws cutting down the trees on the hillside and the neighborhood went into shock at the sight of the devastation, better known as clearcutting. We learned that the land owners had sold out to a developer, who had plans to build streets and the infrastructure for a subdivision of 400 to 500 homes. Our neighborhood formed a group called Friends of Mt. David to fight this development. We attended city council meetings, met with the city planning department staff and even had a meeting with the developer, who we later learned was not known for quality work. We were advised by all the city officials and the good old boys on the city council this would be a great development. Basically they could all smell money; more tax revenue for the city, an economic boom for local contractors and for some of the members of the city council. Instead of using local contractors the developer brought in a big construction contractor from Eugene to start building streets and other improvements for this subdivision. The contractor would start up their heavy equipment in the early morning hours before the sun was up, even though the city had an ordnance limiting any work from starting before 7 am. The Friends of Mt. David later found out that some permits required by the state were not obtained, including from the state historical preservation office until we brought it to the attention of city officials. The city planning staff of two people was overwhelmed with the size of this development and let things get out of their control. In addition, we could see the existing infrastructure in our old neighborhood, such as the streets and the storm drainage system would never accommodate the increased traffic and storm run off from this new subdivision. Sure enough in the winter of 2006 there was heavy rainfall and the water came flowing down from the new development flooding streets, yards and filling the basement of the old hospital. Pictures below show the water flowing in channels that the contractor constructed in order to control the runoff. That is Celia to the right of the first picture surveying the mess. In the end the developer went broke and certain members of the city council were not reelected. After looking on Google Maps only about 20 homes were constructed on the subdivision and many of the planned streets were never put in. Most of it is now is just a big bare spot within the city limits that is called Mt. David. .
Over the last few months I have spent my fair share of time on Google Maps trying to trace my travels over the many forest roads on the National Forests where I worked. It is not easy to pick out an old road, clear cut unit or some landing carved in to the hill side back 40 to 50 years ago. Many of the roads are no longer maintained and have been consumed by encroaching vegetation. Clear cut units have turned into over- grown plantations, and some of those have been consumed by wildfires over the past decades. Even some of the most noticeable log landings carved into steep slopes on the Gold Beach District have disappeared. It is hard to make out the cutting boundaries of old clear units since many of the adjacent leave strips of old growth trees have been cut out since my days in the woods, along with more roads that I don't recognize.
One road I could retrace is on the Orleans Ranger District. It is the Cedar Camp Road going north off Highway 96 and winding its way up into the Forest. There was a pig farmer that owned a chunk of land on the lower portion of this road all surrounded by National Forest land. I think his name was Moses. He drove an old 1948 or 49 Chevy truck, lived in an old moss covered house back off the road in the woods and let his pig feast on acorns. It was nice to drive up this road because there was no log truck traffic on it, since commercial hailing was not permitted through the pig farmers property. Beyond the pig farmer's place the road tied into other roads that went all over the north end of the District. If I had to drive it today I would probably never find my way back to Highway 96.
The road maintenance engineer at the Zone 2 Engineering office, north of Gold Beach was responsible for the maintenance of all Forest Service roads on the Gold Beach, Powers and Chetco Ranger Districts of the Siskiyou National Forest. Road maintenance included grading of roads for proper drainage, cleaning and replacing culverts, upkeep of road signs, surface replacement and the brushing of roads for visibility. Money for doing all this work was generated from road maintenance deposits from timber sales, allocated funds from Congress or from fees collected from special use permits. There was a road maintenance crew including a foreman and a crew of 5 or 6 people that could operate graders, backhoes, dump trucks and a machine that looked like a grader, but was giant brush hog. On the side of this machine there was a hydraulic arm with an enclosed metal blade that was powered by a hydraulic motor that would pulverize all vegetation as it was raised and lowered along the side of roads. Most the vegetation cut along these roads was Red Alder, which grew like a weed in the coastal forests. After a road had been brushed by this machine there were chunks of limbs scattered all along the sides of these roads, it was not a pretty pictures. With the listing of the spotted owl in 1990 timber harvest declined sharply and so did the maintenance money for Forest roads. Many secondary roads have been taken over by encroaching vegetation. Some of these roads are hard to find on Google Maps as I have tried to find my way on roads from days gone by. The canopy of the Red Alder have totally grown over many of these roads over the last 30 plus years. Today if you were to depend on road signs for directions you might get lost, since many have disappeared by overgrown vegetation, been used for target practice or damaged by animals,
Trying to think back on when I was discharged from the Army on February 1, 1968 from Fort Stewart, Georgia. I remember wearing my class A uniform and carrying my duffle bag with all my belongings, including my medical kit all packed in an ammo box. As a medic on a crash crew, this was the medical kit we all carried in the our ambulance when going out in the field during flight training of helicopter pilots. I think we had to wear our best looking uniform when leaving the service, not sure why, since we were officially civilians. Don't remember if I was allowed to take the medical kit or not. Somehow I ended up at the Atlanta Airport to catch a plane to Dallas, Texas. I assume I took a bus from Fort Stewart to Atlanta, really don't remember, maybe too many beers the night before. Do remember spending lay over time at the airport in Dallas wandering around. Back in those days during the Vietnam War, there were many military people wandering around airports. Some were going on military leave, others were returning from Vietnam or going there and like myself some were going home. The bars and restaurants at the airports were well occupied by military people consuming food and drink Military Police were common in larger airports to make sure everybody in uniform was behaving themselves. When I arrived at the San Francisco Airport at night, my dad was going to pick me up, but nobody was at the arrival gate when I got off the plane. As I made my way through the airport I discovered my dad enjoying a beer in one of the airport taverns, I may have joined him for one more. After arriving home it took a few days or weeks to adjust to civilian life.
After leaving the military we were entitled to $40/week of unemployment insurance until we found a job. The people at the unemployment office told me I qualified for work as a hospital corpsman and should apply for that type of employment. That did not excite me and not pursuing that kind of work my unemployment money was cut off after a a few weeks. I had saved up some money while in the Army, spent $800 on a used 1963 Ford pickup, took on some part-time work doing construction and farm work, and took a road trip up to eastern Oregon living out of my truck. During my travels I looked at the possibility of attending Lassen College in Susanville, in north eastern California, and ended up there in August of 1968 under the GI education bill.
During the six years I worked on the Orleans Ranger District there were four District Rangers that came and went. The first one transferred out within the first year after I came there in 1971. All I remember of him was his last name, Bunnel, I think? The next ranger transferred in from the Lassen National Forest and his name was Rob Roy McGregor and he was a likeable guy that could relate to us ground pounding technicians. He was only there about a year when his wife had a mental breakdown. Rumors were that she had a hard time adjusting to the culture of the community, which was basically hunting, fishing, growing marijuana and drinking beer. Many of us called Orleans the cultural center of the Northwest. To have any real culture or sense of civilization you had to drive two hours to Arcata or Eureka. The third ranger was a guy with the nickname "Moose" who had been the resource officer on the District and was promoted to acting ranger for a few months until the fourth ranger transferred in from the Mt. Hood National Forest in Oregon. His name was Paul and he was all business. The ranger's house was just across the main entrance into the ranger station. Paul would come to work each morning with his hard hat on and his pants tucked into his boots, even on days he spent in the office. It was 1975 when Ranger Paul showed up and I was a timber sale administrator by then, and Ranger Paul was the official Forest Service representative under the timber sale contract. Whenever he was driving around on the District he would stop and talk to logging supervisors and agree to things that I was the last one to know about. I would come along later and notice loggers doing something I had not agreed to or approved of. After asking why they did this or that, they replied that Paul agreed to it. What could I say, he was the boss.
When I first went to work on the Orleans Ranger District of the Six Rivers National Forest in the spring of 1971, I assisted with doing plantation surveys. This involved pacing a certain distance through old brushy clearcut units, where Douglas fir trees had been planted two to five years earlier. There were four of us on the crew, including a crew leader, who worked full-time in the siliviculture department At each plot we would take inventory of every plant in a radius of the plot center, including all planted trees that had survived. There was a data card produced for each plot showing all the hardwood species, their height in addition to any planted or natural conifer species. It was rigorous work walking through dense vegetation on steep terrain. There were a few units where we ran across hose lines used to irrigate marijuana hidden in some the flatter plantations. By summer three of us went to work doing timber sale preparation work and seasonal employees filled in to continue doing plantation surveys during the summer months.
At the end of the day after doing plantation surveys, all our data cards were turned into the assistant silviculturalist, by the name of Dick. His desk was always piled with these cards as he would spend his days going through all the data to determine which units would require replanting, spraying and/or both. I never remember Dick ever out in the woods as he seem to be buried with paper work all the time. He was noted during his lunch break to go over to one of the drinking establishments in the community and have a beer and also have a beer or two after work, before driving up river to his home near Somes Bar. I had the impression his job was driving him to drink. .A few years later he transferred to the Mad River District on the south end of the Six Rivers National Forest. It was known that the District Ranger at Mad River expected his employees to attend the local church where he was the pastor. Also, as I remember there was only a small store near the Mad River Ranger Station and no taverns. Wonder if Dick changed his ways and went to church regularly?
There was one fire tanker on the Orleans Ranger District that employed a seasonal fire crew of five people, including the tanker foreman, whose name was Carl. Carl had spent many years working for the Forest Service as a seasonal employee. He was in his 30's, had a degree in Botany, divorced, enjoyed his beer and smoked a pipe. He always wore slip-on boots with slick soles, until management told him he had to wear Vibram soles, so Carl had Vibram soles put on his slip-on boots. Carl was easy going and I never remember him getting upset about anything. He lived in the woods on property belonging to an old girl friend's parents' up the Ishi-Pishi Road. His bed was out in the woods and I'm not sure where he stayed when it rained, maybe in the house with his old girl friend?
On a few occasions Carl joined a bunch of us single employees for a trip down to Arcata on a couple of weekends to indulge in a few beers, and eye the young ladies of Humboldt State College at a place on the Arcata Plaza called the Keg. After closing this establishment down, we would retreat out to the beach at Samoa for the night with our sleeping bags. One night we lost track of Carl and nobody knew where he was. It was the next day as we drove back up Highway 299, on our way back to Orleans when we came across Carl walking along the highway barefoot and smoking his pipe. After picking him up he said he probably left his boots in the Keg. He must have walked 10 miles that night and said he started a warming fire along the highway as it got cold. A California Highway Patrolman stopped and told him to put the fire out and left him there. Carl was hoping the patrolman would take him to jail where he could get warm, so he continued to walk to stay warm. The next year Carl received a full-time job in silviculture on the Weaverville District of the Trinity National Forest. That was the last we ever saw of Carl.
After writing about Helicopter Logging it reminded me of the rattlesnake encounter in Lawson Creek on the Gold Beach Ranger District in the summer of 1981 or 82. Can never remember the exact year of some of these events. I was doing a utilization inspection of a harvest unit on a helicopter sale in the Lawson Creek drainage. As I made my way across a rocky outcropping over Lawson Creek I heard the buzz of a rattlesnake. The sound made me freeze in place as I slowly looked around and saw nothing. The adrenaline rushed through me as I thought about how far away I was from anybody with no hand held radio, only a first aid kit, a water bottle and my lunch all in my work vest. The big question was, could I make it out of here if I got bit without having the venom circulate through me before seeking help on the two-way radio in the Forest Service pickup two or three miles away? With all these thoughts going through my mind in a flash of a few seconds, I slowly backed out the way I came across the rocky outcrop. The buzzing had stopped. I was home free to live another day.
Helicopter logging is expensive, more environmentally friendly than conventional logging and more dangerous. Because helicopter pilots can only work a limited amount of time they have to be relieved with another pilot during the day. The number of people on the crew can be double from what there is on a conventional yarding crew, plus the fuel, related safety equipment and helicopter mechanics are very costly. It is environmentally friendly because it can reduce the need to construct roads, prevent stream and riparian area damage, and do a better job of preserving residual trees and soils.
For safety concerns log landings are an acre in size and usually require two log loading machines to handle the incoming logs. One machine must clear the logs from the drop zone and another machine is used to load logs onto to trucks. Next to the drop zone will be some sort of barrier, maybe a log structure that protects the landing crew from flying debris when the helicopter drops a load of logs. There is a 80 to 100 foot cable attached to the helicopter with a electronic controlled hook at the bottom end where 20 foot choker cables are attached with logs. All designated trees are cut and bucked into logs weeks or months in advance of logging. Chokers are preset in the woods based on log weight by a rigging crew. There maybe one or two people, called hookers that have radio contact with the pilots that attach the chokers to the hook on the cable attached to the helicopter. If the pilot has problems during flight they can release the logs if necessary. A small helicopter is used to return chokers to the rigging crew and to ferry people back and forth from the harvest units, which are usually within a radius of one mile from the landing, depending on uphill or downhill flight patterns. A separate smaller landing or wide spot along a road is used as a maintenance area for fueling and working on the helicopters, and where pilots spend their down time, usually in a trailer.
During my career with the Forest Service as a timber sale contract administrator, I had four helicopter sales; one on the Greenville District removing bug infested trees and three on the Gold Beach District removing dead and dying Port Orford Cedar. Contract logging helicopters on those sales included Erickson Air Crane, Columbia Helicopters, and Siller Brothers. These helicopters are also used to fight wild fires by using large water buckets.
This last week I joined my son and daughter in Ashland for a post Christmas reunion for three days. My son and his family drove up from South Lake Tahoe and my daughter and her family drove down from Portland, picking me up on the way. It was a real treat not having to drive and sitting in the back seat with Grandson Sam, who will be three years old in March. Sam and I watched train videos on YouTube, talked about what we saw out the car window as we ate dried fruit and nuts. Sam's reply to most by comments was that basic question we all have--why?
It is these experiences that keep an old grand father young.
The mind has a dumb sense of vast loss--that is all. It will take mind and memory months and possibly years to gather the details and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss.
Mark Twain