Newspaper Columns

These columns were published in the local newspaper before its publisher evidently decided that my liberal views were inappropriate for this conservative area; here is an excerpt from an email I received from the editor: "...Andy McNabb, the publisher, gave me a call ... He said from now on I’m supposed to make all my columns localized to issues pertaining to the county and its people – not national issues, religious issues, and other controversial subjects. He also asked that I have any guest columnists do the same, if possible."

A friend once told me that the most powerful person in a community is the publisher of the local newspaper. I agree.

Friday, December 08, 2006

What’s in a name? Everything

Civil War. Brings to mind the bloody conflict between the South and the North in America’s past. Lebanon. Bosnia. All of them long lasting and brutal. Wikipedia defines civil war as a war in which parties within the same culture, society or nationality fight for political power or control of an area. Seems concise and accurate. Conveniently enough, the US military in its doctrinal manuals requires that a civil war have five conditions, including the requirements that both sides have regular armed forces and a functioning government; by that definition, Iraq cannot be in a civil war.

It’s obvious that George Bush prefers the military definition, as he and his administration steadfastly refuse to characterize the Iraqi conflict as a civil war. But then, he also believes that we are winning in Iraq, that nearly 3,000 US soldiers have died in a noble cause, and that democracy is on the march in the Middle East.

Since the war began the administration has gone to extraordinary lengths to control the message about the war. Media coverage of flag-draped coffins returning from the war is banned. Prior to every escalation of violence, the administration was out in front of the bad news, telling us to expect more violence for such and such a reason, letting us know they’re on top of the situation. Perhaps pressuring the Iraqi Health Ministry to stop including execution-type slayings in its body count. And, of course, never counting the numbers of Iraqi civilians killed by coalition forces.

Until the November elections, the US corporate media was largely complicit in towing the administration’s line, but the wave that swept the Democrats into power has seemed to stiffen the spine of some outlets. The LA Times and the New York Times have quietly begun using the “CW” phrase, although often with qualifiers such as “on the brink of”. Now, MSNBC’s Matt Lauer has stated bluntly that “…the situation in Iraq with armed militarized factions fighting for their own political agendas -- can now be characterized as a civil war."

Perhaps the Wikipedia definition will become more and more the norm for defining the Iraq war in the months and years ahead as the Bush administration loses its control of the message.

There is a lot at stake for the administration in the characterization of this war: public support for the war, steadily falling for many months, is likely to plummet even further if the American people believe that our forces are caught in the middle of a civil war in Iraq. And so George Bush does everything he can to put a pretty face on an ugly situation.

In my ideal world, George Bush would leave his state of denial behind and level with us about how grave the situation is, and what he’s going to do about it. Rejecting out of hand many of the Iraq Study Group’s recommendations seems a bad way to start. Perhaps George will always believe that denial is just a river in Egypt, and that civil war is just a football game between the OSU Beavers and the U of O Ducks.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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Friday, December 01, 2006

A summer’s day of music and fun

It was a day to remember, a day to celebrate living in Klickitat County. The morning on that August day in 2003 dawned clear and warm, t-shirt weather. The sky held a few scattered clouds at times, just so many soft cotton balls drifting to the east.

At 6:10 pm I drove south on US 97. The sun was two fists above the western horizon, the Columbia River Gorge below me as I began the descent of the Maryhill grade.

At 6:25 I parked way east in the parking lot, knowing from experience that when the concert was finished barely controlled chaos would ensue.

By 6:40 I was settled on the grassy terrace with Adie, whose husband Bill was a volunteer taking tickets at the gate. There wasn’t a whisper of breeze. The westering sun was now below a large building, casting a welcome shade over the gathering crowd. An incredible panorama was visible from my seat: An immense swath of the gorge stretched from east to west. Still sunlit were the dry Oregon foothills above Biggs.

And then, at 7:05, the Los Lobos Bluesband took to the stage and entertained the crowd with four guitars, two drummers, baritone sax, keyboard and accordion. Many people stood and danced in place; others walked down to be near the stage and then gyrated with abandon.

At 7:45 sunset had reached the Oregon foothills. The air was now decidedly cool for my shorts and t-shirt. My bare feet wiggled deliciously in the soft green grass. The music flowed around and through the crowd and, I imagined, high in the Columbia Hills behind us. Vineyards stretched to either side of the stage; perhaps their ripening fruit were dancing to the music.

At 8:15 Los Lobos finished up with “My Generation”. The crowd became restless, many trips now to the restrooms and food courts. At 8:30 an announcement of the “sunset law” that has to do with purchasing alcoholic beverages after sunset.

Finally, at 8:52, Buddy Guy, the man we’ve all been waiting for, walks on stage and fills the whole place with his unique blend of smooth music.

Stars are now visible. I can see Mars, making a rare close encounter with Earth. As the music swells I am overcome with feelings of contentment and joy. Too soon, at 10:15, Buddy Guy ends the concert with “Bright Light.”

The place I’ve been writing about, of course, is Maryhill Winery. Many people were disappointed that there were no concerts in 2006, but Vicki Leuthold assures me that the changes they’ve made this year will improve the coming concerts in 2007 for everybody. That’s right, there will be concerts at Maryhill next summer.

It seemed such an appropriate time to recollect the Buddy Guy concert, with the snow and freezing rain and bitter cold we’ve had lately. That summer day still warms my heart.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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November 16, 2006

A lump of coal for the GOP

After 12 years of Republican rule—12 years that saw generous tax breaks mostly for wealthy individuals, and the reduction of programs that don't primarily benefit the wealthy, such as health care, education, environmental protection and housing—it seems that the Democrats, come January, will do something about the many millions of Americans who labor at or near the federal minimum wage of $5.15 an hour.

The administration has seen a steady loss of credibility as it paints glowing pictures of the economic situation in America: “Some say [the economy] is doing pretty well - well it may be,” Bush said, [but] “People need more money in their pocket, as far as I’m concerned.”

Some concern: Bush may as well have said the word “wealthy” before he spoke the word “people” for all the help he’s given to poor people in the USA.

So, with the GOP still in charge, it’s no surprise that the latest USDA report on hunger in the USA shows about 37 million Americans go hungry regularly, or to put it in the USDA’s obfuscating words, “experience food insecurity.” The Bush administration is saying they’re on track to cut the number in half within five years (good luck to the other 17 million!), although over $500 million in cuts to food stamps over five years was proposed in his 2006 budget, along with the elimination in his 2007 budget of the Commodity Supplemental Food Program (CSFP) that ensures about half a million Americans who fall through the food “safety net” get enough to eat.

Some “safety net.” This net has holes so large that 37 million Americans manage to fall through every year.

There’s no denying it: This has been a prosperous 12 years in the US for wealthy individuals, pharmaceutical and energy companies, and Halliburton. For the middle class and for the poor, it’s been a continuing squeeze.

With inflation eroding the minimum wage, it’s difficult to understand how Republican’s can be proud of their work when every year since 1996 (the last year the minimum wage was raised) they have forced more and more people into poverty. Their endless pronouncements, like Bush’s, that the economy is doing just fine, ignores the “food uncertainty” that so many people experience every day.

A decent boost in the minimum wage would go a long way to help answer questions posed every day by many of our fellow Americans: Should I pay for food or pay the utility bill? Should I pay for food or my medications? Should I pay for food or a visit to the dentist for my child?

Hopefully, the Democrats will provide better answers than the Republicans have, but not in time for this Christmas. Make that two lumps of coal.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved
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November 10, 2006

Perhaps the wait is finally over

Now that the elections are over, it’s time to reflect on what changes are in store for the nation. Those people who voted for a change in direction for the country are hoping that Washington will listen, and deliver. Those people who voted to “stay the course” with the current Republican leadership must resign themselves to the coming changes and work to make sure that their voices are heard, too.

I have closely been watching this election since last spring when the campaigns began in earnest. At first it seemed a stretch that the Democrats would win the House, and a complete non-starter that they would also win the Senate, given the many ways that Republicans have worked to keep their majority. Congressional districts around the country, under Republican leadership, have been gerrymandered into tortured shapes to exclude pockets of Democrats, Blacks and Latinos. At every turn, the administration stoked fears of terrorism. President Bush stated that “terrorists will win if Democrats win”. Anyone who was not with the administration’s Iraq policy was a “cut and run” Democrat.

The Republican game plan was apparent: What seemed to work since 9/11—fanning the flames of fear—would make the electorate fearful of electing Democrats.

Happily, that did not work this time. Seems that most people had finally had enough and decided that the only way this country could dig itself out of the quagmire in Iraq, deal with pressing national issues like health insurance, immigration, minimum wage, and prescription drug costs, and restore confidence in Congress, was to give the Democrats a chance.

I have trouble remembering anything of significance that the current Congress has accomplished, although I do remember George Bush cutting his vacation short and hurrying to Washington to sign Republican legislation to restore Terry Shiavo’s feeding tube. Always legislating for their corporate and religious extremist base, the Republicans succeeded only in alienating the rest of the country.

But woe to the Democrats if, like the Republicans have done for the past six years, they cut out the Republicans from the legislative process. It must be mighty tempting to turn the tables on the GOP and dish out the same treatment. But the Democrats must be above this, or gridlock will surely continue.

Wouldn’t it be truly wonderful to feel that the select group of 535 citizens whom we have elected to such high office are doing their best to do what’s right for the country? The need for health insurance knows no political distinction; the poor of all parties and religious persuasions would be helped by a boost in the minimum wage; real help with the rebuilding of New Orleans might overcome the “Katrina legacy” of the administration and congress.

I’m setting aside, for the moment, my disdain of the Republican Party, and George Bush in particular. They have an opportunity to work with the Democrats to enact long-overdue legislation that will help all our lives. Many of us have been waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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October 23, 2006

An opportunity for great change

All my life I’ve heard criticisms of Congress, starting with the rants of my grandfather Harold when I was a small boy. He would really get going, waving his hands and shouting at the far-distant ne’er do wells that they were nothing but a bunch of—well, he would curse a blue streak with my grandmother yelling at him to stop using such foul language. If he were living now, the noise in his house would be intolerable.

Seems like there’s always room for criticism of Congress. The Democrats—when they were in the majority—showed themselves unable to use the power of office to bring health insurance, for example, to the many millions of people without it. And the Republicans have fared no better.

I have been without health insurance for the better part of my life, so it’s an issue of particular importance to me. With a one-year exception when I had the Washington State plan for poorer people, I’ve had the ‘pay as you go’ plan or the ‘bankrupting bills’ plan since leaving college in 1973.

I wish there were a viable third alternative. My regard for the Republicans is at a historic low, but I have contempt for the Democrats as well. My granddad and I would find common agreement on the sad state of political affairs this year. Both of us would agree that it’s long past time to throw the bums out.

The one thing that has the power to change everything in Washington is term limits embedded in the Constitution. I just can’t believe that the nation is best served by a system that so protects incumbents that challengers face a formidable obstacle to getting elected; that members can serve a lifetime into feeble old age; that so much of the members’ time is spent raising money for reelection; that the welfare of the nation is less important than the selling of members’ votes to well-financed special interests. But I very much doubt the ability of either Republicans or Democrats to reform a system that benefits them all.

Voting my conscience and choosing a Green, Libertarian or Independent candidate would diminish by a tiny fraction my hope that the Republicans will lose control of the House and Senate.

The only sure thing I’ll do is vote, although there have been times I’ve wondered if my vote really mattered, such as when George Bush lost the popular election but won the presidency. It’s not really one man, or woman, one vote: The Electoral College gives different weights to residents of different states. But not voting is not an option, and the absentee ballot I get in the mail makes it easy to vote, if not to choose.

I urge every reader of this paper, if they haven’t already asked the county auditor to start sending them absentee ballots, to do so immediately. The time has come for great change in Washington, so let’s let our voices be heard.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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October 18, 2006

There must be something in the air

Ahhh, the fall colors, the cool days, the crisp nights; the rain showers, the regular Boom! Boom! Boom! of hunting rifles; a sense that our quiet county road has suddenly become an important link between a large residential area and a shopping center. Only, the trucks, cars, travel trailers, pickup campers, fifth-wheels, and motorhomes all creep past at 15 to 20 mph. You’d think they were in a funeral procession but for the bright orange coats and hats and the fact that every person in the vehicle is looking everywhere but straight ahead.

Two years ago one of these vehicles stopped about 50 yards east of our property. The out-of-town husband shot a deer that was 20 yards southwest of his SUV. Another 75 yards southwest of the deer was our home. I went out to speak with the couple and was told that the husband was always a careful shooter. I pointed out our home with an outstretched arm but the hunter was not penitent in the slightest. I walked away shaking my head.

The first and last time I shot at a deer was in 1970. I had taken Dad’s International Scout up the 4wd road to Leesburg above Salmon, Idaho, just road hunting. On the way back I saw a 4-point buck just 20 yards from the road. I stopped the Scout and turned off the ignition. I pointed Dad’s .30 caliber Army carbine complete with 30-shot clip out the window, aimed at the deer and pulled the trigger. The deer ran off, uninjured.

I sat and thought about that deer for some time. Thought about why I wanted to kill it. Thought about slitting its throat and gutting it and hauling it back home. Thought about how I’d forever remember the deer’s eyes calmly but alerting watching me as I put the open sights on its chest just behind the foreleg. I thought about all the venison and elk I’d eaten all my life, the bounty from a dad who was an avid hunter. Thought about how I enjoyed eating beef and chicken and turkey from the market but didn’t want to take part in the killing of the animals themselves.

The end result of all this thinking left me with conflicting thoughts and feelings; those same thoughts and feelings are present today, unchanged from that moment in Idaho. I don’t hunt for game anymore, although I have no qualms about killing animals to prevent my own starvation. I still eat meat from the market but still have uneasy feelings about it, knowing that modern corporate meat producers have no feeling for the animals they slaughter. I don’t deride hunters for I feel that many people are simply following a hunting instinct that is as old as mankind.

Somehow, though, I don’t have that instinct. And it’s just as well: The numerous deer we feed here, and give names to, would be way too easy to kill. I could kill Sheila with my .40 caliber pistol while I fed her with the other hand. Still, I’d love some venison from a hunting friend or neighbor. Sigh…

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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Thursday, October 05, 2006

A Place to Get Away From it All

In the mid-70’s I was living in a neighborhood of San Francisco called Noe Valley with my first wife, Melissa. We had moved to San Francisco from Clayton, Idaho primarily to obtain Primal Therapy at the San Francisco Center. Primal Therapy is a way of dealing with the accumulated reservoir of bad feelings from our childhood. Both of us went through the therapy, beginning with a three-week residence at the Center. This experience transformed my life in many important ways.

Being raised in a small isolated town in Idaho and disliking the congestion of San Francisco, I left The City (as they call it) with the intention of finding a remote location and writing a book about my experience with the therapy. Through a circuitous route I ended up in Meyers Cove, a place west of Challis, Idaho about eight miles east of the Idaho Primitive Area (now called the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area; jeez, what a mouthful!). Number of year-round residents? About four in an area of perhaps a hundred square miles, cut off in the winter by deep snow. Nearest electrical service and paved road was 40 miles away. No telephone, no TV, no running water.

I lived at Meyers Cove for a year, caretaking first an inactive fluorspar mine, then an empty dude ranch. I wrote the novel that winter; learned to be alone for weeks at a time; became comfortable with the isolation and lost my fear of the wilderness. Like Primal Therapy, the experience transformed my life.

Meyers Cove—the place and the name—came to represent a state of mind, an attitude, a new way of looking at myself and the world. I try to express that attitude in these columns in The Sentinel: one of deep regard for all life; a commitment to sustainable use of resources; a desire to be honest and fair in my dealings with people; a need be an independent thinker; and a desire to be free of fear.

My experience at Meyers Cove was unique in my life. I found some of my personal limits and expanded them. I learned to be very self-reliant. By meeting life-threatening challenges I learned that I am capable of much more than I would have thought possible.

I wrote about my experience at Meyers Cove in a story entitled “Coyote.” You can find it on my blog at meyerscove.blogspot.com.

I returned to Meyers Cove a few years ago. Although little had changed I did find 14 separate No Trepassing/Keep Out-type signs on the gate to the Rams Creek dude ranch. Seemed to me that the people in the new housing development up there had a whole different experience of Meyers Cove than I had. I guess they were looking for a beautiful place to get away from it all. Their warnings at the gate told me that they hadn’t succeeded yet.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved
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August 22, 2006

A Faint Voice in a Howling Wind

It was a cold day in February of 2003 as I and several other residents of my small town stood on the sidewalk outside the post office. All of us held a sign, crudely made or professionally lettered, and waved it at passing motorists. My good friend Robert, standing next to me, gave his irrepressible grin as he beseeched drivers to read his sign. Others in our small crowd hunkered down in their winter coats and suffered frozen fingers and toes as they tried to gain the attention of the passing traffic.
Despite the differences in the words and phrases, our signs all had one message: Stop the march to war in Iraq.
I have been a news junkie for years, especially with the advent of the Internet. With the Internet I have been able to read not only a wide mix of US-based news, but also English editions of foreign news sources. And not just major news outlets like CNN, The New York Times and The Guardian, but individual voices from around the world.
What I found as I perused the news was that major US sources accepted Bush administration pronouncements without question and passed them on word-for-word. Allegations of weapons of mass destruction and Al Qaeda links to 9/11 went unquestioned. Even the host of my favorite TV news show, The News Hour with Jim Lehrer, gave Donald Rumsfeld a pass in his interview in September 2002.
Where, I increasingly asked myself, is the media in this country? They seemed to be the administration’s pawns and did the administration ever use them!
From overseas, though, there were many voices clamoring for a stop to the rush to war. They weren’t heard here. US journalists, editors and publishers simply gave up any independent analysis of war topics. No wonder, then, that most of the nation came to believe that Iraq was directly linked to the World Trade Center disaster, and that Iraq was working on nuclear weapons.
A current CBS poll shows that 53% of US citizens now believe it was a mistake to invade Iraq, and no wonder: the 308 billion dollars spent so far could have provided 15 million four-year university scholarships, or given every child and many adults in the US full health coverage, or added over five million public school teachers. And the money pales in comparison to the death, mutilation, and misery forced on tens of thousands of men, women and children.
At the time, some residents gave us rude gestures or studiously looked away as they passed. It was a very patriotic time in the US and our message was not a popular one. Robert and I have seen nothing to change our minds on the Iraq war but many others have. I hope that one day, soon, those same motorists will finally have had enough and will demand an accounting for the lies and deceptions that led us into this senseless war.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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August 1, 2006

A Quiet Place in a Busy Life

In 1988 I followed an old skid trail that began at the east edge of my property where there were the remains of a loading deck. The trail crossed the property to the southwest where it climbed the western side of the butte and joined a logging road that circled around the butte to the south and led to a gravel pit. This skid trail was the beginning of my trail system.

I’ve been a hiker all my life so it was a no-brainer that when I had many hundreds of acres available I would make my own trails. I first got permission from adjoining property owners and then began. The top of the butte was always my goal. Sometimes I improved deer trails and other times built new ones.

Seen from above, if you could somehow make out the trails in the midst of the trees, the trail system would resemble a spider web, with many cross trails offering alternate routes and loops. I don’t know exactly how long the trails are but years ago a friend walked them with a pedometer and reported three and a half miles.

Most years I rake the main loop which begins at the cabin, switchbacks up the northwest side of the butte to the top then drops down the southern side to the overlook, and then returns to the cabin by circling around the west side of the butte, a total distance of perhaps a mile. Once the trail is raked there is an almost indescribable pleasure in following a narrow path of order in the midst of the forest’s chaos.

This year I’m way behind schedule, having worked as a long haul truck driver this winter and spring, then driving semis to and from forest fires to the present. Still, every chance I get I’m up there with a rake, removing a year’s worth of leaves and twigs and branches and rocks.

Yesterday, on a gorgeous, cool summer morning, I left the rake behind and climbed to the top, a vertical rise of five hundred feet. I followed a newly cleaned trail down through the quiet forest, past ancient snags and new saplings. In one place I’ve worked for ten years where the trail leads through a dense growth of ten to 25 year old firs; here the trees trunks are inches from my shoulder with all their lower branches removed. A cool, shady, twisting tunnel. I felt the familiar sense of renewal and awe as I broke out of the forest and arrived at the overlook. I wrote a poem about the trail system; you can read it at The Overlook

Over the years I’ve asked many people to join me on hikes of this Klickitat County jewel, but few have come; too busy, I guess. Or maybe I’m asking the wrong people. On the other hand, the fewer people who know about it the more likely that the butte will not be developed, and I can continue building and raking and walking for a few years more.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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July 31, 2006

The Golden Rule, Modern Version

I wouldn’t have thought my disgust with the GOP could sink any lower, but the recent passage by the House of Representatives of a bill to raise the federal minimum wage and at the same time give more tax cuts to the wealthy has done it. The GOP leadership did not allow an up or down vote on just an increase in the minimum wage.

Remember when Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist said last winter about the nomination of Supreme Court Nominee Samuel Alito: “We're gonna get an up or down vote on the Senate floor.” He was angered when the Democrats threatened to filibuster to prevent just that. Now the GOP has prevented an up or down vote on a minimum wage increase, evidently having misplaced their principles for the moment as they force the Democrats into yet another box: fail to give yet more money to the rich and be faced with GOP ads this fall accusing the Democrats of ignoring the poor, or give the GOP what it wants.

The Republicans are against minimum wage increases, of course, having held the wage to $5.15 since 1997, but they very much want to reduce the inheritance taxes of 13,000 very wealthy Americans. So a modest $2.10 increase of the minimum wage spread over three years, which wouldn’t even let the fifteen million Americans working at this wage support a family of two above the federal poverty level, is an acceptable price to pay.

My first job at the federal minimum wage was as a weekend projectionist at the Roxy Theater in Salmon when I was 16. I made $1.25 an hour which, adjusted for inflation, should now be $7.45. Keeping the minimum wage below the level of inflation means poor people must work even harder just to stay even.

Since 1983 the top 1% of America’s wealthiest citizens have increased their proportion of all the wealth in the USA from 31% to 42%. I guess the GOP feels that the rich don’t have quite enough money yet and so must cut the estate tax. This, after quietly giving themselves a raise a few weeks ago; looks like the only bad raise is a decent raise in the minimum wage.

I’m constantly reminded of what my then-ten-year-old son said was the Golden Rule: he who has the gold makes the rules. Seems to me that the rich in this country have made the rules for far too long.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

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July 16, 2006

Big Trees

Last summer I thinned an area of our forest about 300 feet square, removing 35 trees. It was agonizing at times, deciding which trees to take. The area had been crowded with trees for many decades and sunlight seldom reached the ground. In one place the choice was very tough: a large Ponderosa pine standing between a somewhat smaller pine and fir. To resolve the dilemma I asked myself the same question I’ve been asking for the nearly twenty years I’ve managed this forest: what would be the best long-term (i.e., hundred-year) solution?

Our largest trees are Ponderosa pines, around 32 inches in diameter. The stump of a fir logged many years ago is 40 inches across and had an age of about 250 years.. These are big trees for our area in Klickitat County where we receive an average of just 17 inches of rain a year.

I’ve found several definitions of old growth forests: some say size matters most—30 to 40 inches. Others say an age of over 200 years, or that it’s the mix of different canopy heights, large snags, etc. And still others say it’s all of these things. One thing is for sure as I note the stumps and snags in my forest: there was an old growth forest here at one time.

No longer. From the evidence I’ve found, the last logging of my forest was about 85 years ago. When they logged they probably clearcut, as was the practice then. My largest present trees were likely saplings and survived.

For most of my adult life I’ve been an environmentalist. Some would call me a tree-hugger. From having lived close to the land for so long I’ve gained an appreciation for how ecosystems are impacted by human activity. But I’ve never put trees above people; rather, I’ve always advocated a balance between present needs and future generations. Back in 1921, when my forest was clearcut, there seemed to be no vision of the future. “Take them all,” seemed to be the attitude. Not one old growth tree left standing if it easily could be reached with logging equipment. Seems so shortsighted

Regarding the first question I asked: What would be the best long-term solution? I decided to girdle the large pine, making it the second large pine I’ve girdled here, creating room to grow for its neighbors and creating habitat for birds, insects and squirrels for perhaps 40 years. I gave thanks to the tree for giving its life and will watch for the rest of my own life as it dies and decays and provides a home for owls and woodpeckers and Douglas squirrels. This tree may fall down about the time I die, two old-timers who grew old together.

© Grady Bradley 2006 All Rights Reserved

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July 9, 2006

Truth and Lies

One of my stepdad’s best qualities was his honesty. Maybe that’s where I got mine. Dean always “fessed up” to mistakes, and demanded the same from his children. Or perhaps I was just born that way. In any event, I find it far easier to tell the truth than to lie. And a liar needs a good memory, which leaves me out. But honesty is not the same thing as being frank. I think being frank, although more difficult to achieve, is better than honesty. I think of honesty as telling the truth in reply to a question, and frankness as offering the truth without being asked. I prefer frankness to honesty.

I’ve been long disabused of the notion of expecting honesty, let alone frankness, from politicians. And I well understand their need to be careful of what they say, with video and audio recorders capturing every public utterance. Still, I believe there are times for honesty and frankness from our politicians and public servants. Instead it seems that the very people whom we entrust with the running of this country find it extremely difficult—if not impossible—to level with us.

I blame both Democrats and Republicans equally for this state of affairs. I’ve never held the two major parties in more contempt than I have for the past few years. The Democrats are afraid of speaking the truth for fear they’ll diminish their chances of reelection next fall, and the Republicans are similarly afraid but for a different reason (although they too seek reelection): if the truth be known and widely believed their party would lose its control of Congress and the Presidency. This has been the most secretive administration in my memory, and when they’re not secretive they have a big problem with honesty.

Where is the truth about the civilian casualties in Iraq? About the so-called Social Security trust fund? Health insurance for the forty million Americans without it? Medicare’s Congressionally mandated inability to negotiate prescription drug prices?

I’ll always remember a Pogo comic strip I read many years ago that had this caption: “We have met the enemy, and the enemy is US.” I fear that until my fellow Americans demand honesty, even frankness, from our leaders, we’ll continue to be misled, fed half-truths and outright lies, and be sheltered from painful facts. The truth is, we have a problem with honesty ourselves, and we don’t want to hear the painful facts or be inconvenienced with uncomfortable truths. We continue to vote against our self-interest and return to office the very politicians who could help our lives and instead diminish them.

Honesty. Seems to be out of fashion here in the USA in July of 2006. We can change that in November, but only if we can be honest with ourselves.

© 2006 by Grady, Bradley All Rights Reserved

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July 9, 2006

Home Sweet Home

I grew up in Salmon, Idaho, about halfway up the state and just south of the Idaho/Montana border. Our family moved there in 1955 when I was seven. My stepdad, Dean, worked for the Idaho Power Company until retirement, and transferred from Pocatello to Salmon for the outdoor recreation it offered.

Salmon is much like Goldendale, although more so in nearly every respect. It’s nearest neighbor larger than itself is Hamilton, Montana, 140 miles to the north. The Salmon River bisects the town. Ponderosa Pine forests on high mountain ranges surround the town. There were a seemingly endless number of creeks that we fished and a limitless number of places to camp. There wasn’t much rainfall, but plenty of snow and cold snaps, the elevation being 4500 feet. The Lemhi Valley stretched to the south all the way to Leadore, and offered outstanding fishing in the Lemhi River.

My friends and I, at twelve years old, floated the Salmon on inner tubes from Williams Creek to Carmen, a distance of about eight miles. No lifejackets. Also at twelve we camped alone above the timberline on the four-wheel-drive trail to Leesburg. There was a huge amount of personal freedom and we took advantage of it without knowing we had it.

I settled in Goldendale eighteen years ago when I bought a five-acre parcel from Tom Cuff. Next year I bought an adjoining five, and ten years later, with my wife Joy, we bought an adjoining ten. For eighteen years I’ve been thinning and grooming the forest, only taking smaller, diseased, overcrowded trees, and have built about three miles of walking trail from our cabin up and around the butte.

As I walk these trails, and work in my forest, I could imagine I was living near Salmon. Large Yellowbelly pines and Douglas firs that have been here for well over a century, cicadas in full song in the heat of the day, sounding like so many small New Years noisemakers that you twirl round and round; deer, squirrels and raven aplenty; the gentle rush of wind that tosses the tops of the trees; quiet nights only punctuated with crickets and coyotes. The only thing missing is running water.

There must be many homes like mine in Klickitat County. Homes that offer spaciousness and privacy and quiet, lots of wildlife, and a sense of peace and harmony. I moved here to escape the congestion of Portland/Vancouver—where I had lived and worked for eleven years—and still be close to my school age son. I stayed for all the above, and more. My fervent hope is that I’ll be here, at my present home, for another eighteen years, and continue into old age the loving process of caring for this twenty acres in such a way that my grandchildren’s grandchildren may admire the now-old-growth forest with its immense trees and be awed by the stunning views from the trails I made so long ago.

I guess this has more to offer than Salmon, after all.

© 2006 by Grady Bradley, All Rights Reserved

TheSeekster is finally released

A program I've been working on since 1998 has finally been released into the wild. Already, I see unauthorized bittorrents of the installer with a wrapper that attempts to connect to the internet. . TheSeekster is an address book for Microsoft Windows unlike any other, and should find use by many people. The free version can be downloaded from www.theseekster.com, and purchased there too.

Retouch

A short story by Grady Bradley
Copyright 2000 All rights reserved

Karen was applying eyeliner, her cell phone held to one ear. Judy always let it ring three times before picking up her phone so that her Caller ID unit could kick in. Such a waste of time, she thought: I could write a paragraph in the time Judy wastes on her rings.

“Hey, Karen! You ready?”

Karen dropped the eyeliner into the clutter around her sink and picked up a tube of bright red lipstick. She was long past expecting a simple hello from her friend. “Three shakes,” she replied, painting her upper lip. She smacked her lips together then eyed the results in the mirror. “Your car?”

“You can ask that, after the cab ride home last week? Sheesh, when are you going to replace that dinosaur?”

“Petal was just tired, was all. She’s running fine now.”

“Let’s take the Beemer, anyway. We might have company later and, Heaven knows, we could use it!”

As they bantered, Karen loosely tied a purple paisley scarf around her neck, checked her earrings, then left the upstairs bathroom, the only room in the house with a mirror.

“See you soon,” she said.

Karen and Judy sat in their favorite booth at The Digs. They were awaiting the start of a performance by Larry Paget, jazz pianist on tour from L.A. The dinner crowd was just now arriving, chairs scraping the hardwood floor, a few tables rearranged for dinner parties, the chatter of voices swelling by the moment. The walls of the large room held stark silhouettes: white on black city skylines and black on white jazz bands. The low stage at the front of the room was in deep shadow, empty but for a grand piano lit by a pale blue spotlight.

“What have you heard about Larry?” Judy asked.

“Not a lot,” Karen replied. “I hear he’s doing well in L.A. Seen his picture?” She held a publicity photo of a thin, balding man in his forties seated at a glossy black grand piano.

“Yeah. He needs some retouch work. Hope his music is better.”

Their waitress arrived and they ordered drinks.

Karen quickly scribbled on a napkin and handed it to the waitress. “Would you see that Mr. Hunt gets this, please?”

Judy turned to Karen with raised eyebrows. “And what was that?” she murmured as the waitress walked away. “Couldn’t be a love note at this early stage, could it?”

“Judy, really. Just asking if he’d like to join us later for a drink.” Judy rolled her eyes. Karen continued, “And stop that yeah, right look, if you don’t mind. Besides, I need some background for my column.”

“Seems you’ve gotten quite a lot of background since Hank died.”

Karen turned away, her shoulders slumping, not needing a reminder of the failed relationships Judy referred to.

“Oh, shit, Karen. I’m sorry.” Judy put her hand on Karen’s shoulder and rubbed gently. “That wasn’t fair,” she said. “So you’ve known a few guys, who hasn’t?”

“It’s OK. You’re right.” She squeezed Judy’s hand. “Seems I can’t find Mr. Right no matter how hard I try.”

Karen’s thoughts drifted as her fingertips idly smoothed the cool linen tablecloth. She sipped from her drink, felt the ice nudge her lip, the cold liquid chill her mouth. She remembered Tony, a roommate who had moved out six months ago. I liked what you did with ice, she thought: brushed my nipples until they were hard and high, then inflamed them with your hot mouth.

“Hey,” Judy said, brightly, bringing Karen back to the present, “maybe Mr. Paget’s a way cool guy and we’ll have a swell time.”

“Might be seeing some pigs fly later, too.”

They shared a laugh, then looked up as Larry Paget walked out to the piano. Several white spotlights now lit the stage.

He was tall, perhaps six feet six. He lowered his head to the microphone. “I’d like to dedicate this first number to Karen Brooks, editor and columnist of The Blue Note,” he said, his eyes searching the audience. “You’ll surely remember the tune, even though it’s forty years old.”

God, what a gaffe, Karen thought. Judy giggled and whispered in her ear, “Jerk.”

Karen recognized the tune immediately, Art Tatum’s classic It’s Only a Paper Moon, but she was disappointed with Larry’s approach; instead of a slow, gentle sway, as in the original, Larry was playing with an upbeat rhythm, jarring her expectations for the piece. OK, the jazz critic in her chided, drop the expectations and let the music speak for itself. She closed her eyes and leaned back.

Larry segued smoothly into Earl “Fatha” James’ You Are Too Beautiful, then jumped into the stride rhythm of Fats Waller’s Truckin’.

Karen found herself becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the set wore on. Oh, she recognized the tunes, all right; anybody would. Yet there was something about his style that clashed with her feelings for jazz.

As the set ended to enthusiastic applause Judy interrupted her thoughts.

“So, what do you think? Does his music need a retouch, too?”

Karen roused herself. “I can’t figure it out. It’s like he knows all the moves, but that’s all he knows.”

“Huh?”

“Well, he’s like a concert pianist performing a Mozart Sonata, flawlessly.”

“And that’s bad?”

“For jazz it is; there’s no independent life. He’s not interpreting the music, he’s playing it.”

“Better play your cards pretty close to your chest. Here he comes.”

Larry had left the stage and now walked up to their table and introduced himself.

“And you must be Karen Brooks,” he said, bending over her outstretched hand with an awkward smile.

After they introduced themselves, Karen invited him to sit down.

“So,” she said, “you’re from L.A.”

“Canoga Park, actually.”

“The Valley.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Went to school at UCLA.”

“No kidding! Me, too. Majored in music. And you?”

“Oh, men.”

They laughed.

“She was the only female computer geek on campus,” Judy said.

“You still do computers?” Larry asked.

“It’s my living.”

“And jazz?”

Karen paused a moment in thought. “I feel like—if I’d learned to play an instrument when I was young, I’d now be playing jazz. But it’s too late to begin, now”

“Maybe not,” Larry said. “Still, I’ve heard your column mentioned in L.A. Not bad for a Portland jazz critic.”

“So,” Judy said, “how long are you in town?”

Larry cleared his throat. “This gig lasts three weeks. Don’t know after that.” His eyes flicked to Karen’s face. “I’ll be looking for a place to stay.”

“You mean just for the gig?” Karen asked.

“No, I’d like to live here. All this green, less traffic, good jazz clubs. Good jazz writers.”

He said this directly to Karen.

Whoa! she thought. He may be skinny, but maybe not all over.

“I’m looking for a roommate,” Karen blurted, and suddenly her face was white hot. For a moment she could say nothing more, was afraid even to breathe. Gently, beneath the table, Judy’s foot kicked her own.

Karen felt him sizing her up and it embarrassed her. She found herself praying he’d say no; forgive her her brashness.

“Thanks,” Larry said. He saluted her with his drink. “Do you have an application with you?”

Karen struggled to speak calmly, feeling herself carried along, mouthing a script. She forced a smile. “Maybe you’d like to come over tomorrow and fill one out?”

From the edge of her vision she saw Judy roll her eyes and shake her head.

To hell with Judy, she thought; he’s not so bad. Not Mr. Right, but it’s not like I’m going to marry him. “Say, four o’clock?”

Karen left her bedroom wearing her terry cloth robe. As she passed the partly open door of the upstairs bathroom she glimpsed Larry standing in front of the mirror adjusting his toupee. In the three months he’d lived with her she had found him to be terribly vain. He would spend fully twenty minutes every morning adjusting and combing and readjusting his hairpiece, turning his head to left and right, his eyes never leaving the mirror. This and other traits, like his obsessive need to talk about his music, had quickly cooled the passion she’d felt early on.

“I’ll have breakfast ready in a few minutes,” she called as she started down the stairs.

He stepped out of the bathroom. “Could I have a bit less margarine on the toast this morning? I swear I’ve gained five pounds since I moved in.”

His shallow smile did nothing to remove the sting from his words. Karen was painfully aware of her own plumpness and she felt the sideways cut of his comment. Like last night in bed, when she’d gotten on top and he’d jokingly complained that he couldn’t breathe.

“OK,” she said without looking around and continued down the stairs. Gone were the playful words and gestures, the carefree laughter of their first few days together. She felt glum as she entered the kitchen and started the coffee. Not so many grounds, he’d complained on their third morning together; I’m hypersensitive to caffeine. And not just caffeine, she’d discovered. He couldn’t be in the house when she vacuumed or dusted: allergies to dust mites. Couldn’t be in the house when she cleaned: allergies to cleaning chemicals. One day she returned some of his clothes from the dryer and she found him bent over a small overnight case full of prescription drugs. Reluctantly, he informed her they were for allergies, high blood pressure and acid reflux. Her reply was reflexive, given his comments about her weight, and she offered to hire a nurse. They hadn’t talked the rest of the day.

Karen broke some eggs into a pan, placed bread in the toaster, set out a couple plates on the kitchen table. She turned as Larry walked in.

“Coffee ready yet?” he asked, sniffing.

Karen glanced at the coffee maker. Anyone could see that it had just started working, with the coffee dribbling into the pot. Annoyed, she said “As you can see.”

“Oh.” Larry turned to leave. “Let me know when its ready, will you?”

Moments later Karen heard him practicing on his piano in the living room, the piano he’d moved at great expense from L.A. At least, Larry called it practicing. Karen called it many things, few of them complimentary, and never to his face. Her finely developed sense of what made jazz a living organism was daily assaulted by his playing. She remembered the night she’d met him at The Digs and how she’d known then that something was wrong with his music. She now knew exactly what was wrong. Larry had no talent for improvisation. He did have a phenomenal memory, though, which allowed him to mimic a wide variety of artists and to combine their artistry in subtle ways beyond the recognition of most jazz fans. But not beyond Karen’s. It wasn’t that she hated his music. What she disliked most was the lie. He constantly talked about “his” music, while all the time it was someone else’s.

The coffee was ready. She poured two cups, placed his precisely buttered toast onto his plate and placed his exactly timed over-easy egg alongside his toast (I simply delight in soaking my toast in egg yolk, he’d say). She then prepared her own plate and called to him.

The music stopped abruptly and he joined her at the table.

“Mmmm,” he said. “Looks good enough to eat.”

“Thanks,” she said mechanically, not charmed by his witticism. “Look, Larry. It feels like this isn’t working out so well.”

“What isn’t?”

He gave her a bland look over a forkful of egg. She watched as he put the egg in his mouth and chewed; she’d found it difficult to watch him eat as his lips formed a small pout with each clench of his jaw.

“What do you mean, what isn’t? What is working. The fun’s gone. I find myself waiting each day for you to leave so I can feel comfortable in my own home.”

Larry sipped his coffee, looked down at his plate a moment.

“OK, it’s been difficult at times.” He raised his eyes to hers. “But that’s normal.”

“Difficulties are normal,” she said. “What isn’t normal is to feel uncomfortable in your own home.”

“You feel uncomfortable?”

“I’ve said so twice.”

“And it has something to do with me?”

“Larry, it has everything to do with you. Cleaning house is now a major—“

“I never hassle you about cleaning house.”

“The hassle is that you’re sensitive to every goddamn thing that floats in the air around here. If the windows aren’t opened rain or shine then you’re into your portable pharmacy for relief.”

“And that’s it? My allergies?”

Karen sighed heavily and got to her feet. She brought the coffee pot and filled both their cups, then stood with her back to the sink, cradling her warm cup with her palms.

“No, it’s not just your allergies. You make fun of my weight—“

“I do not.” He said this indignantly, straightening his back and turning to face her.

“You do, and you do it in such a way that when I object you can deny it. You have a way of sticking it to people but disguising it as humor.”

“Maybe you’re just being defensive.”

“If I am I feel entitled.”

Karen felt her shoulders tightening up. A dull ache was growing along the sides of her neck. She set her cup on the counter and tried to touch her left ear to her shoulder, stretching the muscles, then did the same to the other side. Larry watched her as she rolled her head in a full circle, trying to ease the tight muscles.

“Feeling tense?” he asked.

Karen listened not to the words but to the tone, searching in vain for evidence of concern. In that moment she knew their relationship was over. All over but the very worst part: the confrontation, the argument, the resolution, the separation. Suddenly she felt weary, unable to find the energy needed to carry her through the next few weeks as Larry found other housing. And Judy. Judy would so want to say I told you so, but she wouldn’t. Thank God for good friends.

“Yes, Larry. I feel very tense.”

Larry carefully set his coffee cup precisely in the middle of his saucer and with his long thin fingers carefully positioned the cup’s handle at a right angle to the table. Having done so he pushed his chair back. The sound of the heavy wooden chair’s legs sliding across the hardwood floor filled the kitchen and seemed to echo from the walls. Karen heard Larry’s leather shoes scuffing the floor as he stood. He hid a phlegmy cough in his fist; Karen watched as he searched for a napkin.

“Here,” she said, handing him a tissue from the box on the counter.

“Thanks.”

Larry wiped his hand then stuffed the tissue into a pocket.

“So, what now?” he asked.

“I’ve decided I’d like to live alone.”

Larry crossed his arms. “When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“No, I meant when did you decide.”

“Just now.”

Karen watched his face. His gaze was over her shoulder, out the window above the sink. She sensed a gathering of the lines at the corner of his mouth and between his eyes. His mouth worked as though exploring a broken tooth. She didn’t really want a drink of coffee right now but she felt compelled to smoothly raise the cup to her lips, sip the hot liquid, and keep her gaze steady on him.

Larry’s eyes briefly met hers then looked away. His hands found his pockets and stayed there.

“Well,” he said. “I guess that’s that. Too bad. Could have been a lot of fun.”

Just like Larry, Karen thought. Say one thing and mean another. The implied accusation stung but she shrugged it off. “We did have some fun, Larry. In the beginning.”

“Didn’t last very long.”

“No.”

Larry seemed to brighten. His hands came out of his pockets and he clasped them behind his back. “I guess we’ll be running into each other now and then, you being the famous columnist and I the famous jazz pianist.”

“Famous isn’t the right word.” Karen felt closure approaching, grateful for Larry’s acceptance of the end of the relationship. “Well-known, maybe. I don’t think we’ll ever be famous.”

Larry immediately stiffened and frowned. “Never say never,” he said with a tight smile.

“No,” Karen replied. “Never say never.”

Karen picked up the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. She ran hot water, squirted a dab of soap and began washing up.

Larry cleared his throat and walked toward the door. “Guess I’ll be finding another place. Sure hate to move my piano again.”

“How many times have you moved it?”

“Oh, too many. Don’t remember, really.” Larry stood at the door, one hand on the knob. “Should get a portable keyboard.”

Karen said nothing, glanced at him then returned to the dishes.

“Well,” Larry said, his voice unusually high, “guess I’ll be off.” He opened the door and paused. “See you later.” He pointedly waited for her response.

Karen resisted a sudden need to ask him to stay. She turned to him, her hands remaining in the hot sudsy water. “OK.” And again, she had to stop herself from blurting out Have a nice day. “See you later,” she said instead, a gentle smile corrupted by other words clamoring for release.

When the door closed behind him Karen released a deep breath. She felt she’d been holding it for half an hour. She let her head fall to her chest for a moment, listening as his footsteps faded and then the front door opened and closed. The house was very quiet now. The round blue clock on the wall measured the seconds like a metronome. She dried her hands on a worn cotton towel and slipped a Miles Davis CD into the player. Karen felt herself melt as Godchild filled the room with light and energy and life. She had wished for years she could play the piano, never more so than right now. As the music swept her away she imagined the electric vibrancy of muscles and nerves and blood and bone and brain knowing an instrument so well—and being so familiar with the rhythms and patterns and motions of jazz—and being able to meld all the disparate sources of talent and genius and mechanical dexterity—that the music released was like a short story by Ernest Hemingway, a painting by Picasso, a poem by Walt Whitman: a work of art which transcended the artist and the medium.

She envied Miles Davis and many other jazz greats. But it was enough to make their music her own, as now when she simply stood, eyes closed, in her kitchen, on a drizzly gray Wednesday morning in Portland, Oregon, preparing farewells to her latest relationship.

She’d never envy Larry. And he’d forget her quickly. Judy would keep her admonishment subdued out of friendship, and maybe Mr. Right was just around the corner. No harm in looking.

The Middle Fork Trail

This is a chapter from a book I'm writing. All the events and places are real.
Copyright 2001 by Grady Bradley
All rights reserved



Earlier that year, while caretaking the Duck Creek mine, my first home at Meyers Cove, I hiked the trail down Camas Creek to the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, which flowed north through the Idaho Primitive Area. Growing up in Salmon, I was never very far from the Primitive Area (now called the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area). It was maybe twenty miles to the west of the town, accessible only by trail as you got closer to the boundary. My home at Duck Creek was the closest I’d ever been: the border of the primitive area was just eight miles down Camas Creek at the mouth of Yellowjacket Creek. Once every week or two, hikers or horseback riders would pass in front of my cabin on their way to the Middle Fork, stopping for a bit to pass the time of day. Each time, I sought to learn a little more about the trail.

I learned that the Middle Fork was about fourteen miles west, with the trail following Camas Creek the whole way. The portion of the trail nearest me had a few washouts but nothing that couldn’t be crossed. The terrain near the cabin tended to be steeper, with the trail fairly near the creek. Further down, nearer the river, the terrain flattened out and the trail passed through lots of brush. An easy hike going downstream and only moderately difficult coming back up.

It wasn’t long before I decided to see the Middle Fork for myself.

Like every other human being, I have made many mistakes. The more serious of these mistakes had great potential to either kill or seriously injure me. Such was my Middle Fork trip, with mistakes aplenty.

To prepare, I stuffed my backpack with a nylon shelter half, fifty feet of parachute cord, food for several days, stick matches in a waterproof metal container, backpacker’s grill, hatchet, candle lantern, iodine tablets, paperback book, first aid kit, tea, metal cup, cheap sleeping bag, foam sleeping pad, hat, my journal and pens, long underwear and a cotton long sleeved shirt. When I left I was wearing a cotton t-shirt, cotton jeans, socks, cotton Levi jacket, high-top leather work boots, leather gloves and, for the first eight miles of the trip, my Bell motorcycle helmet.

The weather was gorgeous: sunny, clear, temperature in the sixties as I left around nine a.m. I thought I was well prepared for a brief trek. Was I ever wrong.

I had driven the Trail 90 motorcycle many hundreds of miles at Meyers Cove, and an assortment of other motorcycles many thousands of miles, but I’d never before driven a cycle on a mountainous hiking trail. Live and learn, right? Nearly didn’t live to learn a bunch of valuable lessons.

My plan was to drive the cycle to the border of the Primitive Area at the mouth of Yellowjacket Creek, leave the cycle there and continue on foot down to the Middle Fork. This plan ran into difficulty a mile or so down the trail as I found it difficult to go forward and impossible to back up. The slope of the sidehill at this point was about sixty degrees. The trail crossed a slide zone perhaps two hundred feet across, not a shrub or tree in sight to anchor the soil, and Camas Creek to my left, right at the bottom, rushing and tumbling down a narrow gorge. Not only was the slope steep but the trail itself was angled down across this slide zone perhaps twenty degrees. Foolishly, I had driven into the slide zone without understanding what lay just ahead. When the realization hit me I stopped immediately, shut off the engine, wished I hadn’t done what I had just done, and unsuccessfully tried to pull the cycle back up the trail.

The main problem here was that – although I could rest my right foot on the ground - as the sidehill rose steeply to my right - my left foot was simply dangling in the air if I raised it off the foot peg. Plus, the trail was only eight to ten inches wide. The danger was very clear: if the cycle tipped even slightly to the left there could be no recovery, and if I were astride the cycle at the time, I would fall over with it.

Shit, I thought. Maybe should have left the cycle at home.

But here I was in a bed of my own making. So, in an excess of caution, I kept the engine off, transmission in neutral, and carefully applying the front brake with my right hand and leaning to the right with my right foot against the uphill slope, I crossed the slide zone in baby steps.

Yes, I got across without incident, but a troubling feeling persisted as the trail improved and I drove on with the engine, that this nasty little bit of trail would be waiting for me on the way back.

The terrain was very similar to that back at the cabin: steep, sagebrush-covered mountainsides, some Ponderosa pine, and occasional thick willow stands down near the creek. The air was sweet with the scent of the sage and the day had warmed nicely. The sound of Camas Creek, a creek that would pass for a river in many places in the world, was a constant for the fourteen miles to the Middle Fork. Where the trail was steep the creek fell heavily and loudly over boulders the size of cars. As I kept glancing at the creek I failed to find a safe place to recover from falling in: the current and volume of water would sweep me rapidly downstream against a chaos of boulders.

All this, of course, made me drive very carefully and slowly. Also, I vowed not to cross another of those nightmare slide zones like I had previously encountered but it was impossible to turn the cycle around and I was forced to cross two more, the last of which would nearly lead to my death tomorrow.


I finally reached the Primitive Area boundary at Yellowjacket Creek. A Forest Service sign announced that motor vehicles were prohibited and I dutifully parked the cycle to the side of the trail.

From here on, the sidehills weren’t so steep and the trail evened out somewhat although as the trail followed the creek bottom more closely it also wound through brush that had overgrown the sides of the trail. Although the trail itself was clear, I was constantly brushing against willows and pine branches with my head and shoulders, sagebrush with my knees, and other smaller plants with my boots. At the time, I attached no particular significance to the overgrown trail.

Late in the afternoon, with tired feet and aching shoulders, I arrived at the Middle Fork. Its shores were rocky with plenty of sandy patches suitable for pitching a tent. All around were sagebrush-covered hills with the occasional Ponderosa pine, nothing you’d call a forest. The river entered my view to the left, perhaps a half mile away, flowed vigorously past, then continued on to the north, disappearing around a bend another half mile away. The air temperature had risen to perhaps eighty degrees, making for a very pleasant afternoon. I saw no clouds in the sky and looked forward to a beautiful evening.

Over the next few hours I explored up and down the river, finding recent evidence of campfires, horse manure and faded footprints. While I was sitting on the sand, leaning back against a large rock and writing in my journal, a large inflatable boat passed by, carrying perhaps eight paddlers in bright orange life jackets and two standing men at front and back, each with a long sweeping oar in his hands. I smiled and waved and would have welcomed their company for a time but the river’s current carried them past at a walking pace. Greetings were exchanged, and good wishes, and then they were gone around the bend. The sense of aloneness deepened dramatically in the moments after their passing but quickly faded.

With the remaining daylight I set up the shelter half. Under this went the sleeping pad and sleeping bag and everything else I’d brought. I fixed some tea over an open fire and had a dinner of beef jerky and granola. Before the light faded completely I made my daily journal entry accompanied by the tumbling rapids of the river only twenty feet away.

For perhaps half an hour I read by candlelight the paperback book I’d brought, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” I was quite taken by the book; Robert Pirsig, the author, and I had both come through trials by fire. Both of us had that delicate “mechanic’s touch” that senses the limits of metal’s elasticity. Both of us sought to understand the function that lay beneath form, to understand the whole of which things are a part, desired to live a life of Quality. I would love to meet this man tell him how much I enjoyed his book but the important things I’d want to say could not be expressed in that brief meeting; perhaps he’d see in my eyes the length of my journey and, without needing words, would somehow acknowledge a fellow traveler.


I awoke before dawn, chilled despite my long underwear. The weather had changed: I couldn’t see anything at all, which meant an overcast sky was hiding the faint starlight and what should be the faint light of false dawn. A sound, so faint as to be almost beyond hearing, lightly brushed my ears. I extended a hand beyond the shelter half and felt wet ground. A very soft drizzle, falling as gently as snowflakes, caressed the back of my hand. The pervasive smell of sage was now muted, overpowered by wet rocks and sand. The river continued its murmured passsage.

I have no problem admitting it: I’m a fair weather camper. I don’t like being wet while camping. Especially I don’t like being wet and cold. And I dislike about equally being stuck inside a tent or, as now, under a shelter half, for the duration of inclement weather.

Nuts, I thought. This sucks. I responded to the turn of the weather by burying myself deeper into my sleeping bag, closing my eyes, relaxing all my muscles and letting myself drift in thought until sunrise.

Sunrise, of course, never happened. Instead, as the day slowly, sluggishly lightened, I could see low clouds hiding the sky and obscuring even the tops of nearby hills. The drizzle that I had awakened to earlier was still falling.

I stayed in the sleeping bag and read until eight. I then got up and built a small fire in front of the shelter half. I cursed the cheap metal waterproof match container that was difficult to open with wet fingers and didn’t offer an adequate striking surface. But the tea revived my spirits and the granola was adequate for breakfast. Still the drizzle continued. The air temperature by eleven a.m. hadn’t climbed above forty or forty five degrees but, mercifully, the drizzle had stopped.

What a miserable day. Stuck under the shelter half for most of the morning. No sign of improvement in the weather. There wasn’t a breath of wind and the low clouds just hung where they were as though they been assigned permanent positions.

My reaction to this weather was predictable if not very smart: hike out. At no time did I give a thought to the trail back up Camas Creek. Even though I had walked down this trail just yesterday, the significance of all that brush and this morning’s drizzle just didn’t make an impression.

And so, blithely and naively, I packed up and left. The shelter half was so wet that I tied it to the bottom of the pack. The sleeping bag I tied in its usual place on top of the pack. I left my long johns on because of the cold. In other words, I made every mistake there was to be made.

Within a mile of leaving the river I was wet. By two miles I was soaked. As the six miles between the Middlefork and Yellowjacket Creek passed, I became a walking, dripping, cold automaton. Just a few miles more, I kept thinking; no need to stop, just keep walking and I’ll be home soon. There had been no rain or drizzle, but everything in the environment was wet. I came to absolutely hate every leaf and pine needle and branch that I could not avoid, and there were many thousands of them. Each little leaf and needle was burdened with as much water as it could hold from hours of the fine drizzle, and each little leaf and pine needle willingly gave up that burden with each touch of my hat, my face, my shoulders, my arms, hands, waist, legs and feet. Did I mention the backpack? Soaked. As I neared Yellowjacket Creek, staving off the worst of the chills by the increasing steepness of the trail, I imagined getting on the cycle and spending at most forty five minutes driving the remaining eight miles to the cabin. I knew the slide zones would be tricky, but with great care and a few minutes for each one, I could manage it.

Boy, was I ever wrong.


I reached the Honda about three o’clock. My fingers inside the wet leather gloves were cold and stiff. My feet were ok, if soggy wet. Everything I wore and carried was sopping. The air temperature was up to about fifty degrees. Still the low clouds, no wind, no sound but the continuous splashing of Camas Creek and my soggy boots. There must have been heavy rain at the headwaters of Camas Creek for it was now boiling down the mountain.

With difficulty I removed my gloves, got the ignition key from my pocket, started the engine, stuffed my wet hat under a rope securing the sleeping bag, retrieved the helmet from beside the cycle and put it on, put my wet gloves back on and headed up the trail.

This was not the same experience as coming down the trail yesterday. I was continually fending off rocks and brush as I drove, in large part because of my inability to steer accurately. Within a very few minutes I was shivering heavily. The drizzle started again. Rocks on the trail that were dry and easy to navigate yesterday became slick obstacles today. I was glancing at the odometer every minute, watching the tenths of a mile creep past. My shivering had now spread throughout my body. I could not control my lower jaw and if I didn’t keep it clamped tight it would shake frighteningly. Not far now, I kept thinking. At that point, perhaps five miles from the cabin, if I had just continued at the current rate, I could have made it home safely in another twenty, maybe thirty minutes. I knew, with a disturbing, anxiety-inducing certainty that I’d better get there soon.

Instead, I wrecked. I was on a very rocky part of the trail; rocks about five to six inches across, a few larger, were half-buried in the trail, making for an uneven surface that needed constant attention. At this point the trail was turning to the left. The slope of the sidehill I was crossing was near sixty degrees, Camas Creek boiling past about seventy feet below. Above and below the trail was a tumble of huge boulders, those jagged car-sized boulders I’d seen yesterday, held in place on the steep slope only because of their irregular shape and huge size. Undoubtedly, workers many years ago had worked very hard indeed to construct the narrow walking trail through this mess.

Because of my growing anxiety to get home quickly I had abandoned my earlier cautious approach to crossing these steep sidehills and instead was just driving them normally, both feet on the pegs, legs ready to fend off as needed. So when the rear tire slipped to the left on a jagged rock, and the cycle and myself began tipping outward to the right, I was powerless to control, let alone stop, the fall.

That fall was right up there, along with the wreck south of Arco that shattered my left leg and by a miracle didn’t kill me, and the locking of the front tire on the Yamaguchi outside Baker that saw me flying over the handlebars.

If I let myself remember that fall fully, remember what I felt as I and cycle tipped out into space, I can’t help but shudder. As I lost control I knew this was going to have a very bad outcome. In the two to three seconds it took from being upright to impacting the rocks below, I had time for several thoughts. I remember feeling that this was it, the Big One. The Last One. I remember thinking that even if I didn’t die outright from the fall, or by drowning in Camas Creek, I was so weakened by hypothermia that I wouldn’t have the strength to make it back to the cabin with the bones that would be breaking soon. And, lastly, I remembered to push away from the cycle and keep myself out from under it as it fell.

As I look back on this incident two things strike me: that I had been exceedingly foolish to leave my dry bed at the Middle Fork, knowing (or should have known) of the challenges that I would face on the return trip; and, doing all the right things after the accident and thereby giving myself that slender thread of hope that would ultimately see me safely back home.


My guardian angel must have been with me that day. How else to explain no broken bones from such a fall, no dislocations. The helmet I wore surely prevented a major head injury because my head had struck heavily against the rocks several times as I tumbled down.

When I came to my senses I was lying on my back, crosswise on the steep, flat face of a ten foot boulder with my shoulder and hip resting against the next boulder toward the creek. Cautiously, I raised my head and looked around. I had fallen about thirty feet below the trail. The cycle was lying about ten feet away, wedged on its side in the V formed by two large rocks, its engine running at idle. From its angle, I knew the engine would be starving for lubricating oil and would be damaged soon. But I didn’t care a whole lot right at the moment.

Before trying to move, I closed my eyes and took an internal inventory: any severe pain? No. I let my awareness run up and down each leg, each arm, in my abdomen, chest, face, head. No warning signals. Intense pain in my left shoulder and hip. Moderate pain in numerous other places.

Opening my eyes again I checked for double vision (none); tried remembering my name and address (no problem).

The Honda’s engine was still running at idle, its rear tire slowly turning. Cautiously, groaning with the effort of lifting the wet pack still on my back, I pulled myself over to the cycle and awkwardly reached for the ignition key. I couldn’t turn it with my fingers, they were so stiff. Got the key between my index and middle fingers and turned my whole hand. The engine died immediately. This effort took more that I would have thought and I lay back against the rock, exhausted.

I could hear Camas Creek, maybe forty feet below. I couldn’t see it because of the wet edge of the boulder I was lying against, but the sound flowed on, a vigorous, energetic sound as all that snowmelt and rainwater tumbled past me on the way to the Middle Fork.

The drizzle had stopped. Inhaling deeply I smelled a thousand tons of wet rock, wet leaves, wet dirt. Nothing that was of concern before the wreck had gotten any better in the few minutes since I’d tumbled off the trail: I was still dressed in cold, wet clothing; I was still carrying a wet pack on my back filled almost entirely with wet camping equipment. I was still suffering from hypothermia. Since the wreck my circumstances had worsened dramatically.

I still hadn’t moved after shutting off the engine. As I lay on the rock, giving vague attention to lifeless fingers and toes, and real attention to the return of shaking and juddering, I was keenly aware of how close I was getting to dying of exposure. This knowledge had a profound effect on me. I realized that if I didn’t do the right things right now, given my dwindling strength in each passing moment, I would be dead before midnight. I thought of that time many years before, when I had faced a difficult choice, and had done the right thing.