THE BUS ISSUE

The Lane Transit District (LTD) went as far south of Eugene as Creswell in the 1990's.  Some people in Cottage Grove car pooled to Creswell to catch the bus into Eugene, mostly students attending Lane Community College or the University of Oregon and some people working in Eugene not wanting to deal with parking problems.   The business community of Cottage Grove was against extending the district to Cottage Grove in fear that people would do more shopping in Eugene, plus they did not want to pay the .05% business tax to support the bus.    The issue was put to the voters of Cottage Grove and the business community campaigned against it telling voters they would be taxed and how business would decline locally with people doing more shopping in Eugene.   At the time LTD had routes to McKenzie Bridge, 50 miles up the McKenzie River Highway, Junction City and Veneta all supported by local businesses along those routes.   Finally the voters approved extending the transit district to Cottage Grove.   In the end nobody went out of business and there was no space taken up in the bus by shoppers bringing sheets of plywood, yard equipment, appliances or furniture back from Eugene on the bus.   Just passengers with their back packs, brief cases and lunch bags.  

THE LOSS OF AN OLD FRIEND

I received an email from Judy Barceloux, the wife of my old friend Alan Barceloux, informing me he passed away August 12th. Alan had been fighting stage 4 lung cancer for the last five or six months. Alan and I had known each other going back to our days as Boy Scouts in Willows, California in the late 1950's. We had many adventures together exploring the Mendocino National Forest during the summers in our high school years, including backpacking through the Middle Eel Yolla Bolly Wilderness Area. We spent some early mornings hunting ducks and geese in the rice fields south of town during the winter months. In 1966 Alan enlisted in the Air Force for three years during the Vietnam war at the same time I was drafted into the Army for two years. In the Fall of 1969 Alan and I shared an apartment together while we both attended Lassen College in Susanville, California under the GI Bill. Later he attended Chico State University then took over the family auto parts business of Baceloux Brothers Auto Supply in Willows and worked at the NAPA Auto parts store in Orland until he retired. No doubt we drank our fair share of beer together over the years. We kept in touch by email and in many ways Alan was like a brother to me. Whenever Celia and I were visiting family in Chico we would enjoy a meal and have a few beers with Alan and his wife Judy. RIP old friend!

8/16/2022

TRAVELING THE BACK ROADS OF MY MEMORY

 When I went to Lassen College in Susanville, California from 1968 to 1970, I spent many weekends driving the back roads of the surrounding area in my old 1963 Ford pickup.   There is the Lassen National Forest to the north of Susanville, where the terrain is so flat in places that you could get lost without a map.   Most of the forest roads were single-lane dirt roads going through sagebrush meadows, pine, and juniper forests.   Road signs were far and few between or just downright missing.   At some road junctions, you were at the mercy of just guessing which way was the right way.  You could drive all day and never see another vehicle.  If you had a breakdown or ran out of gas it was a long walk back to town, if you could find your way out of the maze of roads to a highway leading back to civilization.   Some roads made their way to Eagle Lake with summer homes and a paved road going back toward town.   

To the west is the Plumas National Forest with Diamond Peak overlooking Susanville.    There was a dirt road that went from Diamond Peak through the mixed conifer forest and came out at Mountain Meadow Reservoir east of Westwood, an old mill town with company housing that was owned by the Red River Lumber Company.   Now a scenic tourist community.  

To the south and east of Susanville, there is the Honey Lake Basin, with surrounding farms, high desserts, and isolated mountain ranges all the way into Nevada.   Honey Lake is where all the water from snowmelt on the eastside of the northern Sierra Nevada Mountains drains into with no outlet to the ocean, actually part of the Great Basin that makeup Nevada and western Utah.   When Honey Lake is completely full it is only 3 to 6 feet deep.   The Sierra Army Depot is east and south of Honey Lake with all kinds of underground bunkers and off-limits to public traffic.

One of the most adventurous drives was east of Susanville through high dessert, the Smoke Creek Mountains, remote cattle ranches, and ending up in the old railroad town of Gerlach, Nevada.   The only people I remember seeing on that trip were some cowhands while passing through a ranch.  For all I know I could have been on a private road as they all looked at me as if I was lost.   

The Early Relationship with Indian Women with White Men

Many of the men on the Lewis and Clark expedition had relationships with Indian women.  Some of these men returned to the upper Missouri River country after the expedition and became fur trappers.   It was common to take up with an Indian woman as a mate and to help out with domestic chores.  

In order to obtain an Indian woman from their fathers or a tribal chief it usually was necessary to trade some horses, guns or other goods for the woman, many who were just teenage girls.  Many Indian women received better treatment by the white men than the Indian men.    Indian women were prized for their ability to speak Indian languages, make moccasins, fashion hides into garments, dig for eatable roots, butcher animals killed by the men and cook over open fires.   The Hudson Bay Company was noted for large numbers of men with Indian wives and children traveling through the Oregon Country in search of beavers in the 1820's and 30's.  They were even reported as far south as the Coastal Mountains of northern California in the book Genocide and Vendetta by Lynwood Carranco and Estle Beard.  

On many occasions if it had not been for some of these Indian women some of these men would not have survived, including the Lewis and Clark expedition without the aid and knowledge of Sacagawea. 

Writing

 Writing is a hobby for me.   The more I write the more I remember, might be a good way to keep the old brain in good working order.   I took up writing in the 1990's while living in Eugene where I enrolled in some non-credit writing classes at Lane Community College.    These classes were at night and most of the students were working adults wanting to write their life story.  What most of us had in common was that we barely made it through high school English.

In my advancing years I find it entertaining to reflect back on life, even laugh at myself and wonder how I ever made it this far.  Looking forward under present day circumstances can cause anxiety not knowing what tomorrow will bring.  In many ways writing is a way for me to escape reality sometimes.  Some authors that have influenced me are Edward Abbey, some retired Forest Service people that have written about their careers, the local author Robert Heilman with his book, Overstory Zero and a few others.    

Soon this pandemic will become part of history and we can feel safe again to return to whatever kind of life we think is a resemblance of normal.   In the meantime I will think of more to write.  

Mike

ps--thanks for the stories you have shared

Working on a Grass Seed Farm 1996-2000

 In the winter of 1996 I enrolled at Lane Community College near Eugene and took a course of study in Agricultural and Industrial Equipment Technology.   After completing two terms I received a certificate in Diesel Electrical Systems.  An alumni of the course, who was a shop foreman on a grass seed farm out of Harrisburg asked the teacher if any students would be interested in a seasonal job.   I raised my hand and the job was offered to me.   Basically I became the chief grease monkey operating a service truck and running from field to field each morning servicing farm equipment.   This work consisted of filling fuel tanks, checking oil levels, greasing the machines, blowing out radiators and air filters.  Don’t remember doing much electrical work.  Shop work was more of the same working on fork lifts, trucks, machinery in the warehouse and running into Harrisburg for parts once or twice a week.   Most of the equipment was operated by local high school students.   Whenever one of them did not show up in the morning or have to leave before the end of the day it was me that replaced them in the cab of a combine.   This was monotonous work going round and around with four other combines equipped with pickup headers going wherever the windrows took us.    The north wind would be blowing and the dust would follow us, sometimes going ahead of the machine where we could not see much beyond the cab.    By late afternoon my eyelids would start getting heavy and the fear of falling asleep would overtake me, even with the a/c and radio going.   Sometimes I would have to slap myself to stay awake in fear of the combine wandering off course and going in some nearby ditch.    The days were long, 10 to 14 hours depending on the air moisture in the evenings.   At the end of the day there would be some trucks filled grass seed that had to be driven back to the warehouse and emptied.   It would be 10 or 11 pm some nights when I got back home in Eugene.   The next day I would be up and gone by 7 am to beat the rush hour traffic.   My lunch box had enough food for lunch and dinner.   Sunday night dinners were provided by the farm consisting of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and all the side dishes for those working that day.    It was delivered out in the field to each combine or tractor operator to eat while working.   I definitely don’t care for that stuff anymore.  By mid-August most combine work was done and all hands had to operate a tractor to work the fields in preparation for seeding next year’s crop.   Burning of grass seed straw was no longer permitted and the straw had to be worked back into the ground by plowing, disking, and harrowing until the soil was almost turned into to dust.  This work would end each day by 5 pm and usually completed by end of September when I was laid off for the season.   There was no overtime for this work and during periods of rain the crew was laid off until things dried out, sometimes for up to a week.  If we worked the entire season until we got laid off we received a bonus check near Christmas time.  

I continued doing this job for the next four summers.   One morning in August of 2000, while driving north on I-5 to the farm I missed the Harrisburg turnoff and did not realize it until I saw the sign for the Brownsville Exist.   It was time to call it quits, plus Celia and I were getting ready to move into our house in Cottage Grove and get married in October.    I could not imagine adding another 20 miles to the daily commute.    No bonus check was received that year.

Living on the GI Bill

 After serving two years in the Army I was entitled to two years of school under the GI Bill.   In the fall of 1968 I enrolled in a two year forestry curriculum at Lassen College in Susanville, California.  My monthly allocation was $130 to live on.    Initially all my text books and school supplies had to be purchased from this monthly amount also.   There was some savings I had that went toward these items and my 1963 Ford pickup cost me $800 from money saved up while in the Army.

My monthly rent was $50 for a small room behind a house where I had access to the landlord’s house through the back door to use a bathroom and utilize a space in their refrigerator.  This left me $80 to cover my monthly insurance premium on my 1963 Ford pickup, (don’t remember the amount) gas and grocery money.    My diet consisted of potatoes, cereal and a few can goods, don’t remember any fresh produce or meat.    I do remember the price of beer at $2.09 for a 6-pac of Hamm’s Beer and a $1.89 for a gallon of Red Mountain wine.   After making friends with some classmates we would combine resources and share a meal at their house a few blocks away once or twice a week.   Eating out was rare, but do recall eating hamburgers and French fries at the local Denney’s now and then.

After my first year I worked as a seasonal firefighter for the Forest Service on the Modoc National Forest as a GS-3 earning $2.39/hour.  There was still a food expense, but housing was free consisting of a bed, closet and wood stove in a cabin at the Hilton Spike Camp Guard Station.   Somehow I even saved some money for the upcoming school year.

During my second year of college a friend from Willows, who had served three years in the Air Force shared an apartment with me for $150/month which included a kitchen and all the furnishings.   Our monthly allotment from the GI Bill had been raised to $175/month leaving us $100/month for everything else.    Don’t remember going without anything, even had meat in our diet and no shortage of beer.

Life in the Military

 This one took some time with a few revisions to keep from getting into too much military detail that might lose the reader.  

For those of you that were in the service it may bring back memories, both good and bad.   I tried to inject some humor from looking back at it all, but at the time some of this was not funny.  

Something the younger generation and grand kids can learn from and hopefully avoid in a peaceful world. 

February 1966 to February 1968

 

In September of 1964 I started classes at Chico State College studying agriculture.    My studying habits dissipated quickly as many of the classes reminded me of high school, which I never enjoyed and I started skipping classes.  Farm work was more interesting, since I was more the hands on type than academic.     After the first semester I dropped out.  The best thing about being a student was having the student deferment to keep me off the 1A list of the local draft board.   It wasn’t until November of 1965 when the draft board found out I was no longer a student.    I tried to get an agricultural deferment, but they did not go for that and classified me 1-A, available for military service.   In December Uncle Sam sent me an induction notice with a date to report to the military induction center in Oakland, California for a physical.    This place was like a livestock processing facility where you stripped down to your shorts, got in line and proceeded through different medical exams.   My conclusion when it was all over was if you could walk you were fit to serve.  Some people had x-rays of broken bones or some past injury, they really did not care as long as you could walk.   We returned home after this to await our fate.  Some enlisted in the Air Force or Navy for three years to avoid being drafted into the Army for two years with a high probability of going to Vietnam.   Not wanting to enlist and serve three years, I just waited and sure enough a letter arrived in January 1966 with my report date back to the induction center for another physical exam and afterward officially inducted in to the US Army.   From there we were bussed to the reception center at Fort Ord, California where we were tested for different skills, indoctrinated about military life and asked what kind of training we wanted to receive.   After a week or two we were sent to different military posts around the country for eight weeks of basic training.   I ended up at Fort Hood, Texas in the 41^st Mechanized Infantry Battalion of the Second Armored Division.  Fort Hood was as big place and had modern facilities, it was almost like living in college dorms, and even the mess halls were nice.    The daily routine was an early morning mile run, marching out to the rifle range, classes on how to maintain your M-14 rifle, how to march in formation and all the ways to do harm to the enemy.    I don’t recall much harassment from the drill sergeants.  During my 4^th week of basic training my left arm broke while doing pull ups before entering the mess hall for dinner.   The drill sergeant sent for the company medic who got me into an ambulance and off we went to the hospital.    After x-rays they discovered it was a bone cyst in my left humerus that caused the break.   I was placed on the orthopedic ward on the 3^rd floor of the hospital.   The next day the chief military surgeon, a colonel, paid me a visit to inform me my arm would require surgery and a bone graft.    After the surgery a hospital corpsman was trying to wake me up in the ICU.   I noticed a big heavy cast from my hand to my shoulder and all supported by a rope around my neck.   The cast was intended to be heavy enough to keep the humerus straight as there was no way it could be pinned.   A week or so later I was sent home for 30 days of convalescence leave.    When I returned to Fort Hood the cast was removed along with the wires that stitched up the incision that ran from my left shoulder to the elbow.   I went through a therapy program for a couple of months to regain strength in my arm.   After rehabilitation and being found fit for duty I was transferred out of the hospital to an old WWII barracks where hospital personnel lived.  I was assigned as a hospital corpsman on the orthopedic ward where I had been a patient.  It was on-the-job training and being low man on the totem pole my first assignment was taking care of bed pans used by bed ridden patients, many who had been wounded in Vietnam.   I took orders from everybody, including the head nurse, a female First Lieutenant, the senior Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO), a Sergeant First Class and all others that outranked me.  About 75% of the patients on this ward had some kind of injury from the war, mostly land mines, booby traps and a few gun shots.   It was customary that the wounded would return to the nearest military hospital closet to their home until they were well enough to go home.   Over the next few months I did a little of everything from treating bed sores, changing bed linen, taking vital signs, issuing mediations, including two beers a day to bed patients and assisting the medical staff with all kinds of procedures .   I was told the beer helped flush out the patient’s kidneys.   It was Budweiser beer which today is the last beer I would ever drink. 

Somewhere during all this I was promoted to Private First Class (PFC) where you get one stripe to wear on your uniform.    By December orders came from above for me to return to basic training at Fort Polk, Louisiana.   This place had to be the armpit of the world and made Fort Hood look like a vacation playground.   The facilities were WWII vintage and it was cold and wet in the winter.   The senior drill sergeant had special names for us that I can’t repeat here.   The barracks were drafty with little or no heat that I can remember and the bathrooms were one big room with toilets and showers, no privacy here.   Since I was a PFC they bestowed upon me the rank of acting platoon leader, but soon was demoted to a squad leader since nobody could keep in step with my stride when we marched.    We were up at 4 am and had 15 minutes to wash, get dressed, make our beds and be ready for morning formation.  For those that did not get up promptly the drill sergeant would turn their beds over for a rude awakening.  After the first week maybe four to six people couldn’t take it anymore and deserted.   Each morning we ran a mile, ate breakfast in the mess hall where no talking was allowed and then the five mile march out to the rifle range.   Lunch was usually rations or a hot meal of swill from canisters.  

Some of the most exciting times were out on the rifle range where we were provided with a warming tent that had a pot belly stove in the center.   The tent was so full of people that by the time you got near the stove the drill sergeant yelled at us to get out and let the next squad in.   We were constantly cold.  At the end of the day we had the privilege of riding back to base in trailer trucks covered by a canopy.   The front of the trailer was left open to allow the cold air to blow through the trailer for added excitement.  In many ways we wished we could have hiked back to the main post.  

After completing eight weeks of basic training we were assigned our advanced individual training (AIT) assignments.  Since most of us were draftees we had little or no say so in what kind of AIT we would receive.   It consisted of infantry, artillery, armor or becoming a medic.   Some of us were assigned to Fort Sam Houston in Austin, Texas for 10 weeks of combat medical training.    Life was much more pleasant here with little harassment from the cadre.  Each day consisted of class room instructions, watching horror films of combat casualties, practicing different medical procedures, such as dressing wounds, applying splints, IV’s, morphine and much more.   At the end of each day we were free to do as we pleased, except we had to remain on the post.   The choice of many was the beer garden for few rounds before having dinner in the mess hall.  Weekends we were able to venture off post into Austin.  

After completing this 10 week course I was assigned to Fort Stewart, Georgia as a medic with the ambulance section of the hospital that provided medical rescue support for the training of helicopter pilots.   Fort Stewart was the biggest military reservation east of the Mississippi River consisting of pine forests, swamps and surrounded by small farming towns.  This place was hot and humid.  Every afternoon thunder storms would develop breaking the humidy build up, then it would all start again.   We lived in a mental ward of an old WWII hospital with no air conditioning.   The non-commissioned officer (NCO) in charge of us was a Sergeant First Class named Sergeant Farley.   He had 27 years of service, including a veteran of WWII and Korea.  I suspect he may had a drinking problem, as he told us to come to his office any time if we had a problem where he had a bottle in a desk drawer.   As long as we kept the barracks fairly clean Sergeant Farley never inspected it and even allowed us to have beer after work hours in the barracks.  All he asked of us was to follow his weekly work schedule.   It showed our assignments where we were required to go to the motor pool every morning, get our ambulance, convoy with a military fire truck and a flight control truck out to a staging field where helicopter flight training took place.   Two medics were assigned to each ambulance, one as the driver, the other as the attendant.  There would be six to eight staging fields operating at once with up to 100 helicopters flying.  Most accidents were fatal where fire was the end result and usually no survivors.   The ambulance was required to park alongside the fire truck during operations.   If there was an accident a horn would be sounded by the flight control truck and the ambulance would follow the fire truck to the scene of the crash.  The days were hot and there was not much for us to do.  A helicopter would bring canisters of hot food out to the staging field for lunch.  Usually the bugs were so bad it was hard to swallow anything without a bug going down with it.   It was tempting in the afternoons to lay down in beds in back of the ambulance and take a nap.  This happened once during a drill, the horn was sounded and off went the fire truck with no ambulance following.   The flight officer in charge, a major, came to the ambulance and told the two of us to stand at attention the rest of the afternoon in front of the ambulance—not fun.   After work hours most of us went to the Post Exchange, better known as the PX to buy beer and spend time in our barracks playing poker before dinner.   All our meals were served in the hospital dining hall and the food was not that bad, since officers and doctors ate there too. 

With only eight months of active service remaining I was promoted to Specialist 4 (equivalent to a corporal).   Most of the medics on this unit were draftees and had over a year of active duty to serve and a few received orders to go to Vietnam for a year of duty.   The Army had a weekly newspaper, the Army Times that Sergeant Farley would share with us.  The paper had a death list of those that had died in Vietnam over that week.   One afternoon he informed us that one of our medics, which we all had known was on the list after only two weeks in Vietnam.   It was a sobering experience.

During my last month of active duty the US Navy ship, the USS Pueblo was seized off of North Korea.  There were rumors I might get extended and my beer consumption increased.    Finally I was down to my last week with no threat of being extended.  My last assignment was to visit the company First Sergeant, the top NCO.   He tried to get me to reenlist, telling me I could be promoted to Specialist 5 (equivalent to a sergeant) if I signed up for three more years.  I was not interested and few days later was officially discharged from active duty and on my way home.

 

P.S.

Looking back on what happened to my arm it may have saved my life from not having enough time in my two year tour of duty to go to Vietnam.    It was known that during combat the radio man and the medic were usually the first to be shot at with high probability of being killed or wounded.   

After two years of active duty I still had four years of reserve duty, which included two years of active reserves and two years of inactive reserves.   I only received one notice to report to Fort Carson, Colorado for two weeks of training exercises in the summer of 1968 and that was followed with another notice that it was cancelled.   I never heard any more from my reserve units and was honorably discharged February 1970.

The End of the Road

 I got to digging back through some of my writings and found this one that might fit what is happening today.  It is fiction and the introduction explains how it reflects on people I have known, religion, politics and a changing world.  Some of you may have seen this before.   Attached is the Introduction and Chapter 1.  There is more if you find this enjoyable.  

This story is based on people and events that I encountered while working for the Forest Service from 1969 to 1995 in remote communities of Alaska, California and Oregon. It is a fictitious story, but comprises many experiences I witnessed with friends and others I have associated with over those years. In many ways my own story is incorporated into this. After leaving the Forest Service in 1995, I did consider being a caretaker on some remote place, until I met my second wife and my life changed for the better.

Even as a child traveling with my parents I would notice isolated places,

such as old abandoned farmhouses and wonder what the story was with

those places. Life in the big city and the maddening crowds never did appeal to me and I found solace in remote communities, but there was a certain amount of loneliness. Life has a way of bringing change and like most of us I went through the cycle with a failed marriage, job burn out and a few less than perfect moves. In general, it has been an education from the University of Life, but for some of us, who did not make the grade, or find proper counseling it ended in disaster or tragedy. The story location is eastern Oregon, made up of high desert country, scattered mountain ranges and remote communities. This area is larger than most of New England with a population of less than 2 people per square mile. What drives a person to end up here, besides the cheap price of real estate? In some ways this land represents many of the people living here. Desolate souls who don’t fit into the mainstream of society. People running away from something, maybe life itself. Many are single men who suffer from the

ills of society, divorce, mid-life crisis, war, mental disorders or depression.

Then there are the artists and writers coming into this country to find

solitude to achieve their great masterpieces. Whatever their reasons for ending up here, many of these people have come to resemble this land with weathered faces, missing teeth, some with unkempt hair and others with very little. The ranchers and loggers that originally settled this land are slowly disappearing because of environmental issues and economic hardships. Good paying jobs are few and far between, but there are seasonal jobs available, fighting wild fires or working on farms and ranches in the summer. A critical factor is the lack of medical professionals to cover this vast area, making people more dependent on each other for advice on how to cope with their physical and mental ills, and a changing world, or how to avoid it all and live in a state of denial. Most therapy sessions are held in the local tavern.

It is an unfair world and with age it becomes clear that change is inevitable and the words normal and perfect slowly fade from our vocabulary. Too much reality can drive us into insanity, so at times it becomes necessary to escape into fiction and tell about the ways life might have been. It’s a big job to come up with the details between the start and the finish, but at least we can write our own ending.

                                          The End of the Road

                                                  Chapter One

                                                       Winter

A cold wind was blowing across the desolate landscape of eastern Oregon, as a light snow began to fall.  Mark, along with his old dog Jack, retreated into the cabin with another log for the woodstove.  He had just finished feeding the horses as the sun was setting.  It was the middle of December, the days were short and the temperature ranged between a low of zero to a high of 30 degrees.  He turned on the propane stove to heat up some coffee and relax before cooking some kind of dinner.  After feeding Jack, Mark sat in his favorite chair with a cup of coffee, and listened to the radio.  He concluded tomorrow would be a good day to go to town for supplies as there was not much in the refrigerator, except some leftover beans, a half loaf of bread, peanut butter, a few beers and some old wilted lettuce.  The cupboards did not have much either, a couple cans of beans, a can of soup, a box of oatmeal, some spices, and dog food.  

Mark was a caretaker on a remote 3,200 acre high elevation ranch used as summer pasture for cattle, but some horses remained here during the winter.  The topography of the ranch was made up of open meadows feeding into seasonal creeks.  There were patches of fir and pine trees scattered between the meadows with an understory of sage and rabbit brush.  His principle duties included feeding ten horses twice a day during the winter months, making sure the water system worked, and maintaining some outbuildings and equipment.  In addition he was required to keep bad critters and bad people, especially trespassers, away.  The three mile road leading off the ranch to the county road had a gate on it, but had a history of having the lock cut off and people venturing onto the place to do as they pleased.  He was compensated with free housing, a one ton four wheel drive pickup truck with a diesel fuel tank in the bed, and $500 per month.  The four room cabin that he called home was located on the upper ranch facilities consisting of two barns, an equipment shed, a wood shed, corrals and a large water tank with a wind-mill.  The only electric power source was a diesel generator.  The ranch manager and his foreman lived on the lower ranch complex in the valley, where the cattle were kept during the winter and the alfalfa fields were located.  During the spring and summer he could earn an additional $10 dollars an hour maintaining and operating equipment.  This usually involved working in the alfalfa fields, doing road maintenance or working in the shop.  He also acted as a fire guard during times of high fire danger in the summer and was responsible for maintaining and operating a 600 gallon fire pumper at the high elevation ranch.  

The next morning Mark was up early to feed the horses, break the ice in the water trough and make sure the windmill was operating properly.  By 8 am he and Jack were in the truck and headed into town.  There were some patches of snow and ice on the roads, so the going was slow.  His first stop before going into town would be at the ranch headquarters to fill the fuel tank on the truck, pick up some feed grain for the horses and check in with Sam, the ranch manager.

Usually once a week Mark would drive the 10 miles into the small town

of Mountain Valley, population 150. It consisted of a combination grocery and hardware store, a gas station, post office, small library, elementary school, a church and a tavern that also served as a restaurant with a limited menu of sandwiches, burgers and the soup of the day, which in most cases was the same as yesterday’s.  The volunteer fire department had one fire truck kept in an old garage next to the tavern.  Monthly meetings involved starting the truck, testing the pump and afterwards adjourning to the tavern.  The fire chief was a retired logger named George, who was also the pastor for the local church.  He had received his endorsement in ministry from a correspondence course recommended to him years ago by Jim and Jean, owners of the tavern, shortly after the previous pastor skipped town taking church funds and George’s wife.  Some aging logging equipment stood among the tall weeds next to George’s house, mute testament to his thinking that some day he would return to the woods as a contract logger as he had done 15 years earlier. But now he got only a few log hauling jobs during the year with his old log truck.    

Most residents here were older retired people, some societal misfits and a few people that actually worked.  Almost everybody drove an old pickup truck with a dog or two in the back, along with few empty beer cans.  Most of the houses in town were heated by wood and the yards had firewood stacked or piled in them along with a few vehicles, including some that no longer functioned.  In addition, there were a couple of travel trailers parked on the sides of some houses, serving as a spare bedroom or home for relatives, such as the mother-in-law.  The only law enforcement would be an occasional visit by a deputy sheriff whenever there was a disagreement at the tavern or when somebody drove off the road or died for whatever reason.  It was a very conservative and anti-government community even through most people here received some form of government assistance, such as social security, VA benefits, federal pension, or some kind of public welfare.  The only person that voiced a liberal viewpoint out loud was the librarian, a middle aged single woman named Gail, who worked two days a week when the community library was opened.  Sometimes she would socialize at the tavern after work and argue with some of the good old boys about politics, telling them how narrow minded they were about their views on social and environmental issues.  She would remind many of them that their education never went much beyond high school and their travels did not go much further than the county line.  In general a good time was had by all and to show no ill feelings toward her they would offer her a beer.  

When in town Mark always made a point of having a late lunch and a beer or two after doing his weekly shopping and picking up his mail at the post office.  At the tavern he usually ran into his circle of friends, all about his age.  There was Bob, a retired Forest Service employee, who wanted to do nothing more then hunt, fish, drink beer and talk about how bad his ex-wife had been.  Then there was Randy, a disabled Vietnam vet with emotional problems, who was still fighting the war.  Sometimes a recluse by the name of Harold showed up, who never said much and lived alone on some remote property where he had a mining claim.  He was a grizzly looking big fellow with long hair and a beard.  There was a younger guy by the name of Ted, who did a little of everything from cutting timber, seasonal farm work and fire fighting.  He was probably one of the most sensible people in town.  His wife was one of the teachers at the local school.  The owners of the J & J Tavern & Restaurant, Jim and Jean, were an older couple. Jean did most of the cooking while Jim waited on tables, served the beer and tried to maintain the peace between customers .  When Jim could not keep peace in the place, Jean would come out from the kitchen threatening bodily harm with a frying pan.  In most cases it worked.

Mark usually timed his trip to town on one of the two days a week the library was open. He enjoyed reading, and usually chose a stack of books to take home to fill the long winter nights. Talking to the librarian was a side benefit. Gail seemed to listen to him and would respond in an intelligent manner, which was a lot more than the guys at the tavern did.  She lived in John Day and commuted on the days the library was open, bringing a new supply of books from the main county library where she worked three days a week.  

It was mid-afternoon when Mark left the tavern and started the trip back home with Jack in the passenger seat, a box of groceries on the floor and some horse feed in the pickup bed.  It was snowing as Mark drove out of town and up the county road toward the ranch.  He arrived at the cabin as the snow was coming down harder. By the time he unloaded the truck, started a fire, put the groceries away and fed Jack, he couldn’t see 10 feet beyond the front door. There is always a lonely feeling coming home to an empty cold house, especially in a remote place like this.  He put his hat and heavy jacket on to go out and feed the horses and start the generator before it turned dark.  While walking back to the horse barn he noticed the windmill was turning, but the pump was not working.  He thought to himself that the gear on the shaft must have become loose again and figured he would work on it tomorrow if the snow let up.

Mark found contentment in his secluded environment, especially in the winter when he had time to read and perform the simple tasks of  life.  There was no TV reception here, but Mark could tune into a few radio channels in order to learn what the outside world was doing.  A cell phone was his only way to communicate with the people in his world whenever he could get good reception, which usually involved going up the hill behind the cabin.   

Mark had a history of a failed marriage, a home in Portland and a demanding job as a heavy equipment mechanic with a construction firm that did highway jobs all around the Pacific Northwest. It involved much traveling, living out of motels and eating restaurant food.  The long hours and traveling got the best of him and at the age of 55 he called it quits. He wanted to be in a more rural setting, living in a small community like one which he had enjoyed seeing during his off times on the job. It reminded him of his younger days before his marriage, when he worked seasonally as a fire fighter for the Forest Service in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern Oregon.  It was a carefree life style that lasted for three summers, while he attended college and did odd jobs during the winter months.  He met his wife while going to college studying industrial equipment technology. This care- free life came to an end as they settled down in the suburbs of Portland, where his wife was a special education teacher. Eventually her love of the city and his of the country led to a parting of the ways.

 When Mark and his wife decided to divorce, they sold the Portland house, paid off the remaining mortgage and a few other outstanding bills, which left him only an old car and about $2500.   He found the caretaking job in the classified ads and was hired based on his mechanical skills.  He loaded up his belongings and Jack the dog in the car and headed for eastern Oregon, in hopes of never returning to Portland or the rat race again.  

Now he was about to turn 60 with no health care insurance, no pension and a broken down car, the same one that got him here five years ago.  Mark avoided any thoughts of his future and lived for the here and now.   He could look forward to social security at 62 and Medicare at 65, but figured he would stay put as a caretaker. Besides, he had no other place to go.   

By February, the winter dragged on, with the same old routine.  The daily chores of feeding the horses, keeping the water system from freezing up, and moving firewood from the shed to the cabin began to get wearisome. The weekly trips to town were the only break in the monotony.  When the snow got deeper than a foot he found a little excitement when he would have to start up the old Cat bulldozer and plow snow from the road.  Then there were a few really cold days when it was a full-time job just to keep the cabin warm in order to keep body and soul together.  One night in late February, there was a commotion in the horse barn.  It woke Mark and Jack started barking.  Mark suspected a cougar, so he grabbed his 12 gauge shotgun and a flashlight.  He and Jack headed out into the freezing night, but saw nothing.  He fired off a couple of shells to scare off whatever might be out there.  The horses were all accounted for, so he returned to the cabin, put another log in the stove and went back to bed.  Sure enough the next morning he spotted cougar tracks in the snow around the barn while feeding the horses. 

  

His cell phone rang just as he finished his morning chores. It was Harold, asking for help getting his truck unstuck. He had driven off the Forest Service road leading to his mining claim.  Mark had never been to Harold’s place, but had a rough idea where it was located and kind of looked forward to seeing it.  He told Harold he could be there within the hour.  Mark loaded up a tow chain and he and Jack headed out.  It took them about 30 minutes to reach the road Harold was on and Mark noticed a set of tracks going up-hill on the road.  The snow was about eight to ten inches deep and Mark had to put the truck into four wheel drive to get up the road.  In another ten minutes he saw Harold’s truck off the side of the road stuck in the ditch.  Mark was able to hook the chain to the front of his truck and pull Harold’s vehicle back onto the road.  Since Mark’s truck was much bigger than Harold’s, they decided to let Mark lead the way another mile up to where the claim was.  There was a gate on the road leading a quarter of a mile down to the claim next to a creek.  A sign on the gate said, “Trespassers will be shot and if they survive they will be shot again.”  Harold’s camp was not much, just an old trailer with a blue tarp on it and a sickly green cast from the mildew clinging to the sides.  There was a crude shed next to it with propane tanks, firewood and few other items that looked mostly like junk.  A  broken-down dump truck with jack stands holding up the rear axle was parked nearby with garbage piled in the back. Mark could see why there was no woman in Harold’s life.  Harold invited Mark into the trailer for some coffee, but Mark excused himself, saying he had to get back to the ranch. After seeing the outside of the place he really had no desire to see the inside.  Back at the ranch Mark concluded his old cabin looked fairly good, after all.

A week had past and Mark was down to his last tank of propane, which was used for the stove, hot water heater and refrigerator.  A trip to the big city of John Day was in order to fill the tanks, do some serious shopping at the Safeway where the produce was a little fresher than at the local general store. Maybe it was time to visit Gail. It was a 50 mile drive and took about an hour with good road conditions.  Since the weather forecast was showing no major storms Mark decided to make the trip tomorrow, which was Friday, knowing Gail would be working in the John Day library.  The next day Mark had the empty tanks strapped down in the bed of the truck and he and Jack were on their way.  By 10 o’clock they arrived in John Day, got the tanks filled and did the grocery shopping.  Mark went into the library a little before noon thinking he might ask Gail out for lunch, but she was not there.  He was told by the librarian on duty that Gail had taken the day off to go to Bend for the weekend. His imagination went wild for a moment, and he wondered if there was a special man in her life. But he forced those thoughts aside, started the drive home and planned to stop at the tavern to visit whomever might be there and have a beer along with a sandwich. 

It was 3 o’clock when he got to the tavern.  There were Bob and George  discussing how the United Nations wanted to take over the country by taking away all private property rights and forcing everyone to move to the cities.  Mark tried to ignore the discussion as George turned to him asking why he never went to church.  He replied that he had a hard time dealing with organized religion (even while thinking privately that George’s church was not very organized).  About this time Jean came out from the kitchen, sternly telling George that he should spend more time preaching the word of the Bible and less time talking politics.  At this, George excused himself quickly, saying he had to go home, a run-down shingled two-story house with sagging roof and rusting array of logging equipment located just behind the tavern. He said he needed to prepare a sermon for Sunday services.

 Then Bob, now by himself at the bar, offered to buy Mark a beer and launched into a bitter re-telling of how his ex-wife had ruined his views on religion.  Bob lived in a small house on the edge of town and usually got most his exercise by walking from home to the tavern.  After having a couple of beers and a sandwich, Mark had had enough, and told Bob he needed to get back to the ranch.  Out of politeness, he asked Bob if he wanted a ride home since he passed by Bob’s house. At that very moment Randy, the Vietnam vet, entered the tavern all stressed out about how he could not get any sleep due to flash backs about some battle during the war.  Bob thanked Mark for offering him a ride home, but said he wanted to buy Randy a beer and hopefully settle his nerves.  Randy lived alone in a single wide trailer in town and survived off a limited disability from the VA and a small amount of Social Security earned for the ten years he was able to work at various jobs.  The nearest VA clinic was in Bend, a three hour ride away, and Randy never had much energy to drive that distance unless somebody would offer him a lift there, so he resorted to telling his problems to the guys in the tavern.  George was a Vietnam vet also, but never cared to talk about his experiences and always advised Randy to seek help in a spiritual way.  George said the VA was just another government agency that did very little for the vets and was wasting taxpayers’ money like most of the government programs did.  George did receive Social Security for the 25 plus years he worked in logging and for his early days of working for the Forest Service as a seasonal fire fighter.  Now George was 68, missing most of his teeth, had very little hair and had never really recovered from his wife running off with the previous pastor thirteen years earlier. For a few years after that he took anti-depressants to save himself from going off the deep end and putting a gun to his head, as happened often for many in these parts.  Finally, religion  with its ideas of forgiveness and salvation, plus the caring of the tavern owners Jim and Jean saved him, and being a pastor made him feel worth something again.  Jean and Jim had provided him with comfort, food and much beer during those hard times.  As a last resort Jean got George to see a doctor in John Day, who prescribed the anti-depressants.  That was the last time George had seen a doctor for anything. 

Back at the ranch, Mark was busy with his regular chores, plus preparing for spring by cleaning out the horse barn while letting the horses graze in the nearby meadow.  It was March, the snow was gone at the lower elevations of the ranch and the afternoons were mostly sunny.  Mark took a break this warm afternoon and went to town.  He had books to return to the library and mail to pick up at the post office.  Wilbur the postmaster saw Mark and asked if he had seen Harold lately, since his mail had not been picked up in over a month.  This alarmed Mark, so he went over to the tavern to see if anybody there had seen Harold.  Jim and Bob were at the bar and said they had not seen him in awhile either and mentioned others in the town had commented  about his absence.  Bob said he had no idea where Harold’s place was. Mark replied, “I do, Bob, why don’t you come with me and let’s see if he is there.”   It took them about an hour to come to the closed gate leading to Harold’s place.  Here they parked the truck and walked on down the narrow road hoping they would not surprise Harold and get shot at.  As they came into the clearing above his place they yelled out his name, but there was no reply.  They could see Harold’s pickup truck, but no trailer, then they realized it had burned down.  It was completely incinerated—all that was left was a pile of charred debris and ash. There was no sign of Harold. Bob and Mark knew they should not disturb the scene pending the sheriff’s investigation, so assuming the worst, all they could do was go back to town and call the authorities. They returned to the tavern and reported what they had found to the sheriff over the phone.  A few others had gathered in the tavern by now, including George, who said they should have a church service for Harold, even though he never came to church.  Bob made a comment that Harold usually just sat at the end of the bar, drank his beer and said very little to anybody, so maybe we should all have a beer, be quiet and remember Harold sitting at the end of the bar and call it a day.  All agreed and the beer was served.   

A few minutes later Gail entered the tavern and asked Jim what was going on with all the people here.  He explained about the situation with Harold, and Gail commented how sad, and now she understood why he was late with returning some books.  She noticed Mark and moved in his direction and said, “hi stranger and by the way you have some overdue books also”.   He replied how they were in the truck, but got sidetracked into going out to Harold’s place.  Then Gail said, “hey, I was told you were in the John Day library last month looking for me”.  Mark replied, “yeah, I had to get some propane then was going to ask you out to lunch but you were gone”.  She said , “ I had to go see my mother in Bend, who has been sick”.   Mark thought to himself, maybe there is no man in her life.

It was getting late and Gail said she had to get on the road and get home, but could have a bite to eat before going.  Mark said, let me buy you dinner, and they found a table near the back of the dining room, since the bar area was noisy with the crowd discussing and mourning the tragedy with Harold.  While they ate their dinner, Mark explained what him and Bob had seen at Harold’s, talked about what he had been doing on the ranch and the coming of spring.  Gail said she sure would like to see the place whenever she had a chance, but now had to get going as it was getting dark.  They said their goodbyes and Mark also started back to the ranch.   

Written by: Mike Burke

855 Wildflower Lane

Oakland, OR 97462

Email: farmhand.mike@gmail.com

Edited by: Celia Scott

Same address as above

The Gardening Story

 Gardening has always been a big part of my life.  Of all the places I have lived I would scratch out some kind of garden plot.   When we lived in Greenville, California we purchased a 7 horse power Troy-Built rototiller in 1977, to till a fenced garden plot that was next to the old ranch house we rented.   After moving into a government house on the Gold Beach Ranger Station in 1979 the tiller came with us, but we were not allowed to develop a garden plot since the station was on the National Historical Register as it had been constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corp or CCC.   A few month after our arrival some friends let us garden on their property outside of town.   In 1981 we bought our first house on two acres along Hunter Creek, two miles south of Gold Beach.    Here we had a big garden, chickens, a sheep for wool, a goat for milk and a fixer-upper house with all its never ending repair projects.   As if I did not have enough to do, there were weekends I helped neighbors and friends with tilling their gardens.   In the fall of 1986 my wife and two children moved to Eugene where she attended the University of Oregon.   In 1988 I was offered a job with the Forest Service in Cottage Grove to be closer to family and rented a house on Lynx Hollow Road where I developed a small garden.    Shortly thereafter the Gold Beach house was sold.  In 1990 my wife and I went our separate ways with a divorce and in order to have my children live with me on a part-time basis I bought a small house in Eugene in 1991 where they were attending school.   Here I developed a blueberry patch that the neighbors and a few homeless people enjoyed who were living in the nearby ash tree swamp along Amazon Creek in South Eugene.  

When I left the Forest Service in March of 1995 a co-worker, who had an artistic talent for drawing, made me a cartoon advertisement which included my phone number and a sketch of me and my dog Jack rototilling.  I hung the poster up at the Oasis Market on Willamette Street in Eugene and the phone started ringing with job offers.   People started telling their friends and neighbors of my rototilling service and at times the phone was ringing off the hook.   Some of those people asked if I would do other work, such as pruning, hauling garden soil, hauling yard debris, building fences, painting, repairing lawn mowers or other power equipment.  There was one woman who wanted me to teach her husband how to do gardening work.   He seemed to be more content watching TV and drinking beer.  Another woman with a plot at a community garden hired me to rototill after dark by the headlights of her pickup.    Then there was the woman with many cats on leashes in her back yard that would hire me once a year to haul a pallet of cat food from a store in North Eugene and help her unload it in her garage.   One of the most colorful clients was an older woman that was always in her bathrobe that wanted to be called Grandma.   I did a variety of work for her from rototilling, cutting blackberries and removing a Willow tree that had fallen in her yard.   When it came time to pay me she would always add a large bonus from a big roll of cash she had in her house.    I tried to refuse the extra money, but she would reply, “never argue with Grandma”.  There was a woman who wanted to sell me her 8 horse power Troy-Built tiller at a cheap price and I bought it thinking it might come in handy when the other one broke down.     All my equipment was hauled around Eugene and Springfield in my old rusty 1975 Ford pickup.    The bolts holding the bed to the frame were so badly rusted out I feared losing it all on some busy intersection, luckily it never happened.

In 1997 I bought a DR Brush mower and took on brush and high grass mowing jobs, many located in the hills south of Eugene.   Some of these elegant homes had acreage with forest land and private driveways in need of vegetation clearing.   A few of these land owners asked me to estimate the value of their timber.   After deducting logging costs from the market value of the logs and adding the expense for cleaning up the mess or logging slash there was little return to the land owners. 

One of the better paying jobs was with the University of Oregon Housing Department that would hire me to do chainsaw work on hazard trees and brush mowing around houses they owned east of the campus.   There was no bidding required.  The housing manger would call me, show me what had to be done and paid me whatever I billed them, no questions asked.    

Most of this gardening work was seasonal from March into June and by fall the phone calls were far and few between.   In the fall of 1996 I enrolled at Lane Community College and studied Agricultural and Industrial Equipment Technology taking courses over four terms in electrical systems, hydraulics, welding and engine repair.   Except for a welding class two nights a week all other classes started at 7am and were out by noon giving me the afternoons to schedule any calls for work. 

Under an apprenticeship program with this class it landed me a seasonal job from June through September from 1996 to 2000 as a mechanic and equipment operator on a grass seed farm near Harrisburg.    Whenever summer rains shut down operations on the farm for a few days I would catch up on a few gardening jobs in and around Eugene. 

In November of 1997 I met Celia, who was working for the Olum Child Care Center at the University of Oregon.   By the spring of 1998 she was helping me with gardening jobs on weekends and enrolled in the OSU Master Gardeners Program.   Thereafter she became a partner and the brains of the outfit we called C & M Gardening Service, a business registered with the Oregon Secretary of State which we operated together until we moved to our property outside of Oakland, Oregon in 2006 when we officially retired.   By the way we also got married in October of 2000 and bought a house in Cottage Grove.

Recluse, Wyoming

 After leaving the Forest Service in 1995 I did a variety of seasonal jobs, such as working for a property management company in Eugene and working for myself as a landscape/gardener.  I also took classes at Lane Community College studying agricultural and industrial equipment technology.  This course of study landed me a seasonal job on a grass seed farm as a mechanic and equipment operator for five summers from 1996 to 2000 near Harrisburg, about 20 miles north of Eugene.   Winter was a slow time of year for me and my thoughts would wander off to moving out of the big city to some rural environment.   Eugene was not my favorite place to live with all the traffic, neighborhood excitement, and also my two children had moved away to attend college.  Now there was just me and my dog Jack.

I subscribed to the Caretaker Gazette, a monthly listing of caretaker jobs offered mostly in the western part of the U.S. and some in other countries.   Many of these jobs involved working on remote farms or ranches.  I did apply to a couple of ads, both in Washington State.  One was on a small farm in southwest Washington, which did offer me an interview, which I turned down hoping for something better.  The second one was on a large ranch in the eastern Cascades of Washington where there was a house offered in return for watching the place while the owners went south.   I never received a response after applying for this job.  As time passed I looked forward to the monthly editions in hopes of finding Shangri-La.    Then I noticed a caretaker job being offered on a remote ranch near Recluse, Wyoming.   I looked on a map to see Recluse was located in the northeast corner of Wyoming and had a population of 10.   The average temperature in January is 20 above and can get down to 40 below.    About this time in my life I met Celia and life took a change for the better.    A few years ago we took a look at Recluse on Google Earth to see a small store with a Post Office, a few scattered buildings, some machinery looking in disrepair and a desolate flat landscape of no trees.    Thank God Celia came into my life.   Where would I be today without her?