And Furthermore column: WC homing beacon

And Furthermore column, Wallowa County Chieftain. April 3, 2013

All roads lead to Wallowa County. Even a dirt road next to the beach in Baja Mexico a few weeks ago.

I knew Chris and Christina Geyer of Lostine would be at their place in Los Barriles. I was visiting Baja with my mom, dad and aunt Donna and hoped to see the Geyers, but we were staying a couple hours south of them and the timing didn’t look like it was going to work.

Then Chris put on an M. Crow & Company t-shirt. I’m convinced that’s what triggered the Wallowa County homing beacon. Our plans changed and we ended up driving by Los Barriles, where the Geyers have their place. I didn’t have a way to get a message to the Geyers on the fly. But I didn’t need to.

To calculate the probability of me driving by Chris Geyer at the precise moment we crossed paths would take one of those computers that fill a warehouse to factor in the chain of events, wrong turns and me getting lost on just the right dirt road at precisely the right instant for our rental car to be where it was when I saw Chris turn onto the road. Los Barriles has a population of around 5,000 and it’s spread out pretty good. Big enough that the magnetic force of an M. Crow & Company t-shirt is the only reasonable explanation.

Chris was coming back from a beach volleyball game. I performed a highly illegal U-turn that should have landed me in a Mexican prison and set off after him in a low-speed chase, tracking him down at his hacienda.

 This wasn’t the first time Wallowa County magnetism had worked for the Geyers in Mexico. They’d had a similar run-in when they knew Ted and Sue Juve were in the area but didn’t know how to – oh, look, there they are right there.

My last Wallowa County coincidence before this was crossing paths with Brady Goss in the Columbia Gorge. I said Hi, Brady. Instead of looking surprised he shook his head and said I was the third person from Wallowa County he’d seen in a few days while traveling from a music performance. I don’t know what’s going on, he said.

Well, Brady, it works like this. People are drawn to Wallowa County for various reasons. The natural splendor, Andy Griffith Show sense of community, outstanding warrants, whatever. Our law enforcement crew handles that last bunch. Once an individual resides in Wallowa Country for a particular length of time, they absorb certain characteristics and properties.

Some evidence that Wallowa County has a grip on you are simple enough. Recent studies indicate that 86% of Wallowa County residents have dog hair woven permanently into their clothing, vehicle upholstery and/or home floor coverings. 68% of that dog hair is from border collies. My husky dog accounts for 4% of the remainder all by herself. She sheds at a startling rate.

Another outward sign of Wallowa County connection is wincing when the words “Portland” and “traffic” are heard spoken together. Often this triggers a curling of the lip and looking away in disgust.

Swearing you can’t stand fast food but eating it on the down-low when you leave the Wallowas is another common trait. Confusion over popular culture. Becoming partial to Carhartt clothing. The list goes on.

The unseen effects of Wallowa County entering your double helix are the result of invisible magic laser beams sent from atop Mount Joseph. When you are outside the Wallowa County line, your internal processor searches for that signal, much like a cell phone that is roaming and trying to connect.

External antennas, such as Carhartt jeans, border collie hair on your clothing or an M. Crow & Company shirt boost the signal on the Wallowas frequency. If other signals are in the vicinity they exert the same magnetic draw that pulled you to the Wallowas. Next thing you know, you’re eating lunch in Baja with friends from Lostine. It’s a small world. But only when you’ve just had a strange coincidence, otherwise it’s still a pretty big world.

Jon Rombach is a local columnist for the Chieftain.

Close-knit with a loose weave

Extended Director's Cut of 'And Furthermore' column, Wallowa County Chieftain, Nov. 14 2012

Teru was a 25-foot sailboat I lived on in Hawaii. My sailing experience before that involved many long hours of really, really wanting a sailboat, and that was about it. I did some speed-reading of all the how-to-sail books from the Lahaina Public Library, bought the cheapest boat afloat in the Hawaiian islands and started sailing up a steep learning curve. I had mixed results with this crash course approach, including one crash. Teru was driven onto a reef during a storm and I hope to never again hear the sickening noise of a fiberglass boat grinding on coral. Friends and I were able to save her, but it took a lot of hustling. 

Scan of an old battered photo. Moored off Maui.

The occasional hair-whitening moments of terror were offset with ideal moments on the boat, like falling asleep listening to humpback whales songs drifting through the hull. Or coffee in the mornings with a sea turtle who sometimes showed up to visit.

My sailing days were a stack of calendars ago, but I still like me a good boat talk when I can get it and got a dose when I ran into Lee Phelps, back home from his job on the old-timey square rigger Bounty. Lee stopped by my house for a Halloween shindig and we talked sailing. A few days later I saw the headline that his ship had gone down. Couldn't believe my eyes, so looked again and it still said the Bounty had gone down.

I had a very different conversation with Lee after the Bounty sank that ran in the Chieftain last week ("HMS Bounty sailor home when Sandy sinks ship"). Lee is sorry he wasn’t there. I would expect him to buy lottery tickets during such a run of luck, but no. One friend killed, his captain lost at sea. Ship went under in a hurricane. That’s nightmare material to most people and Lee regrets not being there.

I think I can understand Lee’s reaction, but it took me a while as I have very clear memories of being frightened in a few bad situations on my boat, wishing I was anywhere else provided it involved me being on land. Any land. I made deals with myself that if I got back safely I’d get rid of the boat and quit sailing for good. Then along would come a perfect day with dolphins swimming alongside, the wind just right, everything rainbows and mermaids, and I’d make a different deal that involved sailing around the world and doing this always.

At one point I was trying to outfit my scrappy little boat for a crossing to Fiji. The list of things I needed outpaced my bank account, so I tried to cut corners by imagining worst case scenarios and planning around them with limited resources. Turns out I'm far better at imagining horrific situations than planning around them. And that's when the nightmares started. I read every sea disaster story I could find to acquaint myself with what to expect, then went to sleep and had real, honest-to-goodness, wake-up-yelling scary dreams of sinking, storms, being adrift in a liferaft I didn't have, all sorts of fun variations. I gave myself a black eye one night, jumping out of bed in a panic and slamming my face into the low cabin ceiling overhead.

4 1/2-foot headroom. Watch your head.

So I had to think about this subject of wishing you were there for a hurricane.

It was Lee wanting to be there for his friends that makes sense of it for me. He answered my question of why on earth a person would wish to be involved with a disaster at sea and convinced me it was simply to be there and help.

Lee, on the left, with amigos.

This may sound sappy and dramatic and I hope it does, because that’s what I’m aiming for. The sailing community was very good to me. Watched out for me. Out of pity, most likely, but I was surprised with continuous and gracious help and support. The little boat communities of Mala Wharf and Manele Bay where I kept Teru put me next to some of the kindest neighbors a guy could hope for. 

One particular crusty and antisocial loner went out of his way to help, and not because he wanted to be friends. He made it crystal clear he would prefer not to be speaking to me, or anyone, but had to point out things on my boat he could help me fix. He wasn’t even nice about it, as he was being nice. Eventually he just left parts on my boat when I was gone with no note, no explanation. He refused payment, saying they were spares he didn’t need and I did. I think he did it because ... boats. Just boats. I know he didn’t like me. He didn’t think much of Teru, either. But still he kept helping.

Sure, boats are a hole in the water you throw money into. Yes, the two happiest days of a boat owner’s life can be the day you buy it and the day you sell it. But some people have their whole lives centered around living on those holes on the water. I sat on boats and looked at photo albums as proud owners showed pictures from early construction to shakedown cruise to living aboard with the same feeling parents show baby, graduation and wedding photos.

Close-knit with a loose weave, is the best I can do to describe the sailing community I got to know. Individuals on a big ocean all doing their own thing, but determined to help other boats when needed because they’re all essentially in the same boat. Wallowa County reminds me of a land-based version of that cooperation.

My own little shipwreck close to shore doesn’t compare to a 180-foot ship going down with loss of life. But I still had friends rushing to be there, in the water, doing whatever they could. So I can understand Lee Phelps saying he wishes he’d been there for his friends. And if Lee is that dedicated to his friends, I sure don’t want to get on his bad side.

Teru hauled out after her scrape on the reef.

Three Wolves, Spelling Words and Airplane Noises

Here we have the latest model in the Furthermore newspaper column, with updated features like bouncing around to different subjects, an elk putting on a life jacket and what is meant to be constructive criticism in response to a Forest Service letter to the editor, seen here, that just struck me as needing . . . I don't know, more airplane noises. No offense intended. I've got a passel of Forest Service friends and realize it's a hot-button and testy business, this closing down roads. But, still. Massage those PR messages a little bit.

And Furthermore: Wallowa County Chieftain column, April 2012

            Set out on a steelhead fishing and rafting trip last week for four days on the Wallowa and Grande Ronde but the steelhead weren’t in the mood so we ended up playing a really long game of ‘splash’ where we threw things into the water with our fishing rods and didn’t expect much else to happen.

 Mike Baird did catch this steelhead, using the highly unusual technique of a carabiner and big rope.

            After a couple days of wetting hooks in the river we shifted to thinking of it as a wildlife viewing trip because of all the animalia parading around down there. Paul Arentsen, his brother John and Jeff Yanke had the biggest you-don’t-see-that-everyday when they floated up on an elk that had just taken a swim across the river to an unlikely spot where it was walled in by steep cliffs. The guys scratched their heads about this and looked over on the opposite bank to see three wolves laying down, watching the elk. Two black and one grey.

            The wolves decided a large blue raft was reason enough to scoot along, so they got up and headed for the trees. No collars or tags were visible and it happened too quick to get any pictures.

            The rest of us floated through a while later, wondering what the deal was with the freaked out elk trying to scramble up a cliff face. I assumed it was trying to get away from our three rafts, but now I bet it would have gladly climbed on board and put on a life jacket if we’d stopped to offer it a ride.

            Also saw mountain goats, bighorns, an otter, loads of deer, herds of elk, squadrons of geese and lost count of the bald eagles. Real pleasant down there.

 Here's a dandy trout I lucked into.

            Shifting gears here, the Oddfellows and Soroptomists did a brisk trade in Italian food at the spaghetti fundraiser and give a secret handshake thank you to all the good folks who came for dinner. If you splattered sauce on your shirt, new ones are available at the Soroptomist for twenty-five cents. I didn’t make it on account of that river trip but we did have spaghetti on the river. I tried to charge admission and turn it into a fundraiser, but met resistance.

            Also thanks to the Rotary Club for holding their spelling bee, where my teammates Ralph Swinehart, Rick Bombaci and I heard some words for the first time and flubbed others that are usually no problem with spellcheck. Sue Womack, Zanni Schauffler and Andie Lueders of the Health Care District team got the honors, then honored the Oddfellows roof project by donating their share of the loot. Thanks. Or if Don Swart was selecting the words here, arigato.

            Shifting gears again, I read with interest the letter from Wallowa-Whitman National Forest Supervisor Monica Schwalbach, printed here in the Chieftain on March 8, about how pleased the Forest Service was that the public chimed in with thoughts on closing forest roads. I’ve read it a number of times and can’t find any mention of public opinion regarding public land having made a whiff of difference, pro or con. I do see mention of how we’ll be educated. Oh, good.

Just saying, Forest Service, in your future PR efforts you might consider throwing in at least a suggestion that public comments made it into the same room where the decisions were made. This one came across, to me at least, as condescending. Patronizing. Sounds like you’re patting people on the head who submitted an opinion, saying, “Oh, look at what you did here, glued macaroni onto construction paper to spell out your public testimony . . . how cute. We’ll put that on the refrigerator in the room where we don’t read things like this.”

            Just trying to help, Forest Service. Offering a little feedback. I know how much you like input from the public. So next time you’re doing output about input, maybe sprinkle in a specific or two hinting that comments from the public might have been considered, rather than just collected. I like a little pretense when I’m being force-fed. Make a few more airplane noises when you’re coming in with a spoonful of mashed peas and travel restrictions. You’re close, just need to fine tune those distracting airplane sounds.

Going by the rules in Hells Canyon

Wallowa County Chieftain column 2/1/12:
And Furthermore Jon Rombach


Mike Baird is a good friend of mine. Usually. We had a communication breakdown recently when he asked if I wanted to go along with a Forest Service cleanup crew in Hells Canyon to pick up trash at campsites.

I’ve spent some time as a river guide, which taught me a few things. When someone asks if you are willing to pick things up at campsites, you need more specifics. I enjoy hauling honest garbage off the river. By honest I mean stuff that got away by accident. Lost shoes, water bottles. Seems like a good deed. Sometimes you find good stuff. River schwag. I’ve found carabiners, a headlamp, lifetime supply of bobbers, an anchor I now use on my fishing boat.

Less fun is picking up intentional discards. Bottles and cans above the waterline. Half-burnt plastic from fire rings. Food thrown on the beach that attracts yellow jackets and ants. Then there’s the extreme category of things that some people somehow think is OK to leave behind where they know others will be camping. Gross things. Yucky. Things the rules say you are supposed to pack out in a portable toilet. Those things. Technically it’s biodegradable, given enough time. That’s no consolation when you start to pitch your tent and find something that hasn’t had near enough time.

I truly don’t understand the thought process, or lack of one, of somebody who leaves such things near a camp, or sometimes right in a trail. At least wander off and dig a hole. Do something other than the barnyard technique. If someone leaves a door ajar we ask if they were born in a barn. Sad to say, some individuals need to be asked if they were potty trained in a pasture. That’s not even littering, it’s . . . never mind. It ends in ittering and rhymes and is probably the perfect term, but I’ll let it go. This is a family paper. Sorry. I’ll get back on track here.

Most folks observe the rules, which coincide nicely with common courtesy, and I don’t want to give the impression this is a major problem in Hells Canyon. But it does take place and I can’t imagine anyone enjoying the discovery of such things.

So I specifically asked Mike if we would be picking up poop.

“What? no,” he said. “Don’t be silly.”

I signed on as a cleanup volunteer and arrived at the Forest Service office to be greeted with this question: “So, you ready to pick up some poop?”

Wire. I can handle packing out wire.

First, the good news. Hells Canyon looks great in January. Bighorn sheep, elk, deer, golden eagles, bald eagles, receding hairline eagles, hawks, herons, owls, wild turkeys – wild things all over the place down there. Sweatshirt weather during the day and the stars at night were bigger and brighter than inside the left ventricle of Texas. Just gorgeous.

And then – sigh – there was the doodie. One specimen, behind the old ranch house at Cache Creek, I didn’t mind checking out, as it was either left by a big ol’ coyote or perhaps a middlin’ wolf.

Who's afraid of the big brown loaf?

By the way, heard the news about wolves being in Wallowa County? I’m no scat expert, but I do know if it has a bunch of deer hairs it probably wasn’t left by a human. And if there’s Charmin next to it, the odds are slight it was left by a canid.

As for the other specimens, watch for CSI: Campsite. My new TV series where I hire other people to take DNA samples from objectionable souvenirs left where they shouldn’t be. These samples will be processed in a forensics lab to learn the home address of the guilty party. A sign advertising ‘Public Toilet’ will then be placed on their front lawns, following the logic of the homeowner that it’s OK to go boom-boom where others will not be able to avoid encountering such a thing. I think it’s only fair. Poetic, even.

A litter box. Some idgets treat Hells Canyon like a litter box.

I want justice. I want people with opposable thumbs and big brains with supposed rank above animals to start acting like it. I want to volunteer again to clean up Hells Canyon campsites and not need a kitty litter scoop. I don’t think that’s an extravagant request. Hells Canyon is a treasure. Being around a treasure is supposed to make you want to bury things. Follow that instinct if you can’t go by the rules and pack it out.

Santa For President

Got pretty good feedback on the last Furthermore column in the Chieftain. But you can't even write the word 'wolves' without getting a big spread of reaction. I haven't heard back from Canada yet.

And Furthermore: An open appeal to North Pole's leader

Dear Santa,

Thank you for the nose hair trimmer and the Candy Land game last year. Candy Land is the best! You’re the best! The trimmer works way better than the old way of burning out my nose hairs with a candle. Also, thanks for the first-aid kit and the burn cream. It’s healing nicely.

Don’t let the wolves get your reindeer when you come to Wallowa County, Santa. Are you giving presents to Canada this year? Because they’ve been naughty and gave us a case of the wolves. Yessir, broke out like a rash all around our north end and thank goodness it hasn’t spread to our south end just yet.

I’ve got some requests here, Nick. Can I call you Nick? Rose Caslar says she would like a mule this year for Christmas. A mule with fuzzy ears. Along those lines, ‘The Ruby Gap Mules,’ the old-time band that just played with ‘Homemade Jam’ for the Wallowa County Museum fundraiser, well, the Mules are toying with the notion of going by another name but haven’t settled on one. So they asked if you’d bring them the perfect band name. I suggested ‘Kiss My Bluegrass,’ but they weren’t going for it. They had some excuse about not playing bluegrass, but with a name like that it sure seems like you’d adjust. Maybe just get them a Candy Land game instead because if they’re that hard to please. . . .

We could use another wind storm, Santa. That last howler didn’t quite strip all the shingles off my garage roof and I was hoping for one more gusty day to finish tearing it off before I climb up there to re-roof. Make it blow from the other direction, though, so it will pry the Enterprise football goalpost back into position.

What I’d really like this year, Santa, is for you to throw your fuzzy red hat into the ring and announce your candidacy for president. I don’t think you’d win, with that string of breaking and entering counts on your record. And there would be the question of a birth certificate, because if Hawaii doesn’t count, no way the North Pole is going to fly. Then there would be allegations of your elves being illegal. All that.

The coverage of these debates has been so painful to watch, Santa, I want to put some of that burn cream on my eyes. If you were president, I just think politics and the world in general might get along better if we applied Christmas thinking to every day. Not just naughty or nice and throwing a quarter into the Salvation Army kettle, but reasonable. I asked for all sorts of stuff when I was a kid. You remember. But I didn’t threaten to recall you when I didn’t see a battery powered Jeep in the living room on Christmas morning. I didn’t put a NoSanta bumper sticker on my Big Wheel.

What I like about your system is we all know there’s a reason. There’s trust. Maybe we’ll shoot our eye out, so that’s why we didn’t get the Red Ryder BB gun or a new war. Toys are great, but in all fairness we do need socks and underwear and education funding. We may not be thrilled with paying for highway maintenance or getting a hand-knit sweater, but we recognize it’s thoughtful and practical so we thank our aunt or state legislature and stay warm in our ugly sweater while driving smooth roads.

I don’t know, Santa. I haven’t seen your books so maybe you’re running a massive deficit and this notion of you bringing a fresh approach to politics is a bad idea. But I like your style, Claus. Everyone figures they get what they deserve from you and trusts you’re not funneling pork barrel projects into building unprofitable doll factories in one corner of your workshop to buy votes. I just wish you could leave some of your mojo in all of our stockings.

Could you at least be a consultant in D.C.? A lobbyist? Endorse a candidate?

You know what, I’ll just take Candy Land again. Or Battleship or Chutes and Ladders or something. Let’s keep this simple.

Merry Christmas, Santa. Don’t forget to vote.

Bowhiking and firewood that you won't

Here's the Chieftain 'And Furthermore' I sent in for next week. Kind of an expansion of the bowhiking post put on here earlier.

I’d like to thank the deer and elk of the Minam and Imnaha units for another fantastic bowhiking season. Once again, I got my exercise for the year out of the way during archery season and will be filling my freezer with veggie burgers after never getting off a shot.

I consider bowhunting my version of a gym membership, where I pay ODFW to get in some cardio, or whatever it’s called when you move around and sweat. I don’t ever fill my tag, but I do get kind of in shape from all that walking around while carrying my bow. Bowhiking, I like to call it. Exerting energy doesn’t generally strike me as a good idea and I need motivation if I’m going to walk any distance or climb something steep. Like being chased. Or chasing something else. Like an elk herd.

Mike Baird does not share my cautious approach toward exercise. Baird let me tag along on a few of his elk forays this season, though they struck me as more of an Iron Man competition than the ‘little strolls’ he would describe them as. By late afternoon, I would be looking for materials to build a hut with, resigned to never getting out of the wilderness, when Baird would hear a distant bugle from three drainages away and merrily set off, saying if we just climbed this ridge, got to that summit, traversed that rock slide and scratched our way through miles of underbrush, we’d be there in no time.

And by golly we’d do it and Baird would bugle an elk in, but we never got a shot. Mike suggested I quit using my cow call and try to get my money back because it didn’t sound natural. Almost like something was suffering. I hadn’t been using a cow call, just wheezing, trying to breathe after an endurance march he would call, ‘just hiking right over there.’

Aside from the forced exercise, another bonus of bowhiking is finding firewood. Now and then you stumble on a patch of wood you may not have seen without wandering around. I found some prime tamarack this year. Cords and cords of it, just on the edge of old logging roads that all turned out to have tank traps blocking access.

If the Forest Service goes through with closing more roads, I hope they’ll offer some public education meetings about switching to propane or oil heat because I don’t know a thing about it. How do you stick your tag on a cord of propane? Do I need to use bar oil if I’m cutting a load of heating oil? I’m confused, Forest Service. Can we have access to all the paperwork generated by the road closure plan? There might be enough BTU’s there to power Wallowa County woodstoves for a winter.

I went to one of Ron Thies’ woodcutting meetings where I heard a good point: if the Forest Service is interested in fuels reduction, firewood cutters are doing their job for them. And paying for the privilege. I’ve also been to a Forest Service meeting where they explained needing to reduce fuels in the woods, and were going about it by spending lots of money.

If these road closures happen I’ve got another request: that the thermostats in the offices where this plan was cooked up be blocked by filing cabinets or cubicle dividers—some obstruction that makes it a challenge to get heat. Policy makers will be able to see the heat source but not get to it, a lot like that tamarack in the woods I can’t get to. If there’s a fire in that part of the office and fire crews can’t get there because a path that used to exist has been blocked off, well, at least the carpet has had a chance to regenerate because you haven’t been trampling on it.

I suppose I’d get more exercise if the road closures happen, walking around with my chainsaw and not finding anything to use it on. Just like bowhiking during archery season.

Around the old chrome microphone

And Furthermore column, Wallowa County Chieftain August 31, 2011

There’s an old chrome microphone at KWVR Radio that stood in the corner when I worked there. A cool old microphone. Something that would be on the bandstand back when poodle skirts were in fashion. The kind of microphone newscasters in fedoras would have used to announce that Prohibition was over. It reminded me of the grill on a sedan a mobster would drive to a tommy gun shootout. I really liked that microphone and when we started an evening show with live broadcasts of local music, I finally got to use it. Some musicians admired the mic, discussing the merits of its sound properties. All I knew was it looked reeeeally good and putting noise onto the airwaves was just classier using that chunk of chrome.

I hauled that mic around the valley, broadcasting Jimmy Lloyd Rea from the lake, fiddle contests at Cloverleaf Hall, did a show from the Imnaha Tavern. Bronze Blues and Brews. Lots of venues. But the best fit with that microphone was in the lobby of the radio station with Bob and Jan Casey, Charlie Trump and Len Samples circled around the mic stand. Bob squeezed his squeezebox, Charlie fiddled, Jan on keyboard and Len guitar.

It was old-timey barndance hoedown toe-tappy, smile-on-your-face feelgood music. They were having fun. I was having fun watching them have fun. I wished we had video as well as audio so the folks listening could see this too. Len Samples did this thing with his shoulder, where his whole torso was involved in his guitar strokes. It started when he put his shoulder into it, went down to the strings and seemed to come back around in a loop. I’m no musician, but I’ve watched a fair number of guitar players and never seen anyone play quite like Len. I think of how easy and content Len’s guitar playing looked every time I see a guitar player wincing, seeming to be in pain while battling it out with their guitar.

So I miss Len Samples. Charlie Trump too. And I’m going to miss Bob Casey. He told me he learned the squeezebox from a Basque sheepherder. Met him out amongst the sheep. Heard him play squeezebox back at the wagon, figured he’d like to try, so the herder said go get a copy of the National Enquirer magazine and there’s an ad in the back to send away for a squeezebox. So Bob did. The hardest part being the embarrassment of buying a National Enquirer.

Bob Casey was awfully good at making me laugh. I’d only run into him now and then, but it was pretty much a guarantee he’d get me to laugh. Even the time he explained a major trauma he’d just gone through years ago, he somehow got me to laugh when that was the very last thing on my list of things to do.

I noticed grey hairs in my sideburns a month ago. Pointed them out to friends who pointed out they’d been there longer than a month. Getting old is still new to me. My least favorite part so far is trying to adjust to the growing list of people who aren’t here anymore that I’d rather were still around. I don’t care for that part.

I’ve driven by Bob and Jan’s place many times since I got to know them, singing into that old microphone at the radio station. Often times, passing their place, I thought someday I just might stop in. Visit. Never did. Didn’t want to bother them. Bob’s gone. That bothers me. You were a good guy, Bob Casey. Glad to have known you. See if you can trade that harp in for a squeezebox.

Keep your eye on the kids with purple hair: Graduation 2011

Wallowa Chieftain column from 6/9/11

Wallowa County schools have turned out another fine roster of graduates and there should be high-fives all around. Graduates, teachers, parents, coaches and everybody else who helped these kids along through their schooling careers—you done good. All of you. High five.

I don't have any photos related to high school graduation, so this sunset symbolizes attendance records. Beautiful. Except the ones you missed.

It’s tradition to fill these graduates full of last-minute nuggets of advice as they step over into being adults. But I’ve been thinking. These graduates just sat through twelve years of instruction, they’ve seen how our ideas are working out and I’d like to hear what they have in the way of advice for us.

We had plenty of time to tamp our message in. They’ve been tested and graded along the way so it seems fair that graduates get a chance to evaluate us on this world we’re handing over to them.

We hear from valedictorians during commencement ceremonies, but what about the kid with the record for being sent to the principal’s office the most during the past twelve years … I’d wager that would be a lively address and I’m sure we could all use some insight on getting into a little trouble but still managing to come out alright.

What about the shy kids? They’ll be quietly running things before long anyway so we might as well get a sneak preview. The kids with purple hair. They end up surprising you. I’ve seen it happen. The ones going after rodeo buckles instead of college degrees. The ones who want to travel. The ones wanting to stay put. I’d say there’s valuable insight to be heard from all of these newly-minted adults.

Still don't have graduation-type pictures, so here's an image of the chimney of life, shown emitting vapors from the fuel of your earthly toils that you keep adding and adding, except when the weather's nice and you don't need to. Think about that for a minute. Yeah.

A big long commencement ceremony where every graduate gets to speak would feel like it’s taking twelve years, so instead of that we could have sort of an open house where all the graduating seniors are on hand and you can walk up, congratulate them on finishing school and warn them against taking wooden nickels or advise them to buy low and sell high or whatever. Then it’s their turn to tell us what they think. If they feel like giving advice, I’d probably ask for help in making sense out of cell phone plans. Used to be that teenagers were the only ones able to program a VCR but these days we need younger folks to explain phones.

All these kids—pardon, young adults—have something worth hearing and I for one would like a breakdown on what our twelve years of telling them what we think they need to know has boiled down to. Lay it on me, graduates. Send your general observations, advice and detailed instructions on how to turn off the annoying voice command thing on my phone to jonrombach@gmail.com.

So bon voyage, graduates, whatever your voyaging preferences might be. College, run the family ranch, or my favorite—don’t really know. If ever I do stumble on a pile of money I believe I’ll set up a scholarship to assist those interested in pursuing I Dunno.

I majored in Business at first, then changed it five minutes later to Art, then Taking A Year Off, then I forget what and -- oh, I declared just about every major in the catalog except for Accounting and ended up with History. My academic advisor liked to drink.

Just like offering advice, it’s tradition to give a graduating senior analogies. Life is like (something) and you’ve got to (something). So here’s mine.
Graduates, life is like an analogy. It’s one thing, but some people think of it another way and you’re both probably kind of right, depending on how you look at it.

And just like an analogy, sometimes it won’t really make much sense but that’s OK. So just remember that little bit of wisdom and you should be fine. Now go out there and make us proud and make cell phones easier to understand and maybe clean up all this international conflict and do something about the economy and don’t take no for an answer unless it’s the right one and a bunch of other stuff. You’ll figure it out.

Rustic barnwood reincarnated as platform for lemonade and potato salad

Chieftain column, May 26, 2011

I’ve been collecting old barnwood and lumber over the years here in Wallowa County. Working with boards that were nailed together ninety years ago gives you a real feel for history. Especially in your fingers and hands. Some of these splinters are never coming out. I’ve tried tweezers, needles, vise grips … some are so large they’re not technically splinters but chunks of wood. Something you might kindle a fire with. I made choker cables out of dental floss to pull them out but it was no good. Thought about trying to burn them out like old stumps, but I believe I’ve got no choice but to let these pieces of old red fir and pine and tamarack buried in my system stay where they are.

Arise, old boards . . . and function once again by facilitating meals outside.

So Wallowa County has literally become part of me. Little molecules of old tight-grained, rough-cut, true dimension lumber are right now sloughing off and running through my bloodstream. Probably some paint chips and antique dirt too. But hey, good with the bad.

First building I salvaged was an old pack station barn at the head of the lake next to Heidi’s store. I spent weeks up there pulling nails and sorting boards. Finding old graffiti scrawled or carved by long-ago wranglers.

Apparently Randy and Bev had issues.

The Matterhorn Swiss Village is right across the road from where the barn stood, so I spent a good deal of time thinking about how we call Wallowa County ‘Little Switzerland.’ And I decided we should get a tourism official from Switzerland over here to see what we’ve got going so they can start advertising Switzerland as ‘Big Wallowa County.’ I think it’s only fair.

Wood pegs that used to hold bridles and tack in that old barn now hold up towels next to my hot tub. The tub sits on a deck made from other pieces of that old building and I’d like to think the boards are happy with their new job, as opposed to going onto a burnpile.

I’ve been building picnic tables lately with other boards from that barn. You can try one out at Mutiny Brewing in Joseph.

Not pictured: potato salad and lemonade.

The legs holding you up used to be the pack station. The benches are from a house on Alder Slope and the table tops used to be walls inside a cute little log cabin at Wallowa Lake.

It's so cute.

Pulling all the nails and slivers can get tiresome. Some would say salvaging antique boards is more trouble than it’s worth. They’re probably right, except you drag the first brush of stain across these old things and it sets off the yellow, grey and other shades that have been baked and weathered in over the years and, you know, I just don’t get the same satisfaction with a shiny new board that doesn’t have horse hair caught in the cracks or a water stain that started during a rainstorm back when Eisenhower was in office. Patina, some people call it. Seems an awfully fancy term. Too fancy, I think. It’s just old. Experienced. Been around. And I like keeping things around.

I studied history back in college. And I think all those history papers I wrote are the same as building with barnwood. You sort through something that’s been there a long while, decide what you want to use, make sense of the rough spots and sand away the splinters, put some preservative on and send it back out in the world to get more use out of it. So a biography and a picnic table aren’t all that different. For my next project I might just make a table out of old biographies. Or Swiss history books with stories from Big Wallowa County.

I just built a tiny little table for my nieces out of old Wallowa County barnwood. The girls have about five years between the two of them and they’ll be sitting on boards made almost a hundred years ago. No telling how old the trees were when they went off to the mill. So this stuff is made from sunlight and rain well over a hundred years ago and it’ll sit outside again in sunlight and rain that hasn’t got here yet. For more trouble than it’s worth, it still seems worth it.

Mother's Day coupons have caught up to me

Chieftain column, May 12, 2011

I just discovered I have plenty of work to keep me busy for the next year or so. It won’t pay anything, but in an economy like this you have to be grateful to be working at all. I learned of my new busy schedule when I called home for Mother’s Day. Told Mom I’d be coming to visit soon and would take her out to dinner. There’s a restaurant we’ve been meaning to try and couldn’t get reservations once, so the family drew up a homemade gift certificate for Mom as a promise to take her there. “We’re going to cash that thing in,” I told Mom. “Great,” she said. “Are you going to take out the garbage too?”

Here's Mom sporting her Easter dress. Or parachute, I'm not sure which.

Mom said she recently stumbled on her collection of gift certificates in a drawer, given to her over the years by myself and my sisters. Some elementary school teacher back in our childhoods came up with the bright idea of making coupon books to give to our mothers, good for cleaning our rooms or walking the dog, doing chores and favors and whatnot. Mom seemed to appreciate those little coupon books. Though she was probably just being nice. And unfortunately she never exercised her legal right to have us wash the dishes, rake the leaves or paint the house. So we kept giving her these books of promises over the years, and since she didn’t cash them in the promises just got more extravagant.

I now owe my mother a Porsche, a Caribbean vacation, fourteen hugs, $18,000 dollars worth of yardwork, adjusted for inflation … let’s see here … I promised to do my own laundry twice—check that off the list—but some of these aren’t so easy. On three occasions I guaranteed Mom a “happy day,” which my lawyer informed me will be entirely up to her as to whether I’ve supplied it or not, and we’d better cross our fingers that she’ll be reasonable.

Seconds after this photo was taken, Grandma Mary Ann
rescued Claire from that bear sneaking up behind them.

I really should have had an attorney look these things over before signing my name to such documents, but I was in elementary school at the time. My lawyer back then specialized in playground assault claims, not contract law.

I’m determined to satisfy every last one of these promises. Mom isn’t trying to play hardball or anything. She just thought it was cute to find a sheaf of hand-drawn legally binding documents signed in my looping cursive of a kid’s signature. But a deal’s a deal. If I can’t make good on agreements voluntarily entered into with my own mother, I don’t see how I can do business with the private sector in good conscience.

But it’s going to take some time. I was cranking those coupons out at a furious pace.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I’m going to print a copy of this newspaper column and have it notarized, as a formal acknowledgement of intent to satisfy all previous commitments to weed the garden, bring in the firewood, not fight with my sisters, etc., etc.

And while I swore to put a stop to this business of piling up promises until I get clear of all the others I’ve made over the years, let’s go ahead and add one more hug to the pile. Why not. Redeemable upon my next visit. Nontransferable. Subject to change without prior notice and may increase to two hugs.

¿Como se dice ‘root canal'?

Chieftain 'And Furthermore' column from April 29, 2011

Now you're speaking my language. Or spelling a second language I barely speak.

I threw my shoulder out trying to dress for springtime in Wallowa County. All those abrupt wardrobe changes. Started the day in a stocking cap, down jacket and insulated boots, then got streamlined to a t-shirt and shorts during the twenty minutes of sunshine. And back to foul weather gear for the driving snow flurries. What got me was the sudden spell where it was sunny to the left of me, snowing behind and a windstorm kicked up on the right … I hadn´t stretched out properly and – boop – my rotator cuff just couldn´t keep up with putting on a jacket and taking off a sweatshirt simultaneously. You won that round, Wallowa County weather. I know when I´m beat.

So it turns out Mexico is beautiful this time of year. And last-minute tickets to Mazatlan are really very reasonable. Wallowa County amigos Hilary Valentine, Edie Baffaro and Jake Kurtz have a house rented in Mazatlan and we haven´t seen one snowflake. Not a one.

Concern over sunburn v. hypothermia is just a plane ride away. Thanks, Alaska Airlines.

My spanish is just good enough that most people can understand I´m trying to speak spanish. Beyond that not much information is being transferred. The exchange rate is about eleven to one. I understand that one word, but those other eleven are something of a mystery. I´ve been told by plenty of english speakers back home that they don´t understand me either, so it´s bueno.

Another factor for Operation Mexico is that I´ve been putting off a root canal for a long while and was given the name of a specialist down here that comes highly recommended. I figured this might be the perfect time to get this root canal taken care of, since I can´t even explain in english why I´ve waited so long, or don´t floss as much as I should. So the language barrier is working in my favor on this one.

I was also given the name of a root canal specialist over in Lewiston who I´m sure is top-notch, but Lewiston seems like a foreign country anyway and as much as I like savoring the aroma of Potlatch, I went for the beach along the Pacific instead.

My plan to see the dentist is going perfectly, since I arrived during La Semana Santa, Holy Week, and every dentist is away on Easter vacation. The secretary for one dentist told me the doctor was up north, visiting some place called Lewiston. Crazy.

Jake Kurtz has an extensive knowledge of tacos in their various forms and I have learned a great deal by tagging along on his mission to sample a taco at every roadside stand in the greater Mazatlan metropolitan area. Al pastor, cabeza, lengua, carne asada … Jake is fluent in taco-ease and I’ve picked up a few terms here and there, like ‘mas papel higienico,’ for one.

Also met Bill from Pendleton during my rambles around Mazatlan. Bill Glenn. Lives in Portland now. He walked up while I was being lost near the cathedral in the old part of Mazatlan. Bill´s t-shirt announced in bold letters that he was a volunteer tourist aide.

That's Bill in the middle. That's me on the right in about twenty years.

He asked if I was lost. I said yes, but I was OK with that. Bill understood. He filled me in on some Mazatlan points of interest and we agreed I would show him around the Wallowas next time he came out for Chief Joseph Days.

So I had a t-shirt made up that explains I´m a volunteer ambassador for Wallowa County. Hope you guys don´t mind. I just about had a family convinced to come up and visit for springtime in the Wallowas, until we got to the part of what they should bring for clothing. I didn´t know the word for either ´longjohns´ or ´pretty much everything you have´and was flipping through the dictionario so fast that I aggravated that strained rotator cuff again.

See you in another week or so, Wallowa County. I´ll be wearing my souvenir sunburn and being happy about it.

Aluminum marks the spot

Chieftain column, March 9 2011

I don’t just pinch pennies. I squeeze those things until Lincoln complains of migraines. People have tried calling me cheap, but I don’t pay attention. I never pay if it can be avoided.

So there are times when I wonder about my attraction to fly fishing. Plopping fake insects in the water can get expensive. I’ve seen fishermen on the river with enough fancy gear to equal my entire earnings for the year. And they see a guy in duct-taped waders with a garage sale flyrod equal in value to the change under their sofa cushions.

So I don’t enjoy losing flies when I’m fishing. That’s two bucks you just left on the river bottom. Lost one the other day. Hooked a steelhead, he came up shaking his head and, snap, broke my leader. Despair.

Fishing guide Tom Farnam told me to stop sobbing. I recovered and hooked a steelhead again twenty minutes later. When this one surfaced, Tom said he believed this was the same fish. Got this one to the bank and removed my fly. Then I got back my other fly that had broken off and was still hooked in his mouth. Tom was right. Same fish. So that’s one way to economize when fly fishing.

The steelhead train from Minam Motel to Rondowa along the Wallowa River isn’t running this year. When I rode the steelhead train last year it had a bunch of happy fishers on it, staying at local hotels and motels and discussing dining options at the LT, TG, Lear’s, Mutiny, Friends, et cetera. I heard plans to bring families back in the summer. I heard the sound of economic stimulus actually working through a unique interaction with Wallowa County just like the train people said it would. Then I heard they stopped running it. Okey-dokey. At least it’s a pretty shade of yellow on those parked rail cars we’re storing. Yep. Sure are pretty.

The good news for steelheaders is that some outdoorsmen have devised a way to make it easier for out-of-county fishermen to find the good fishing spots along the Wallowa River that you can access next to the highway. Most popular fishing spots have been clearly marked. Just look for the cluster of Keystone Light beer cans. Sometimes Coors. Or Bud Light. Mostly Keystone though. This marking system cuts down on the time you might waste scouting for good fishing holes. Also look for remains of warming fires, sometimes with charred Gatorade bottles or half-burned Styrofoam bait containers. It really spiffs up the outdoors. Looks great.

Coors Light used to flow from that culvert before the recession.

Instead of the Adopt-A-Highway system, where volunteers pick up other people’s mess, how about we lift fingerprints off the Keystone Light cans, then call the mother of whoever left the garbage and tell them to get their kid back out there to clean up their mess.

This is like a high school senior portrait, where 18 year-olds
lean on a branch, looking like they're trapped in shrubbery.

I’m not usually concerned with things being spic and span. The floorboards of my truck look like an archaeological dig and it’s time to wash dishes at my house when you can’t balance one more dirty cup on the teetering pile in the sink. But I don’t leave old receipts and junk mail in other people’s rigs and at least offer to do the dishes when I’m at someone else’s house for dinner. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m guessing the same folks leaving garbage on the riverbank wouldn’t be OK with me tossing my trash in their yard. Anglers would start showing up at their house, thinking it must be a good fishing hole.

If these beer cans were made in a pleasing shade of yellow I might not mind so much.

Kesey, Cassady, Kerouac: Chieftain column, July 28, 2010

Here's the 'Furthermore' column from the Chieftain from last time around...I don't recall if Fargo ever did get that blue 70's Camaro on the road.


And Furthermore...

Ken Kesey once asked if he could help me. I didn’t know much back then, so I said, Nope, I’m just waiting. Kesey wrote ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ ‘Sometimes A Great Notion’ and helped co-author the 1960’s. The man knew more than others about how certain things work. Or stop working.

He also knew some kid was in his barn, staring at his crazy painted bus. Apparently trespassing. I grew up about five miles from Kesey’s farm, in Pleasant Hill, Oregon. My buddy, Fargo Kesey, bought an old Camaro in high school and asked me to help get it on the road. The Camaro was parked in his uncle Ken’s barn. Fargo was late. And that’s how I had my big conversation with literary heavyweight Ken Kesey: Can I help you? Nope.

Years later, I did have questions. What are the odds that the same man, Neal Cassady, would drive Jack Kerouc’s ‘On the Road’ and other work, which helped drive the Beat Generation … then Cassady ends up behind the wheel of Kesey’s bus, Further, helping to drive another cultural shift. Did Cassady use his turn signals so America could brace itself? Did anyone ever ask Neal if they were there yet? Did Cassady ride the brakes, or use them at all?

‘Kerouac, Kesey, Cassady’ became the title and focus of my final research project in college. It was supposed to be a history paper comparing cultural shifts among the Maori in New Zealand with North American tribes, specifically the Blackfoot Indians. My notes from studying abroad in New Zealand got soaked with saltwater during a sailboat wreck in Hawaii. I took an extension on that final paper. Then another. The University of Montana finally hinted that if I wanted my piece of paper with ‘Diploma’ on it, I’d better send them their paper. Soon.

My copy of Kerouac’s ‘The Dharma Bums’ had more notes written in the margins than what survived after my New Zealand research floated around on the bottom of my ruptured boat, so I wrote all night about cultural shifts America experienced because Neal Cassady learned to operate a clutch. If Ken Kesey had asked, ‘Can I help you?’ during that frenzy, I would have said yes. Get this down to FedEx and overnight it to Missoula, would you, Ken?

Japhy Ryder turns the engine off in ‘Dharma Bums,’ sets the e-brake and takes Kerouac for a walk. Shows him the mountains. Gets Jack interested in Buddhism. Slows him down. Gets him to listen for quiet. It almost seems a yang to the full-throttle yin Kerouac picked up from speeding around with Neal Cassady.

This Japhy Ryder is based on Gary Snyder, Pulitzer prize-winning poet who was here in Wallowa County at the Fishtrap writing conference this month. My favorite moment came during a question-and-answer session when someone in the audience explained they had taken a year-long course studying poetry, and the instructor had asked them to answer this question: What is the poet for? They never found the answer. Could Snyder help?

Snyder’s studied Zen Buddhism, so I prepared myself to not understand his answer. To be honest, I didn’t even understand the question and never really understood poetry. What is the poet for? Snyder took two seconds and cleared it all up with the answer: To write poetry. Next question. No wonder he got the Pulitzer, this guy.

I should have asked Ken Kesey what his bus was for when I had the chance.